“Mother,” I slowly repeated in Korean. “I am not a boy. I am a girl. I am transgender.” My face reddened, and tears blurred my vision. I braced myself for her rejection and the end to a relationship that had only begun.
Silence again filled the room. I searched my mother’s eyes for any signs of shock, disgust or sadness. But a serene expression lined her face as she sat with ease on the couch. I started to worry that my words had been lost in translation. Then my mother began to speak.
“Mommy knew,” she said calmly through my friend, who looked just as dumbfounded as I was by her response. “I was waiting for you to tell me.”
“Birth dream,” my mother replied. In Korea some pregnant women still believe that dreams offer a hint about the gender of their unborn child. “I had dreams for each of your siblings, but I had no dream for you. Your gender was always a mystery to me.”
I wanted to reply but didn’t know where to begin. My mother instead continued to speak for both of us. “Hyun-gi,” she said, stroking my head. “You are beautiful and precious. I thought I gave birth to a son, but it is OK. I have a daughter instead.”
such a beautiful story. as a queer person, waiting is filled with anxiety about what to say, how much of myself and my life would i be able to reveal? the fear of rejection is so huge, but i also desperately want my family to know me, my life, my trials, my triumphs.
i just want to look into someone’s eyes and see myself, feel like i look like someone, like i can see where i came from. i want to know if i am an oppa or hyung.
i want to know if i had a name.
i have heard all the stories, all the possibilities from bad to good that can happen when you find your birth family. but this…this is the best. the absolute best.