Something jarring happened to me, and I feel like I need to muse on it

Something jarring happened to me, and I feel like I need to muse on it. Bear with me.

In the weekend, I was doing some research on transgender issues. Specifically, I was trying to find academic articles about the impact of hate speech on transgender people. I googled. Google tried to guess what I wanted, and as it does, it gave me its most frequently searched phrases.

The search phrase that came to the top was 'I hate transgender people'.

I was already feeling kind of fragile. I'd been skimming a recent landmark report called 'Counting ourselves', the first large-scale survey of trans people in New Zealand. I don't want to labour the point, because when we focus on the negative, we can overlook the love and colour and joy that our trans friends and whānau enrich our lives with, every day.

But all these wonderful things, they were not the themes of this report. I won't go into it. Let's just say, every person deserves an equal chance at healthcare, at education, at a job. Everyone deserves to be appreciated and accepted, loved for their humanity. To be hugged by a parent. To not feel so desolately alone they self-harm or attempt suicide at rates that should make us feel ashamed. To be able to use a toilet without being verbally or physically abused.

You get my drift.

I looked at this phrase google had offered me and, just like right now, as I write this, I found that I was beginning to cry.

I was crying because my heart was broken, and I was crying because my heart was full. Yeah, I'll need to explain that one.

As the parent of a trans kid, the kinds of things I was reading about, they haven't been my experience. I'm not saying it's all been beer and skittles: hell no. I'm not the one who has to walk in my son's shoes, each and every day. But every person's life is a lottery - an accident of time and geography, money and luck - and my kid did better than many.

For us, things are OK. And the major ingredient of that OKness, it's been the kindness of other people.

I tell you this because I want you to understand that your words, your gestures, they matter. You knew they had the power to hurt. I want to know too how deep, how potent, is your ability to nurture. Your single word of kindness, it is tucked inside my heart. I bring it out on a grey day. I use it to be stronger than I thought I could. When my confidence is flagging, you make me think 'I've got this'.

Maybe it'll seem strange, but the words and gestures that are perhaps the most precious are the ones that come from people who aren't like me. Christian friends have reached out in kindness.

I don't want to trade in stereotypes: Lord knows the mum of a rainbow kid knows that stereotypes are crappy. But when a Christian friend offers support, I know that it is heartfelt. You wrestled with this. You thought about it from every angle. Maybe you stood at a crossroads, just you and your conscience, choosing to turn away from something comforting and familiar, and towards what is harder but is right.

You were brave. I noticed.

People get in touch with me from time to time, about raising their rainbow kid. They're going through their own journey. Their journeys, their children, are the most precious of taonga, and they share them with me. I feel humbled; honoured too. We exchange our laughter and our fallibility and our fears.

I almost never give advice. I am a lady who seldom knows quite WTF she's doing. I'm muddling through, and you're muddling through. Maybe we can tagteam.

My one bit of counsel is this. Don't hesitate to use your words, your gestures. Don't underestimate the power you have. Put aside the feelings of self-consciousness. Don't be afraid that you don't understand this gender stuff completely, or you don't know all the right language. You know how to be kind.

In your kindness, you're helping me raise a young person to have a great life.

I've got this. So have you.