Help Moxie Thrive: Top Surgery and Recovery Fund

Hello Community,

I'm Noleca , mother of Moxie and host of Raising Rebels Podcast. After a 4 year wait, Moxie has finally been approved for top-surgery. We are overjoyed! Moxie's surgery is scheduled for January, right in time for his 17th Birthday. Because Moxie is considered a minor (under 18) insurance does not cover the surgery.

We are raising funds for surgery, recovery, a new wardrobe and seed money for Moxie's dreams.

Give whatever you can, including words of encouragement. Moxie needs the support and love of the collective.

Below is an essay I wrote about parenting Moxie and Moxie parenting me titled Out & Open

With Love and Gratitude

Noleca (47) & Moxie (16)

"Out & Open" from Trust Kids published by AK Press

by Noleca Anderson Radway

When folks find out that I am a mother of three queer children they often ask about how and when they came out. Now I know coming out is not a singular event, there is no before and after, no one moment, no one story. Coming out is non-linear and iterative, small and bold. Coming out happens in the in-between, when no one is looking but everyone is watching. Coming out is a constant becoming.

I did not know any of this when my middle child, Moxie sat across from me at our small white circular kitchen table and said “Mom I think I might be gay.”

I remember feeling this sense of closure, like the unknown was now known. At 10 years old, Moxie had done it, defined themselves and now we could all get on with the business of being a queer family with a gay child.

Every single word of that sentence (mom, I, think, I, might, be, gay) rings in my ear like a dog whistle. I find myself constantly trying to decipher the deeper meaning, putting my english degree from Howard University to good use. “Mom” is a soft place. “I think I” is a metaphor for metacognition, that ability to think about one’s thinking. “Might”communicates doubt and questioning. “Be Gay” is an oximoron because “be” refers to (self) who you are and “gay refers to (other) who you love.

Moxie’s coming out led to many others in our tribe recognizing, exploring and naming their own queerness. During a late night internet search for language to support Moxie, I discovered the term demisexual, a sexual orientation where people only experience sexual attraction to folks that they have close emotional connections with. As I read more, I began to see myself, my queerness.

We were in it together, me and my three daughters, Black Queer women, fighting the patriarchy, calling out racism, and pushing back against hyper masculinity. There were many hard moments like crying in the bathroom because we don’t look like our barbie dolls or having our pants pulled down on the playground by a group of boys as part of their game or having none of the white kids in our class show up for our birthday party. Many hard moments but we were on the same team and our team was the best and we all believed it.

At that time, one of the main tenets of my parenting philosophy was prepare, over protect. I didn’t believe that I had the power to really protect my children from the world so instead I decided to look at the hard stuff and to prepare them for what was to come. But how do you prepare your child for the things you can’t see coming? .

At 13, Moxie came out, again. I was away from home all day. As I turn my key and step over the threshold, I feel an ease in the air, as a mother of three, that is always a welcome surprise. Everyone is good, happy and content. I do all my transitioning inside rituals, take off my coat and shoes, wash my hands, take in each of my children. Within 10 minutes I am laying in my bed next to my partner catching up on our day. Moxie peaks through the door I left ajar.

“I have discovered something about myself that I want to share with you.” Moxie says with a reserved excitement.

“Whenever you're ready, we're here.” I respond.

I blink and Moxie is spread out at the foot of my bed.

“I was thinking about it and I realized that I’m a boy.” His voice is clear and steady.

We both respond with love and acceptance. Moxie sheds happy tears and tells us we were the best parents ever and then is off to play with his sisters.

2 years earlier, I went to a workshop where they gave out gender pronoun pins. By the time I arrived all of the she/her and they/them pins were gone. For reasons only the ancestors and my spirit guides know, I picked up two he/him pins and put them in my pocket.

I suddenly remember exactly where the he/him pins are. I get up, retrieve them and hand them to Moxie. His face lights up. Moxie loves pins, he has pins all over his clothes, jackets and things. Moxie coordinates his pins to match outfits and moods. When I ask Moxie about that moment he says “I felt seen and known.”

I am so grateful that my children taught me to be scared, unsure and still move towards love. Love keeps my internalized oppression at bay.

I did not know what “I am a boy” meant for Moxie or for me.

For reasons I’m still unpacking and unlearning including transfobia, I connected “I am a boy” with my girlfriends that identify as masculine centered rather than my students that identify as transgendered.

Moxie came out to me again a few weeks later.

Moxie is part of an art collective. He is the youngest artist on the team, so I join the zoom meetings as support. As we sign into the call I type our names and pronouns, Noleca (she/they), Moxie (he/they). I remember feeling both nervous and proud. This was the first time I was introducing Moxie as he, I wanted to get it right. The facilitator asked everyone to introduce themselves and their favorite tree. Moxie fidgeted as he sat next to me, distracted by our image on the computer screen. I click the hide self view tab and hold Moxie’s hand in an attempt to ground us. I feel Moxie’s body relax as we watch and listen to everyone introduce themselves. Then it’s our turn.

