What's In a Name?

So, here we are, with two children, which less than a month ago, I referred to as our "sons". When Waylon finally communicated clearly to us what she was experiencing, we were full of fear, but moved forward to support her in the best way we could. I had just come out to everyone in my life, was so blessed with the overwhelming warmth and response - even from those I did not expect. I felt a little more unburdened, a little more settled, than I had before.

A few days later, I drove Waylon to school and she said as I pulled to a stop in the parking lot, "Mommy, I want a girl name." My heart dropped and the lump in my throat came back. "What?" She repeated herself. I asked her why she didn't like Waylon? I thought that it was gender neutral enough - I mean we had been using it for 4 years, and in the last year, in public, people just assumed "Waylon" was a girl - even when she was dressed in "boy's" clothing. She told me that she didn't like Waylon and wanted a girl name. I said, "Well, when mommy was pregnant with you, I wanted to name a daughter Willow. But I didn't know you were a girl when you came out, so I named you Waylon." Her eyes got bright, "I'm Willow." I said, "Well, ok, honey, let's talk about it with daddy later. I got her out of the car and was hoping she didn't see me shaking.

I was simply devastated. I completely understood now the "grief" I told parents about that they may experience when a child transitions. All I could think of was my little baby, Waylon. I called her that in my belly, once I knew that she was a "boy" - at least assigned that way at birth. I named her Waylon Joseph - the Joseph after my father - his middle name. How can I possibly change that? I saw "Willow" as a different creature altogether. A little baby girl. And Waylon IS now that, but he's also my little baby boy. The one whose name I said as I gave birth to, the one whose name I said as I held to my breast, the one whose name I softly sang to, I even had a whole song with his name - of course it also had the phrase "my little boy blue" in it. I cried the whole way home, and sent my mother a message, crying to her as well.

This felt too real. To change her name. To claim her as female. To change a 4 year old's name. There is always real doubt here - it is hard to trust your child's opinions and beliefs when they would do things like eat candy all day, never bathe, or run into a road with traffic. But, I knew from my own experience, no one taught me to be a boy or girl, I had my own feelings that did not really change over time. And I had a sense of it, as a very young child - research indicates that you can start to see it from 18 months and a firm sense of it by 3 years of age. And all of those things that they don't know yet, are about learning about the outside world. Kids are the most in touch with their feelings than any of us, including adults. She would know how she feels and not be filtering it through fears of the future, like I was.

I would let my mind go to the future - what would this mean for what she wants in her adolescence? We don't even let the kids take medications unless they are absolutely necessary. Does this mean hormones??? I used my yogic breaths to bring me back to the present. I can't see the future - only what's happening right now. And then I cried again. What's happening right now was letting go of my "little boy blue".

I spoke to Mike and told him what happened. I said, "Mike, this is moving too fast. I need her to slow down." Then my White, cisgender, heterosexual, male husband said to me, "Misty, she's not going too fast, she's just not repressing anymore. But you still are." Damn, Mike, when did you get so freaking woke?? And I replied, "I am repressing! I'm not ready!"

The next day, not only did Waylon bring it up again, her teachers told me that she has been talking about it in school as well. She wants a girl name.

Mike and I decided to talk about it and offer her lots of alternatives, even things like Waylynn. She balked at the idea of anything else. Cry-screaming, "I am Willow!" every time we offered another name. As a family, including Wilson, we talked about what made Waylon want to change her name. Wilson seemed to understand immediately, and ran off to write out a page of name options. Unfortunately, those were a little scary and included one that he pronounced "Ho" (Howe), which Waylon quickly rejected. She settled on Willow.

I had originally chosen Willow as a child's name in my early twenties. Partially because I am a Buffy the Vampire Slayer superfan, and partially because I am in love with willow trees. Everything about them appeals to me. Their wispiness and ethereal leaves speak of a spiritual component to nature that we often miss. Willow trees are also one of the strongest trees, simply because of how flexible their branches are - they are full of water, making them resilient. They bend to great distances without breaking. Yes, this baby was a Willow.

