Uncle Ben told me that the tradition went all the way back to the mid-1700s, when one of our ancestors first was accepted into a tribe of the Principal People -- uh, that's Cherokee Native American, to most folks. That ancestor was a boy about my age, that eventually made his town friends with the nearby village. He also eventually married one of the girls from that tribe. When he realized that none of the People really took anything he had to say as more than just unimportant jabber, rather than getting angry like most young fellas would've back then, he told his wife and both their families that he was making a set of rules for Serious Discussion.

In case you're curious, there's only five rules. Anyone in the family can call for a Serious Discussion. No one is allowed to laugh at anyone else. No one else is allowed to talk until the person that called it is done. No one is allowed to get angry at anyone else. Anyone can ask any questions they want, as long as they save 'em until the end and the one calling it is done.

Well, I had come home late, and Mom was annoyed. So annoyed she hadn't noticed that I was wearing different pants than when I'd gone to school. Before she could say more than, "You're late, young man!" I had held up my hand and calmly said, "I'm calling for a Serious Discussion. You and me only, one-on-one, with an option to others into the topic later. I want a private one on one with a few more folks, too." Don't ask me where I found the courage to do it. But Mom's angry look just... went away. She got the grandparents out of the house and over to another relative's house, Dad (well, my stepfather... but he was Dad to me) was bowling that night, my younger siblings were over at an aunt's house from tonight until Sunday after church. Then me and Mom went into the living room to the couch.

We sat at opposite ends of the couch, almost mirroring each other's position, half-facing. I kept opening my mouth to talk, and she sat patiently, with an expression on her face that was a bit curious and a bit bemused. She reached out and gently took my hand, and nodded encouragement at me. I took a deep breath, and opened my mouth.

Then I shut it again, and looked sheepish for a second. I cleared my throat and said, "Mom... I've really got no idea how to tell you this, but I gotta try." She nodded at me and squeezed my hand, then released it, settling back to listen.

I thought a moment, then went on, "Remember a few months ago, when I was upset that I couldn't go with Aunty and Kasey bra shopping, and you explained to me that it was something only girls should worry about?"

She nodded.

"Well... then I, uh," I stammered. This was so hard. I felt... dirty, and wrong. "I, um, I think I must be a girl, then."

Her eyes bulged and she opened her mouth, but I raised my hand up all calm again and said, "No one else is allowed to talk until the person that called it is done." She frowned and sat back.

I took a deep breath and went on, "Well, my chest has been all sensitive and sore and... I just... augh... I've never really been... whew. This is hard to get out. Mom, I'm sort of not only not your son but I've never really been a boy in the way I think and act and everyone else notices and now there are things that are weird and so I think I may be a girl in more than just the way I think and I really don't know what to do and say and I'm..." I paused and looked over at her, and saw the expression I'd figured I'd see, which was all kinds of confused... so I went on.

"I think I must be a girl and my breasts are developing, Mom."

I stopped and waited for her to answer, now.

"But," she said, looking totally confused, "I know what you look like, I changed your diapers..."

"We learned about something called, 'intersex,' in school -- it means you're between being a boy or a girl."

"I don't know about this," she said, "this isn't a prank is it? I mean, really? You're talking about being a 'morphodite' right? That's really rare."

"Actually... about one out of every fifty-nine people are intersex in some way -- some are hermaphroditic, like you said -- and that's a lot of people. Most that are don't realize it though. Only about one in ten thousand that are ever realize it in their lifetime. So, only about one out of five hundred ninety thousand know that they are, so people think it's a lot more rare than it is."

I waited a moment so that I could see if she understood what I was saying. Numbers and my mom weren't really on speaking terms.

"Mom..." I said, and my voice quavered. Dangit, I'd hoped I'd make it through this, "I'm so scared."

She took me in her long arms in a hug while I lost the fight with my tearducts.