This is a story I had given up on. It just seemed trite. Then I realized I was telling it from the wrong viewpoint. Mathew's viewpoint may may offend or trigger some people, but here it is.

It was the worst holiday I can remember. No, it was the worst day I can remember, period.

I was in the kitchen helping Mary cut up a pork loin for our traditional New Years day family dinner of shrimp cocktails followed by chop suey when Jeremy came down the stairs. I couldn’t take it all in at once. It was all just total perversion.

His too long hair was in a high ponytail held by a lacy elastic. He was wearing one of his sister’s Sunday dresses and had clearly borrowed one of her bras, too. I remember wondering, as if it mattered, where he had found the high heeled shoes on his feet. They were too big to be belong to Martha or his mother. He had smeared lipstick on his mouth and some kind of color over his eyes. Mary and I both just gaped at our sixteen year old son. Then we found our voices simultaneously, shouting over and through each other.

“Jeremy Allen Pierce!” From Mary.

“Jeremy! Get out of those clothes right now! And wash your face!” I roared; before adding, still yelling, if not so loud: “and get back down here.”

Jeremy just stood there, looking down at his high heels. It became obvious that he’d used some kind of eye-liner as it ran down his cheeks. Finally, he looked up at us.

“Mom, Dad, this is who I am, who I’ve always been. I’ve know I was a girl for as long as I can remember. My new years resolution was to tell you that I’m Jennifer, not Jeremy. I know what the bible says about men in women’s clothes, but I’ve never been a man. I never will be.”

He started to say more but I’d heard enough. “You may not be much of a man but You’ll never be a woman. I don’t know where you got all of this “Woke” nonsense from. It wasn’t from us or anyone at the academy. Go change into your own clothes, NOW!”

He defied me!

“No, dad: I can’t go back. I prayed so many nights for the courage to do this. I prayed so many other nights to just die. I don’t think I can do it again….. I won’t go back.”

I have never struck my children. My father had hit me too many times to no benefit that I ever saw. I might have then if Mary hadn’t grabbed my arm and shouted at Jeremy to go. Knowing she was right, that I was out of control, I let her turn me away from my son. I could hear him sobbing, hear Mary sobbing.

I turned back toward Jeremy and spoke with all the calm I could muster. “I’m going to the church to pray and talk to pastor Franks about helping you. Don’t worry. He can keep secrets. No one needs to know about this. Now go and change.”

Again, he defied me!

He looked back at me and stopped sobbing just long enough to choke out a faint “no” and then again louder “NO! I WON’T.”

Mary got between us again, but I made no move toward him. I hesitated for a second, but I knew what I had to say. It was my duty as his father, to save his soul and to protect the rest of our tight knit congregation from his willful sins. “You cannot live your perverted lifestyle here. I am going now to church where I’ll pray for you. When I return you will be dressed in your proper clothes and I’ll cut off that hair. I was wrong to allow it.” I went out the door without my winter coat and walked the seven blocks to the church

Jeremy was gone when I returned.

The temperature dropped into the teens that night with wind-chills in the single digits. Jeremy couldn’t have gone to any of his friends dressed like that. They all attended Calvary Academy just as he did. Neither they nor there parents would take in a boy in a dress. At least he took his heavy jacket, perhaps because the academy jackets were the same for boys and girls.

I heard Mary crying off and on all night. I got up and paced. I could hear stirring in Martha’s bedroom, too. She had wisely stayed in her room this morning but I knew that her brother's leaving had affected her. I had done the only thing I could do. Pastor Franks had agreed that Jeremy’s soul was at risk. That was more important than freezing weather.

I didn’t have a very productive day at work on the second. I couldn’t concentrate. I was remembering times with Jeremy, trying to find where I’d gone wrong. Or maybe Mary had. No. I wasn’t going to blame my failings on my wife. It was my duty to teach my son to be man. I hadn’t. I was checking my phone every few minutes, too; hoping he’d call or text that he was ready to come home. Overall there was a bit of carry-over at work from the holiday that helped to conceal mental wanderings.

In bible study that night pastor Franks talked about staying true to christian values that are under assault by the “woke” liberal agenda. He even cited Deuteronomy and talked about queer men pretending to be women. He didn’t mention Jeremy, of course. No one knows about him yet. I knew It was aimed at me, reassuring me that I had done the right thing; the only thing a Christian could do. I just sat there checking my phone, thinking of the parable of the prodigal son. I wanted to welcome my son home.

It was cold again that night. About one a.m. I got up and dug Jeremy’s sleeping bag out of the basement. I hung it over the front step railing with his favorite knit hat stuffed inside before opening the garage door and sounding the car horn four times. If he was in the neighborhood yet...

It was still there in the morning.