We all agreed and then moved to pick a middle name. I offered Josephine, something similar to my father's name, and by that time my mother had skyped in to help. My father said "Willow Josephine sounds horrible," so we scrapped that. It was a very surreal moment. Not just because my mother, who has struggled with accepting affectional and gender orientation differences was being super supportive, but because there we were with a child that was helping us name themselves.

The significance of that moment hit me. Of course, she is picking her name. In every way, she is telling us that how people and society defined her is NOT who she is. She defines herself. And I sat there in awe for moment, to look at this little soul, my daughter, a child that I wanted to teach how to be strong, and here she was, teaching me, that she's already strong. This kid LITERALLY violates all of our social norms. And there it was again - we let society define every aspect of ourselves, and then we walk around miserable that we don't meet those expectations - it's not just gender, it's our physical bodies, our attractiveness, our health and mental health, our work and career, what makes us happy, even our emotions, thoughts, and ideas. And she is saying, "No. I define me."

My mother then shouted out, "Willow Grace!" And my heart jumped in joy. "That's beautiful!" And then the definition of grace hit me.

Simple elegance. My baby was just that. Elegant and ethereal - she loved everything about femininity. In Christian belief, the religion of my youth, Grace means the unequivocal acceptance and love from God. And although I am not Christian, I believe in greater purpose, and the idea that our universe or Creator loves all of their creations, that we all carry purpose and blessings, is a lesson that I still believe. She was put on this earth for a reason. And God, or the Universe, made her as a blessing. Finally, grace means to honor someone or something by one's presence. And that is the essence of her soul - she blesses everyone she touches. Her love makes everyone smile. Her heart is so open, and she brings joy to anywhere that she goes. She is blessing me every single day.

Tonight, she came home to write her name for her homework. Any misgivings I had were put to rest when I saw this - She had traced the name Waylon as she was supposed to do for her work. But on the name line, she wrote, on her own: Willow. She has been practicing writing it on her own in her own artwork for days. Here she was asked to trace Waylon over and over, which she did, but she still claimed her real name on the top of her work.

So here, she is. Our Willow Grace. We are trying the name out to see if this is what sticks for her. There will be lots of mis-namings, as we learn to call her by the new name (just as we have struggled to say her/she and not "boys"). If this name we all helped her with is the one that speaks to her soul, then we will be happy for her. We are open that it is or will not be, but if this does work for her, we will change it, legally. And if someday she wants to change it back, we'll do that too. Because she's here to teach us that nothing defines us - not other's expectations, not even a name. Be true to your soul, and you will find resiliency, strength, and grace.

Breaking Down the Walls

Growing up, being different in many ways, I learned how to build walls. Walls around my heart, walls between people who did not understand me, walls between people that had different political beliefs, walls between those who could hurt my heart, walls, walls, walls. It's only recently with a wellness journey, with daily yoga practice and study, daily meditation and breathing practice, that I've started to see my role in building those walls. But, I still pushed people, including family, away past the boundaries of those walls.

And then, very recently, my world turned upside down, those walls came crashing down, and my heart is open and raw, because of Waylon.

Waylon Joseph Ginicola was a surprise baby - less than 2 years younger than his brother and treasured by Mike (my husband) and I since birth. Waylon always was an interesting kid. His pregnancy was so different than Wilson's, so much calmer and noticeably, I was much happier. I had the feeling that Waylon would be a super interesting and loving child.

Waylon was born on May 29, 2014. His labor was 50 minutes long after I started labor. He was ready for this world, even when I was not ready for him. He was born with me standing up, holding onto Mike, and our midwife diving below us to literally catch him after I screamed, "The baby is coming....NOW!!" Despite his crazy entry into this world, he was noticeably different from his brother - peaceful, sweet, and calm. We called him Baby Buddha.

