12 Days of Christmas: In 2020 I Found My Family
A year ago, I was rushing out of my house, still buttoning up my shirt, because I had been called for an interview. They had issues contacting me, so they only told me one hour in advance. I lived 45 minutes from that office.
My heart was racing, my asthma was kicking in, my feet hurt, and I was sweating despite the cold. I got there in time, drank four glasses of water in one minute. Got the job.
I was asked to start the first week of January. Looking at the day crossed out on the calendar on the wall I would sigh with relief and nod.
“2020 is going to be a great year.”
While writing this I’m picturing the strained smile on your faces, reading that sentence. And you can probably imagine what I think of that moment, looking back.
What you probably can’t imagine is the pride that has accompanied every step I’ve taken this year.
This year I turned 25. And for the first time, I thought of that as a quarter of my life, rather than twelve, ten, eight years after I was supposed to die. Coming out as transgender, when I was thirteen years old, came with two realisations. That other people like me existed; I wasn’t alone, I wasn’t broken. The other realisation was that I was in danger, vulnerable, and would have never been able to transition. That maybe I would have been luckier in my “next life”.
I’m glad I proved myself wrong, but it’s hard to move forward when you’re not used to making plans. Every time people would ask me where I would see myself in five, ten, twenty years, I would lie. I would talk about university, work, family, but I never believed any of that. I had been taught even if transgender and queer people existed, I didn’t deserve any of that. I couldn’t have any of that. A family, love, a job. That I could either hide myself and live or… the alternative.
But then my eighteenth birthday arrived. And I was still here. And my twentieth arrived. And I was still here. And then I graduated and had a graduation party. And then I found a job. And then I turned twenty-five, in the middle of a global pandemic.
I started this year newly engaged, estranged by my parents, but still vaguely excited about the future. But the main shift has been in my idea of family.
I had grieved going no-contact with my parents for a few months, even if I started reaching out to them after the first lockdown ended. I had started volunteering in schools with an LGBTQ+ charity, and applied as a mentor in a different program, as most fostering organisations ask for experience with childcare.
But I also found, once again, a different kind of family.
My first approach with the LGBTQ+ community was very different in Italy. Sneaking out of my house when I was fourteen years old to organise protests, joining groups online to connect with other people “like me”, and leaving them when I realised most of the time being transgender and gay was the only thing I had in common with any of them.
Transmasculine spaces tended to be particularly toxic. We were all trying so hard to fit in but were lacking the positive models we needed, and ended up performing toxic masculinity to feel safer, and valid, and accepted. I stayed in them as long as I needed, to find information about my gender identity, transition, options, but knowing I couldn’t do anything without parental consent made me feel overwhelmed and I left after a couple of years.
Through volunteering, something clicked. I found that confidence I had lost. I had never expected to see children that young be that supportive. My only experiences with school until then were negative, and the more time I would spend in there, the more hopeful I would get.
I started reaching out to other outlets. I wrote articles, I spoke on panels, podcasts.
I became a transgender educator almost full time. And I had a family again.
Even with the pandemic, I got in touch with people who had my same experiences. Same fears. Same traumas.
One of the main things that held me back, when considering medical transition, was the idea I would feel alone, and angry, and wouldn’t have anyone to take care of me.
And now I have people from the US, Australia, Singapore asking me for updates, and making sure I take care of myself.
I taught a lot. And I learned a lot.
And looking back, I am grateful. And proud.
I don’t know how my life will change after Christmas, and every year after that.
I just know, for the first time in my life, I’m happy. I’m safe. I’m loved.
I’m here.
Written by Ramses Oliva
In addition to working 9-5, Ramses can't seem to stop writing, even if it means scribbling on a notebook overnight. He loves talking about queer identities, diversity and art and when he's not writing - or sleeping - he collects antique books and succulents.
You can find him posting overpriced selfies on Instagram at @queer.discart, venting on twitter at @goldendrella or crocheting on the sofa.