That day it was Trent’s day to control the radio. We had long ago agreed to play CBN and NPR on alternating days rather than have a volume war. I hoped that he might benefit from the Christian programming and I suspect he felt the same way about me and NPR’S woke slant on life. I was having a hard enough time concentrating when a segment came on about the fate of homeless young men. I hoped Jeremy wasn’t becoming a drug addict like the boy they were interviewing, but having turned his back on God he was certainly in danger of it. I just couldn’t listen to any more of it.

“Turn it off, please.” I said.

“Why? It’s my turn to choose the station.”

“Just turn it of,...Please.” “”
“Fine. I’ll play that hip-hop station then.”

“No, please. Just until they change topics. Jeremy’s out there.” Then everything I’d been holding in came out. “He’” and then I turned away so he wouldn’t see my tears.

Trent turned of the radio, then shut down both of our machines.

Handing me a clean shop rag, he asked “Jeremy is out where?” Why?”

I’m not sure why I told him. All we had in common was working next to each other. I guess I just had to talk about it. Andy came over at one point but let Trent wave him away without ever asking why we weren’t working. He’s a good boss. He’ll square the down time with accounting, somehow. When I finished Trent just handed me another rag and then stared up into space for a bit.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Matt.” he said. In a shop full of random profanity, He doesn’t curse. He’s not a Christian but says the words have lost all meaning from overuse. It was almost as shocking as if Mary said it.

“Blasphemy won’t help”

“Somethings got to get your attention. Don’t you pay any attention to the radio when NPR is on? LGBT kids are at high risk for suicide. She may have just lay down and froze somewhere. Were you paying any attention to the programs about transgender people? You didn’t even make an effort to understand you daughter. You just threw her out in a Minnesota winter….. Did you even call the police?”

If I wasn’t so emotionally drained I think I would have hit him. As it was I just stared at my hands and wrapped and unwrapped them in the wet rags I was holding.

“It’s not like that. Jeremy isn’t one of those sick people. He’s just, I don’t know, confused?”

“It doesn’t sound to me like Jennifer is confused. She may have been optimistic about your reaction but you had better pray that she was realistic enough to have a plan B. Or maybe knowing you as well as she does it was plan A. You’ve known that kid all her life. Do you really think she would do something this drastic if she had a choice.”

“Pastor Franks has been praying for him. Mary and I and Martha are all praying for him. Tell me what else I can do and I’ll do it.”

“You stubborn idiot.” Suddenly he stood up. “let’s go” Raising his voice he called to Andy “Sign us out early, please. I’ll explain tomorrow.”

“Where? Are we going to find Jeremy?”

"If you’re very lucky we might find Jennifer. More than likely we won’t. You have to learn some things. Or maybe unlearn some things.”

“I don’t need to listen to a bunch of woke propaganda. I need to get my son back.”

“I guarantee you won’t get your child back if you don’t work with the people who have some insight into the problem. You said to tell you what else you could do. As things stand now the best you’ll get is that she’s safely in the foster care system. Now, let’s go.”

I followed him to the locker room and then to his truck, not really knowing why. It didn’t feel like the best thing to do but it was doing something. That, I realized, was something I needed. Instead of starting the truck Trent pulled out his phone. He touched the chrome icon and the microphone before saying “transgender support near me.”

“The closest seems to be an LGBT services coordination center, whatever that means, in St. Paul. I’d hoped for something closer.”

Then he started the engine and mercifully turned off the radio before we set out. The twenty minute drive was mostly passed in silence. I kept thinking about what he’d said. Increased risk of suicide. And praying. Trent seemed content to leave me to my thoughts.

The LGBT services coordination center occupied a storefront in a less than desirable part of St Paul. I let Trent explain our presence as I still seemed to be following passively where he led. The shirtless young man in a leather vest at the reception desk just spoke into an intercom. “Shirl, we have a couple of guys here who need to see you.” and returned to the craft magazine he was reading when we entered, something about leather.

I was reassured when the tall, forty something woman who came out was more professionally attired in a bluish gray skirt and white blouse. “Hello,” she said. “My name is Shirley White. Please follow me. When we had been seated in a pair of molded plastic chairs she asked “how can I help you?”

I let Trent once again do the explaining.

“So you want me to help you find a girl you’ve already thrown out once?”

That broke through my apathy. “I didn’t throw him”

“HER! You don’t misgender people here! If she’s presenting as a female then she’s female.”

“O. K., but I didn’t throw her out. He,….. She, she ran away while I was I gone.”

“What else could she do? She already told you she couldn’t go back to being a boy. Did you think she’d wait for you to beat her into submission.?”

I leaped to my feet, face burning, fist clenched. I glared at her for moment and then slumped back into my chair just before the big young receptionist crashed through the door.

“Thanks, Arnie. It was a false alarm. I was a little too quick with the button.”

“You’re sure your safe?” he asked as he somehow hovered simultaneously over both Trent and I.

“It’s all right. I miss-interpreted the gentleman's agitation”.

