Why We Do What We Do

Editor’s note:  Sometimes somebody says something so well and in such a compelling manner that you just step back and say, “Heck yeah!” Such is the case with guest columnist Alisa Bowman, from whose Facebook post this blog sprang. It serves as poignant reminder as to why we writers toil away in the first place, bashing our heads in frustration as we attempt to get our messages across.

Truth be told, I do not enjoy public speaking. Just before a speech, my mind is filled with “Why did you agree to do this?” and “This is the last one!”

And then someone asks me to speak and I, of course, say yes—because, the cause:  I am the mother of a transgender child and the co-author of the book Raising the Transgender Child.

It was for the cause that, one recent morning I drove to speak to a local service club. They’d asked me to come. And yet, in the same breath, they’d told me that they weren’t sure how it would go over. I’d been told that at least one member was unsettled about my topic, saying that he didn’t want it “shoved down his throat.” They had worried that their regulars might boycott this particular meeting. “If anyone says anything out of hand, I’ll step in,” someone had told me.

My hands were already sweating as I pulled into the parking lot.

From the bumper stickers on the cars, it was obvious that I was in conservative country. I could not imagine a talk about transgender equality going over very well.

The organizers greeted me warmly. There were a lot of people there. The room was full.

I was offered breakfast. I took a little, just to be polite, but ate only a few bites. Nerves.

I think I managed to seem as if I was paying attention to the conversation around me. In reality, I was counting my breaths and trying to ignore the creeping feeling that people were staring at me.

When it was time for me to speak, I thanked everyone for coming to listen. I thanked them, too, for having open minds. I said something about how we can’t solve problems until we first understand one another.

Then I shared a story. It was the story of our family, in six PowerPoint slides. I shared no scientific facts. Nor did I mention a single statistic. I offered no opinions, either.

I only spoke from the experience of a mother of a transgender child.

Occasionally, I’d say something like, “There’s a myth that mothers like me were really pining for a child of a certain gender, so we brainwashed our kids to be the child we really wanted….” And then I would tell them how things really went down. For example, how, when my child was born and the doctor said, “It’s a girl!” I fantasized about picking out prom gowns and gabbing about boys and brushing hair and shopping for outfits together. I mourned those losses and I mourned them deeply.

I trained my focus on a woman in the far back. She had a warm smile. Her eyes sparkled, as if to say, “It’s all okay. It’s going to be okay.”

I shared a sad story. I heard a few sighs of sadness.

I slowly worked my way up to a tragic part. There were gasps.

I got to the end and then I opened it for questions.

One person raised her hand. She didn’t have a question. She just wanted to thank me for speaking.

The next person raised his hand. He wanted to thank me for speaking, too. Then he asked a question.

Another person thanked me and also asked a sincere question.

The last person who asked a question said, “I know this will probably come off as offensive, but…does… does your son throw… like a girl?” The man clearly was looking for a way to delegitimize my son, but at least he’d used the correct pronouns. That, to me, was progress.

I rephrased his question for him. “I think what you really want to know is whether my son is masculine?”

He nodded. I explained that my son played boys soccer and that he’d held his own. It was obvious that the man was surprised. Then a woman, about a table back, spoke up, “I can throw a baseball way better than my husband!” Everyone laughed, but her short one-sentence story had just driven it home. I didn’t need to say any more.

Afterward, a neighbor thanked me for speaking, for telling me that he admired me and my husband. Various other people thanked me, too.

I mused with the organizers about how it had gone. They pointed to the person who had not wanted me to talk. He had not only showed up, he’d also stayed for the whole talk.

And he was one of the last the leave.

Our stories are our most powerful currency. They are capable of bringing light into the darkest corners of someone’s soul. We tend to forget that. We tend to think that we need science or statistics or studies or surveys to prove our points. We think that we need to be smarter or more intellectual in order to be effective speakers. We do not need any of that.

We only need to do one thing: speak from our experience.

People often thank me for being brave, but I’m not brave. I am only vulnerable. Have the vulnerability to tell your story. The world needs to hear it. Your story is our way forward and only you can tell it.

 

Have you heard about ASJA’s Chicago Conference? For two days in November, we’re hosting two very special events. Spotlight on Ghostwriting takes place on Friday, November 17, and Boosting Your Content IQ will be held the next day, Saturday, November 18. Sign up for one or both days. Registration is open now!