“I’m Noleca, she/they, and my favorite tree is a cotton tree.”

“ I’m Moxie, he/him. My favorite tree is a willow tree.”

When Moxie introduces himself I feel something shake inside, like I am hearing this for the first time. Maybe it is the clarity in which he says he/him, maybe it is the way it stands in opposition to what I wrote.

Later that night, our family of 5, cuddled before bed. I lay next to Moxie on his loft bed and he turns to me.

“Mom, I want to tell you something. I know something for sure. I am not a they. I am a he.”

Time stops. Suddenly, I am looking at myself and have so many questions for Noleca.

WTF?

Did you know, and for how long?

Just how transphobic, sexist, homophobic, ageist, and racist are you that Moxie has to keep telling you the same thing over and over again?

Can you protect Moxie?

Can you prepare Moxie?

Are you part of the oppression that is keeping Moxie from affirming his gender?

Do you love yourself?

Why can’t you let go of Moxie as she?

I feel the tears start to build up behind my eyes. I am triggered as fuck. I want to run and hide. My head talk is all judgement and self hate.

I remember to take deep breaths.

Years before “I’m a boy” but after “I think I am gay”, my therpist suggeested I watch Brene Brown’s Ted Talk: The Power of Vulnerability. Apparently the way I numb my feelings in order to hold space for people in my life and protect myself from emotional pain was cause for concern.

Who knew?

My children knew. Their bullshit meter is always on 10. While I was busy performing progessive educated pro-Black super mom, my children were ringing the alarm.

Blu would whisper, “I never know what you are thinking or feeling.”

Moxie would ask, “Do you love me?”

Glory would scream, “You are the worst mother ever!”

I dismissed their words as childish insecurities that had nothing to do with me. It was the outside oppression of the world that was causing them to question their mother’s love and intentions. I would gaslight them with words and actions, trying to convince them that they did not know what they knew. I weaponized the tools of the oppressor to maintain my own status quo.

In all fairness to myself, I believed my bullshit.

Most of the space in my childhood mind was occupied by thoughts of my mother. She was a force, everyone’s favorite. To me she was a goddess that controlled the moon, the sun and stars. I wanted to be her, to protect her, to please her and to touch her. I studied her carefully. My mother shared her whole self with her children. When she was angry she yelled, when she was hurt she cried, when she was joyful she laughed, when she was confused she stumbled. As a child I centered myself. I believed that I was the cause of all of it so I tried to morph myself to make my mother constantly happy. When it did not work I blamed myself.

Although, as an adult and educator I knew better, the trauma was not healed. I thought my ability to shut off my feelings, squash my concerns, ignore my fears and push forward would shield my children from me and all the rage, anger and resentment that simmered right below the surface. I did not want them to think that they were the cause of my pain.

Through therapy, meditation and spirituality, I realized that by shielding Blu, Moxie and Glory from my pain, I was also shielding them from my love. So I stopped numbing myself and started practicing vulnerability. I knew my mother and she knew me. And although she rarely said it, I knew she loved me, all of me. I want my children to know me, all of me.

Breathing reminds me to have compassion for myself. I stay in the room, mind, body and soul. I apologize for my hesitation.

“How do you know so much about who you are in this world?” I ask.

“The world is big and I look at it and I see all of it and then I pick the parts that work for me.” He responds.

We talk about breasts, beards, penises, pregnancy, hormones, hips, vaginas, vulvas, feet, faces, hands, hips, swimsuits and smiles.

We question if masculinity can exist without hyper-masculinity. We celebrated Black womanhood. We acknowledge the nuance of gender.

We talk, cry and laugh together for hours. We all decided to figure this out together. We affirm that the goal is not to get it right. The goal is to love ourselves and each other through this transition.

The first time Moxie came out to me he was 5 years old. At that time I would often find Moxie talking to himself in the mirror. I would watch from afar wondering what magic was being manifested. One day he signaled me over. I remember feeling so special to be invited into his world.

“Mom, do I have a boy’s voice?” Moxie asked, staring at himself in his favorite purple dress with the silver stars.

Without hesitation I responded, “You sound like Moxie to me.”

His little face looked up at me, unsatisfied, but trusting.

He looked back at the mirror hoping to find the answer.

“I think I have a boy’s voice.” he replied earnestly.

I stood there silent, holding space.

I heard Moxie’s question as an insecurity, instead of what it was, an affirmation!

I often wish for that moment back hoping I would do better, be better.

But Moxie reminds me that it was enough to know that he was loved.

There are not a lot of pictures of Moxie smiling as a child, but he was happy. Maybe not happy but alive, curious, open, sure. I saw him right away, because he was me. I took for granted the space between us, the ways we are different. The gap seemed so small, easy to stretch across whenever I was ready or needed to connect.

Now I mind the gap as I watch Moxie expand and bloom.

“Mom, you know that even if I was AMAB (Assigned Male At Birth) I would still be my mother's child,” he graciously offers. “All of who you are is part of me that is greater than gender.”

I am so grateful I was vulnerable in that moment so I could receive all that love.