“Do you need me to stay?”

“No, thank you. That won’t be necessary.”

We sat quietly as he left and then Shirley spoke. “I’m sorry, that was uncalled for. I just spent two hours holding the hand of a girl who was beaten for what’s in her panties and let some of my anger about that out on you.”

“The girl,” I choked out, “it couldn’t have been jer er jennifer, was it.”

For the first time since we met her Shirley’s face softened and she answered in a quieter, deeper voice. Hearing it , I realized what she was, or had been. “No, this girl is black. She was beaten up by an angry John. She would have been safer working a few miles away where their looking for boys. But she isn’t a boy.”

“Thank you. At least I’m sure my…..daughter will never face that danger. She would never.”

She cut me off. “People do what they have to to survive: or they don’t survive. You have no right to judge J’Marra. But, getting back to finding your daughter. I can’t help you. We’re an unofficial volunteer organization. State regulations don’t allow them to refer minors through us. We can’t afford all of the background checks they want. You need to speak to Janet Wilkins over at county social services. I work with her for indigent clients who are over eighteen. Part of her job is LGBT liaison for the branches. If a trans minor has been picked up by the police or contacted any of their branches she’ll get a report.”

“Can you call her?” Trent asked,” or give us her number?”

“She won’t discuss a minor over the phone or without proof of your relationship. You’ll have to go to her office.”

Janet Wilkin’s office was back across the river in Minneapolis. Unlike the coordination place it was in a big modern office building full of municipal and county offices. Having left my apathetic state, I tried to express my gratitude to Trent on the drive over there.

“Trent, thank you. You have truly been my good Samaritan. When my pastor offered nothing, abandoning my child who has been a member of his flock, you have stepped up and given me hope despite the cost of time off and travel. You deny being a Christian but you have acted in a manner Christians aspire to.”

“You know, Matt, I’m the farthest thing from a Christian but I like a lot of the things Jesus is supposed to have said. Like about loving your neighbor. By the way, did you know that wasn’t original to him. The answer he gave about the greatest of the commandments was a quote that would have been recognized by Jewish scholars of the day. But, He had the right idea. Anyway, we're here.”

Evidently, Shirley White had called ahead about us and we quickly found ourselves speaking to Janet Wilkins. Or rather, she was speaking to me.

“You gave your child an ultimatum that forced her onto the streets. Why will she be better off if I help you.”

“I never meant for Jeremy to leave. I just left and expected both of us to be more level headed when I returned. I thought that given a bit of time he’d see that the whole transgender thing is just liberal “woke” nonsense. I thought he’d be back in his proper clothes and ready to apologize for his behavior.” I paused. “I was angry at him for defying me but I’d never cast him out.”

“You’re an idiot. You didn’t listen to what Jennifer said and you’re not listening now. Take this pamphlet, sit in the extra chair in the corner and read it. Maybe that can get some facts through to you.”

I was almost angry enough to stomp out of her office, but Trent pulled the chair he’d been sitting in next to the other one; guiding me with his shoulder as he did so. After about fifteen minutes I looked up from the pamphlet, having read it all. I was aware that Mrs. Wilkins had been on her computer, paying me no attention. It felt like being a six year old in the bad boy corner.

Evidently she was paying more attention than I thought. When I stopped reading she looked over her monitor at me. “Any questions?”

“This part about brain waves. Does that mean boys who are transgender think like girls? Have feminine brains”

“It means that transgender girls, who are girls because the brain is where gender identity is, have physically male bodies. What they try to do is minimize the conflict brought about by that condition. That means dressing and presenting in as feminine a manner as is practical, and where feasible using drugs and surgical intervention to bring the body into harmony with the mind. You don’t have a son, you have a daughter who has some medical issues.”

“At any rate, I think I have found her. A trans girl wearing a Calvary Academy jacket who will only identify herself as Jennifer was arrested for trespassing at the North Side Mall yesterday. That’s what they usually charge persistent panhandlers with. She’s being held in a county juvenile facility. With a misdemeanor charge she could be released to a parent. HOWEVER, I am going to fax them with instructions that she is not to be forced to go with you. You will have to convince her that she is safe with you or she stays with the county.

I was mostly silent again as we made way our back across the river and then North of St. Paul to a fenced compound with some sports facilities and a playground surrounding three big buildings. I was trying to reconcile what I’d read and heard that day with what I knew as gospel truth. After passing through security both at the gate and the marked visitor entrance we were placed in a kind of small parlor and told to wait. After a few minutes a woman came in, accompanied by Jeremy. He was wearing a uniform with a pale blue top and matching pants with a drawstring waist. The same lacy elastic held his hair in a high ponytail.

Seeing me as he entered the room, his face lit up. “Dad” and then as quickly went flat, eyes seeking his toes.

I needed that joy to return so badly. I hesitated and then spoke. “Jennifer, lets go home.”