My Genderfluid Tween Tried to Explain Their Identity to My Dad

It went really well, though not in the way you might expect.

Me with my kids and my dad circa 2023.

When my child came out as genderfluid just before their 11th birthday, they charged full-force into their new identity. Their transition came with a lot of changes and they embraced them all with gusto.

New name. Annika became Nico.

New pronouns. She/her became they/them.

New identities. They started as genderfluid, and then identified as nonbinary, trans, and neoboy, among other explorations.

But of all the changes, the one that impressed me the most was their newfound self-assuredness. My child has always been a bit timid, soft-spoken, and reluctant to speak out. I’ve had to nudge them to speak for themselves, even with simple tasks like ordering at restaurants.

Then they came out.

And they wanted to tell the world.

As my adult brain pondered questions like, how could we get their name changed at school? Would the school require proof of a legal name change, which was something we hadn’t pursued? Where should I start — at the district level? The school principal? Their teacher? Before I had any answers, I realized I didn’t need any; my child had independently taken steps to have their name changed in Zoom (this was during pandemic) and all other school forms that mattered to them.

How did they implement this change? I have no idea. That’s how effectively they charged in and took action. It was astonishing, frankly, in the very best of ways.

It also let me know just how important their new identity was to them.

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They told everyone — friends, neighbors, family, teachers, doctors, flight attendants, random strangers all knew. Many they spoke with directly. For others, they signaled their identity by wearing clothes, accessories, and sometimes even literally wrapping themselves in the flag that proclaimed their identity.

My child received almost unequivocal support from their friends and our community, thank goodness.

Then we headed out to visit family — to Florida, no less — and my child went armed with a new goal. They wanted their grandfather — my father — not only to use their new chosen name, but also their pronouns. They’ve always had a justice streak, and I think their wish to try was based not only on their personal preference, but also as an act of solidarity with all queer people.

I loved the intent behind their wishes but… oh boy. My dad is a challenging person. He’s a Trump-supporting Republican, and an avid FOX News watcher. To be fair, I don’t think he’s a raging transphobe. I think he’s more of a disbeliever than a hell-raiser on gender issues.

And oh, there’s one more thing.

He’s also got Alzheimer’s dementia.

I inwardly cringed when my child stated their intent to educate their grandfather about gender fluidity and their own pronouns of choice. He wouldn’t have been receptive to this at all before he got dementia. Now?

The odds of him learning new things — and especially this flavor of new thing— seemed slim at best. I cautioned my child, but told them I supported them, whatever they decided.

They were determined to proceed.

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Memory loss is a strange, inconsistent thing. In conversation, my dad’s memory lasts anywhere from 10 seconds to a few minutes.

I can tell him we’re coming to visit, and the very next sentence he’ll ask, “so when are you coming to see me?” When I end our visits, I tend to back away while he’s distracted and he almost immediately forgets I was there. Leaving this way diminishes the separation anxiety he’ll feel if I say goodbye.

If left unsupervised, he will continue to eat, ceaselessly, because he won’t remember he’s just eaten. His shortest-term memory is a sieve; the metaphorical water and sand slip through and just the bigger rocks remain.

But those rocks are notable, as he can still absorb new information. My brother moved from California to Colorado a couple years back; my dad remembers this. My dad has always been a huge sports fan, and when he met my then-boyfriend Davis a couple of years ago, they talked about college football — my dad is a Georgia alum and fan, my ex went to Penn State. If I called my dad tomorrow and asked him where Davis went to college, I’m certain my dad would know like he knows his own name.

He knows who my brother and I are, without question. And he knows we each have two kids, even as the details like their names and ages get muddled.

On this particular day, my two kids and I entered his memory care, prepared to visit and see if his memory could absorb a new name, pronoun, and a new way of considering gender — especially about his own grandchild.

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First thing, we introduced the most obvious change as we said our hellos. I told him Annika went by Nico now. “But she’s Annika,” he stated, confused. “Isn’t that Annika?”

I assured him that yes, it was the same child. “They just prefer the name ‘Nico’ now, so that’s what we’re calling them,” I answered, modeling the correct pronouns use but not overtly stating them.

He seemed confused. “But that’s Annika, right?” he asked. I looked to Nico and raised my eyebrows to wordlessly ask if they wanted to speak up. They did.

“Yes, it’s me, but I’m Nico now,” they replied.

He paused and turned to me.

“Nico?” he asked. I nodded my head yes.

“Is that a nickname?”

“Sort of,” I told him. “It’s a chosen name, one they feel suits them better now that they’re getting older.”

“Nico,” he repeated.

Since he’d at least somewhat caught onto their name, I looked to Nico to see if they wanted to proceed with their gender lesson. Again, they did. And they really tried. But I could see them stumbling against his unfocused gaze, reverting a bit back to their more soft-spoken self as they tried to explain their preferred they/them pronouns, and what genderfluid and nonbinary meant.

“Did you know Ruth died?” he interjected. Ruth was his wife, who’d died a year earlier. He perseverates on her death as a conversation starter, or interrupter, and especially around me, since I’m family.

“Oh yes Dad, I know,” I told him. “I was here for the funeral. But I think Nico is trying to tell you something,” I continued, trying to redirect the conversation back.

Before Nico could get a word in, he blurted out to both kids, “Do you know I’m your Grandpa?” They nodded and said yes.

He turned to me, and asked again, with an increased sense of panic in his voice. “Do you think they remember me, that they know I’m their grandfather?” My dad’s flavor of dementia has him in a near constant state of anxiety. I assured him that of course, they do, and they know.

“You’re my granddaughters,” he told them, in spite of my assurances. “You’re Roxy and you’re…” he paused, his brain clearly remembering something had changed, but unable to grasp it.

“I’m Nico,” they completed for him.

“You’re both such pretty girls,” he said. My dad has never known what to say to my kids, other than to praise their looks. This is a lamentation for another time. On this day, I notice the “daughters” and “girls” in his language and glance over to Nico again.

They give me a knowing look that tells me they no longer wish to fight for their pronouns with him. It’s clear their empathetic nature has outweighed their need to be recognized. They realize this is a battle they can’t win because of the limits of his cognition.

They see him. I think they now understand that his disease-ravaged brain can’t process this conversation.

So instead, we muddle our way through small talk, until it’s time for his dinner and we go to leave. This time, he’s not upset by our leave-taking. The promise of forthcoming food can do that for him.

“Bye Roxy, bye Nico,” he calls to them as we leave.

Nico smiles.

Their grandfather might not have learned new pronouns, nor did he grasp the continuum of gender identity. But they heard Nico. Their new name was a big enough rock that it stuck. To this day, it still does.

In the end, I think Nico’s educational talk went right— in both directions.

They each succeeded because in their own ways, they each saw each other.