Mommy, I’m scared,” my daughter said from the backseat of our SUV, surrounded by her backpack, a sleeping bag and some other odds and ends that never made it into her duffel bags. We were still about an hour away from camp and other than “why can’t I just stay home this summer?” these were the only words she’d muttered in the past 90 minutes.
“I know, *Gabby,” I said, empathizing. “It can be scary going to a new camp. But I’m sure that once you get settled in, you’ll make friends and have fun!”
“You don’t get it, Mom,” she said. “No one wants to be friends with the new kid.” And then a few seconds later: “Especially the new trans kid.”
I honestly didn’t think being transgender would prevent her from making friends. Hell, I hoped it wouldn’t. Regardless, I knew she was feeling anxious. And even though I loved my camp experience (eight summers as a camper, four as a counselor, and I still sing color war cheers and alma maters in the shower), I could only imagine the anxiety she was feeling.
Privacy at sleepaway camp is minimal, often nonexistent. Picture an old-school Loehmann’s dressing room — add some beds, cubbies and a multi-stall bathroom/shower area, and you’re looking at a traditional bunk. Yes, things had gotten a little awkward one summer at my old sleepaway camp when my boobs started growing before some of my bunkmates, and when my friend sprouted pubic hair when the rest of us hadn’t, but for the most part, all of us girls were in the same boat. Breasts and bushes aside, we all looked similar and had few qualms about dressing or undressing in a crowd.
But how would my penis-bearing daughter feel changing in a room full of vaginas, I often wondered when the topic of camp arose. And how would the vagina-bearing girls — and let’s be honest, their parents — feel about their kids changing, let alone living in the same bunk as a girl with a penis?
When we first began researching camps, my husband and I weren’t even sure sleepaway camp would be possible for our daughter. Especially after Gabby told us vehemently, “I’m not going to trans camp,” which was a decision we respected. While there are a handful of incredible camps for gender-nonconforming and transgender kids, our daughter wanted a traditional sleepaway experience where she could simply be “one of the girls.”
“Why can’t I go to cousin Amanda’s camp?” Gabby asked for about the fifteenth time a week before camp was slated to begin. We were sitting outside, just the two of us, eating dinner at a neighborhood café.
“Honestly,” I replied, setting down my glass of cabernet, “for a few reasons. One, Amanda’s camp is a little over the top for my and Daddy’s taste. Let’s just say it’s a bit fancier than I’d expect a camp to be. And most of the girls seem to be wearing the same outfits” — expensive outfits, I thought but didn’t say — “in all the pictures I’ve seen. It seems a bit much to me.
“And besides,” I started to say, but then stopped.
“Besides what?” Gabby asked.
I sighed.
“Just tell me, Mom!”
“I’m not sure they’d let you go to that camp,” I admitted softly.
“Let me go?”
“Yes,” I said, and paused again, trying to buy some time before having a conversation I’d been dreading since my son Gideon became my daughter, Gabriella. “Not all camps accept transgender campers.”
“Oh,” she said dejectedly. “Well, did you ask Amanda’s camp?”
“No, we didn’t. Because again, it’s not a camp we’d consider for you.”
“Did you ask other camps that said no? Is that why I’m going to this new camp?”
This post originally appeared in Today