Tiq Milan - Ms. Mary

 

I was my mother's fourth daughter. [audience chuckle] The first she had when she was 15 years old. Years later, one of my sisters had a baby at 15 years old. So, when I was 15 and I sat my mother down at the kitchen table, I knew exactly what she thought I was going to tell her. [audience chuckle] I said, "Mommy, I got to tell you something." She said, "Oh, shit." [audience chuckle] I said, "Wait a minute, wait a minute. I'm not pregnant. I'm gay." [audience chuckle] She was shocked. She was shocked. But she got over it quickly, and she became one of my fiercest allies. I remember seeing her when I'd be marching in the pride parade in my hometown of Buffalo, New York. She'd be on the sidelines, her and her younger sister Stella, waving their rainbow flags, drinking their wine coolers, having a good time. [audience laughter]

 

We grew really close, particularly when I moved here to New York City in my 20s to start my adult life. I really needed her so much. I needed her for everything. I called her every day and twice on Saturdays, to help me make decisions about decorating my apartment, to help me make decisions about school, about my beginnings of my career. I would tell her all about the beautiful women that I was meeting and I was dating, but I didn't tell her that I was their boyfriend.

 

My mother was a nurse for over 40 years, so I caught a case of the sniffles. I'm calling her to ask her what tablets to take, but I didn't call and tell her that I was taking a half cc of testosterone every two weeks. I didn't tell her I was transgender, but she knew something was up. So, one day I'm at work and she calls me. She said, "Tiq-a-boo," that was her pet name for me. [audience chuckle] She said, "Tiq-a-boo, I hate to call you at work, but I just got to ask you this question. I just got to get this off my chest." I said, "Mommy, what's up?" She said, "Why you got to be so mannish? Why can't you be a soft butch like Ellen DeGeneres?" [audience laughter] I said, "Because I'm not Ellen, Ma. Okay?" She says, "You know what? I should have never allowed this. I should have never accepted you. I should have never accepted you. What would have happened if I had never accepted you?" I said, "Well, Ma, I still would have been me. I just would have been me without a mother." And she thought about it for a minute, and she said, "Well, you ain't got enough good sense to do anything without me, so I guess I'll stick around." [audience chuckle] So, thank you. [chuckles] So, we laughed and went on about our conversation. But I didn't take that opportunity to tell her because I was scared.

 

My mother had really high expectations of me, and she used to say, "I'm raising you to be better than me." And I thought that me being trans meant that I was failing at that. And as a transgender person, one of the things we risk is we risk losing everybody in this life that we thought loved us in order for us to find ourselves. And I was not ready to lose my mother. I just needed her too much, and I just loved her too much. So, I kept it a secret, I didn't tell her for years. And our relationship definitely took a hit. It was a strain on our relationship because I'm from Buffalo. So, I would just go back and forth, just visit, like, four or five times a year. I stay for a week at a time. But during these years, I would only go home maybe once, just stay for a couple of days. And it wasn't sustainable. It wasn't sustainable, particularly because now my transition is progressing, and now it's time for me to have surgery. And I still had no plans to tell her.

 

And my girlfriend at the time looked at me, and she said, "You are crazy. You and your mother are best friends. You talk to her every day. She's a nurse. She will never forgive you if you don't tell her that you are about to have major surgery." So, I was like, “All right, I'm going to tell her.” So, one day I called her. I said, "Mommy." She said, "What's up?" I said, "I got something to tell you." She said, "What is it?" And this is exactly how I came out to her. I said, "Mom, I am having a double mastectomy. A chest reconstruction. I'm a man." She said, "What the fuck?" [audience laughter] So, she's, like, hyperventilating on the phone, right? So, I said, "Listen, Mommy, I'm having surgery, and I'm having surgery in three days, and I would love for you to be here for me, but if you can't, I understand." And she said, "Just get off my phone and let me think. Just get off my phone." Click. And she hung up on me.

