Three For My Dad
A Story, a Poem, and a Song
Lannie Rose, 7/2002
A Story: The Prodigal Child
Once there was a man who had three children. When the first child was born, the man looked at the infant and saw a
tiny penis there below the belly. “I have a son!” the man beamed. “A son
who will make me proud. Perhaps he will build strong bridges, or defeat
great armies, or rule mighty nations! But if he is a good man and righteous,
I will be proud of him and hug him to my bosom!” And it happened just as
the man wished. The child grew up to be good and righteous, and he learned
to fix automobiles, and install safe tires on them, and manage the retail
establishment. The father was indeed proud. “You are an industrious and
reliable son,” he said, “and you are welcome in my home. Come share in
my joy and prosperity!” When the second child was born, the man looked at the infant and saw
that there was no penis there below the belly. “I have a daughter!” the
man beamed, and was filled with joy. “A daughter who will make me proud.
She will promulgate her mother’s joy and beauty in the world. Perhaps she
will heal the sickly, or comfort the forlorn. Perhaps she will bring me
grandchildren. But if she is a good woman and righteous, I will be proud
of her and hug her to my bosom!” And it happened just as the man wished.
The child grew up to be good and righteous, and she bore him grandchildren,
and she comforted the forlorn, and she healed the sickly. The father was
indeed proud. “You are a compassionate and beautiful daughter,” he said,
“and you are welcome in my home. Come share in my joy and prosperity!” When the third child was born, the man looked at the infant and once
again saw a tiny penis there below the belly. “I have another son!” the man
beamed. But in this he was incorrect, as we shall see. Nevertheless,
the man continued, “A son who will make me proud. Perhaps he will solve
great scientific problems, or sing beautiful songs, or write touching
poetry. But if he is a good man and righteous, I will be proud of him and
hug him to my bosom!” But it did not happen quite as the man wished. The
child did grow up to be good and righteous, even something of a prodigy.
At an early age the child did solve minor scientific problems, composed
and sang songs of no great moment, and wrote light verse. But the child
examined her soul, and discovered that she was a woman, penis notwithstanding.
So she underwent electrolysis, and took hormones, and had her genitals
repurposed surgically. And she lived her life as a woman--a good and
righteous woman--as best she could. But the father was not proud.
“You have confused and distressed me,” he said. “I cannot accept you as
my daughter, because I saw your penis. I love you still, as my child,
but you are not welcome in my home, because I cannot deal with this
confusion. I will happily welcome you back if you again become my son.” But she never was his son, you see, and she never would be. So the story,
I’m afraid, has no happy ending. A Poem
Father, why have you forsaken me?
I am your daughter.
I forgive you.
You raised me well, with love and care and discipline.
Dad, you supported me through school and college, with encouragement, praise, and money.
Father, I am not insane.
I am flesh of your flesh, blood of your blood.
A Song (sung as a traditional Irish jig)
Oh now what have you done, my son?
Oh now what have you done, my son?
Oh now what have you done, my son?
Oh now what have you done, my son?
Oh now what have you done, my son?
Oh Da, I never was your son,
And I love you just the same, Da,
Home ..
I am flesh of your flesh, blood of your blood.
I am chromosomes of your chromosomes, genes of your genes.
I am created of your DNA.
I am raised by your guiding hand.
I am the baby you held on your lap, whose dirty diapers you happily changed.
I am the toddler who wouldn't talk, and then would never stop talking.
I am the child whose little hand you held in your big strong one, as you showed me the world.
I am the adult who made you proud--so you told me--
A loving person, generous, open-minded,
Smart, responsible, good looking .
A person in your own image, so it seems to me.
You thought I was your son.
Oops.
It was an understandable mistake.
When I was born, you counted my fingers; there were ten.
You counted my toes; there were ten.
You looked below my belly, and there was a little penis.
(Perhaps you did this before you counted my toes and fingers.)
You thought I was your son.
You didn't know you have to look deeper.
How could you know?
The doctor did not tell you.
Dear Abby did not tell you.
Dr. Spock did not tell you.
The women folk are supposed to know about babies, but this they did not tell you.
I myself did not figure it out for 47 years.
The mistake is understandable.
I seemed a little different than your number one son, didn't I?
But no one knew why. Not you, not I.
I didn't play sports, or fix cars, or cause mischief, like number one son.
But I didn't wear dresses, or play with dolls.
Who knew?
I hung on my mother's apron strings, and read and read and read, and put things together and took them apart.
Well, more the taking apart, and less the putting together--I wasn't so good at that part.
I put together a life for myself--but I wasn't so good at that either.
You stood up for me--literally--when I got married, and picked me up--figuratively--when I got divorced.
Twice.
You cheered for me as I built my career, and sympathized as it plateaued and declined.
You visited my various homes, and always welcomed me into yours.
Whether I was healthy or sick, sober or drunk or high, I was always welcome.
But not now.
Now I am not welcome.
Because I am a woman?
No, that's not it. You are no misogynist.
You treat my mother, my sister, all women with respect.
All women except me, that is.
I am not a pervert.
I am not playing a game.
I am simply living, at last, as the women I have always been.
And I need my father's love.
I am grateful for your tolerance, but I need more than that.
I need your approval.
I need your acceptance.
I need you to rejoice in the wonderful gift you have in me.
I am chromosomes of your chromosomes, genes of your genes.
I am created of your DNA.
I am raised by your guiding hand.
Jesus hung upon the cross, spikes piercing His hands and feet, blood and water flowing from His side;
I hang upon your disapproval, misunderstanding piercing my heart, tears flowing from my eyes.
Father, I am your daughter and I need you.
Why have you forsaken me?
My son, what have you done?
You grew your hair and pierced your ears,
A hippie you’ve become, my son,
A hippie you’ve become.
My son, what have you done?
You carry a purse and you're kissing men,
A gay man you’ve become, my son,
A gay man you’ve become.
My son, what have you done?
You shaved your legs and you're budding breasts,
A woman you’ve become, my son,
A woman you’ve become.
My son, what have you done?
You let them cut your genitals,
A eunuch you’ve become, my son,
A eunuch you’ve become.
My son, what have you done?
The leopard does not change its spots,
Please give me back my son.. my son..
Please give me back my son.
I never was your son.
I know it's hard to fathom, but
Your daughter's what I am, Da,
Your daughter's what I am.
I love you just the same.