Becoming My Father’s Daughter—On My Own Terms

My domineering dad stood by me during my gender transition, but I didn’t truly become an independent woman until I finally stood up to him.

Illustrations by Esther Hong | Story edited by Lilly Dancyger

I called Papa in June 2001, the night before my sister Juno’s sweet sixteen party.

“I’m coming in on the bus around five,” I said. “I’ll be wearing makeup and women’s clothes. I just want to let you know so you’re not surprised. We can talk about it later.”

If I acted as though it wasn’t a big deal, maybe it wouldn’t be.

“Just make sure to be beautiful,” Papa replied.

I couldn’t believe it worked. I didn’t realize how much of an act my indifference was until the wave of relief from his acceptance made it hard to speak, so I quickly said goodbye.

Papa was a social worker for homeless people with AIDS, so he’d been around a lot of queers. But I didn’t expect him to be so unconcerned when the queer in question was his child — his first-born son.

Before he was a social worker, Papa was a taxi driver, going to night school to get his degree. He bragged about his straight A’s while I rolled my eyes about how easy his classes were, not like at Harvard where I went. That’s what it was like between us; he always wanted to prove he was better than me because it was his natural place as a father, and I didn’t let him because he wasn’t. Papa’s insistence on his intelligence was his way of taking responsibility for my success. He didn’t raise me, since he spent most of my childhood in the Philippines as a drunk, but he could claim genetic credit.

His stubborn confidence worked to my benefit when I transitioned. I arrived at my sister’s party, in front of 200 people, in tight black clothing and makeup more elaborate than hers. He simply nodded his approval and introduced me to everyone as his child.

When I came back down to New York from Boston for the weekend a few weeks later, my stepmom told me during one of her bouts of obsessive housecleaning that there were friends and relatives who disapproved. When I asked Papa about it, he said that his attitude towards me was none of their business, and that he didn’t need to see them if they were going to say bad things about his child.

I was in town because I wanted to tell them in person that I had legally changed my name and gender. Nothing was ever particularly formal in our family, so I just mentioned over dinner, while the TV was on, that they should call me Meredith and refer to me as “she.”

“I don’t think it matters that much,” Papa said.

“It matters to me,” I replied.