 

And she hung up, and I didn't hear from her. So, the day of my surgery comes around, and I'm all prepped and ready for surgery, getting ready to get wheeled in. The door opens up, and guess who it is. It's my mom, Ms. Mary. And here she comes, and she has this plush Ralph Lauren robe, [audience chuckle] and she has a jar full of chocolates covered in blue foil. And she has a little blue plush little teddy bear for me. And she was there with me the entire time I was in surgery and during recovery. So, I got discharged, and we go back to her favorite hotel, which is the Marriott Marquis here in Times Square. [audience laughter] And we're kind of just hanging out in the hotel room. And I look over, and she's crying. And I said, "Ma, why are you crying?" And she said, "Because it feels like my daughter died."

 

And that was one of the hardest things I've ever heard. But I understood it because my transition wasn't just mine alone. I went from being a daughter to a son. I went from being the little sister to the baby brother, from the favorite auntie to the favorite uncle. So, I grabbed my mother's hand and I looked in her eyes, and I said, "Mommy, I'm yours, and you're still mine. And everything that you've taught me, and all the memories that we have made as mother and daughter have informed me and fortified me as a man that I am today."

 

 And we laughed and we cried and we talked. And I think it was in that moment when she really started to understand me and accept me as her son. But it wasn't necessarily a smooth transition. She kept messing up my name. She kept messing up my pronouns. And so, one day, I called her, and I said, "Mama, look, I'm not coming home anymore. I'm not coming home to visit if you can't get my pronouns right and you can't get my name right. Because not only is it humiliating, okay? It's unsafe. You could be putting me in a really unsafe position when you do this." She said, "Oh my God, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I'll better." I said, "All right. Get it together." [audience chuckle] 

 

So, a few days later, she calls me, and she said, "Oh, Tiq-a-boo. You'd be so proud of your mother. You'd be so proud of me." I said, "Why, mommy? What's going on?" She said, "Because I've been practicing. [audience chuckle] Me and Stella been role playing, practicing your name [audience laughter] and your pronouns. You'd be so proud of your mother." And I said, "Mama, I'm always so proud of you." And she said, "Oh, I just love you." And I said, "I love you, too." And went on in conversation the way we had always done.

 

So, June 2014, I get a phone call from my mom, and this time she is hysterical, crying, hysterical. And I said, "Mommy, what's going on?" And she said, "Baby, you got to come home right now. You got to come home right now." And I said, "Mama, I'm coming home on the 19th." And she said, "Baby, I'm not going to be here on the 19th. Because the cancer has mushroomed throughout my entire body. The tumors in my lungs and in my backs are bigger. The initial tumor in my breast. You got to get home right now."

 

Now, we knew mommy had a cancer diagnosis, but I don't think we knew it was that bad. So, I got on, the first thing smoking back home. Now, by the time I get home, my mother's in hospice, in and out of consciousness, and one of my sisters is there, and she sees me, and she says, "Tiq is here. Here she is. Tiq is here. She finally made it. Here she is. Tiq is here." My mother slowly opened up her eyes, and she whispered, "He." [audience aww] And that was one of the last words she spoke.

 

So, over the next couple of days, the family, we had it set up so that she was never alone. We all took a shift, and I had the morning shift. So, one morning I come in, and it's pretty obvious that we're reaching the end now. Every breath she takes is so labored. Her whole body moves [imitates heavy breathing] and there's this loud gurgle with every breath that just fills the room.

 

So, I come up to her hospital bed, and I take the guardrail down, and I get in bed with her just like I used to when I was a little kid. And I put my head on her shoulder and I put my lips to her ear, and I said, "Mama, you could go." I said, "It is okay. I promise you, I'm going to be okay. You did such a good job raising me. You can go." And I fell asleep. Fell asleep right there. And when I woke up, the room was silent. And my champion had died right there in my arms. Telling you, there are no words to express how devastating that was for me. The sun still doesn't shine as bright anymore. And I was really lost because my mother, she was my moral compass. She was my guiding light. She was the only person in this world who could check me. So, I'm like, “Who's going to check me now?”

 

And as I processed my grief over time and really self-reflected on this idea that she was raising me to be better than her. In actuality, it wasn't about me being better than her, she was raising me to live in this world without her. And not only am I living, I am thriving because I am the man that she raised. Thank you.