At 3 months old, I noticed a sassy spirit. As he grew bigger, it was hard to avoid - he was bigger than his little shell of a body. He was sensitive, sweet, sassy, and very funny. Mike saw how much he was like me. He looked like me, and was a little hot mess like me as well. But he was more than anything, sweet, affectionate, and loving.

I loved my baby boy. I loved dressing him up in his cute little boy clothes. I had all my "boys": my husband, my son, Wilson, and Waylon; and that was that. 

We noticed something different about Waylon at around 18 months; he wasn't interested in toys we had, and he had a speech delay. There was no pretend play, and very few words. We called in Birth to Three and they began services. There still was no interest in most toys, however. Then one day, after he had turned two, I brought him to the gym childcare while I worked out. I came back and Waylon was holding a baby, feeding the baby swaddled in a blanket and playing with a little stroller. Pretend play!! It hit me. The problem wasn't with Waylon; the problem was that we did not have the right toys!

Wilson picked up on the messages Waylon was giving us before I did. One day for a reward, I took him toy shopping. He asked to pick up Waylon something. And he picked these little princess shoes. I asked him if he was SURE that was what he wanted to get him. He told me, "Waylon is going to love these." And he was right. Waylon lit right up - and wouldn't take them off - even to sleep.

That year for Christmas, we stocked up on the toys that Waylon showed interest in at the gym: doll babies, a stroller, crib, jewelry, and all sorts of fun stuff. As I wrapped the presents that year, it struck me - it looked like we had a girl and a boy. All Waylon's toys were stereotypically female. All Wilson's stereotypically male. It isn't as if I hadn't tried to change their interests - I once gave Wilson a doll and he looked at me like I had just insulted him. He dropped the poor doll baby on its head and never touched it again. He gravitated to blocks, cars, and technology. Waylon liked blocks and figurines, but really showed no interest in any of Wilson's others toys. That Christmas was the first one that I saw Waylon actually PLAY with the toys we bought.

Our Abuela and Tia Gaby, who have helped us with both kids, sent pictures and told us of something peculiar, yet endearing, that Waylon was doing at their house. Waylon was going into Abuela's closet and stealing her high heels. He was walking around in them, dressing up, and asking to have his hair and makeup done. Waylon was doing fashion shows, dances, and even reading and telling stories about the fashion in Vogue magazine he found. You could see the happiness and joy in his eyes.

Now at this point, I will admit, I recognized that he was gender non-conforming or gender expansive/creative. This is my specialty in my research and clinical practice. We spoke about it with the pediatrician. And I have the book knowledge! Gender non-conformity usually means that a child will come out as gay, lesbian, queer, or bisexual later in life. It can also mean that they are heterosexual, just creative! And a small percentage reveal that they are trans/ transgender. Since I'm bisexual, and my brother is gay, I figured Waylon would likely be gay or bisexual. I filed that somewhere in my mind, but committed myself and everyone around him to not make assumptions and let him tell us. At least that's what I thought I was doing - listening to him.

But there is something else. Deep down, I was very opposed to the idea that he could be trans. I fully support trans people, I understand the biology, the science, the identity. I wasn't opposed to the identity, but I never wanted that for my child. It was perhaps THE hardest life I had ever witnessed for a person, certainly could be made harder by other other factors too - like having a disability or being a person of color. When a friend asked me when I was pregnant with Wilson what potential issues in a child I felt I could NOT handle - I responded, "I would never want a trans child. I couldn't bear to watch a child go through that life."

Dressing Waylon in the mornings was an ordeal. But putting shoes on to leave for preschool was almost impossible. He screamed, and cried. And because of his speech delay, he couldn't tell me why. I tried all sorts of shoes and to no avail. He hated shoes, or at least I thought. Then we went to my friend Jess' house, where her daughter Taryn had lots of girl shoes. Waylon put on a pair of her shoes by himself and wore them the entire time. When it was time to leave, Waylon cried. Not a tantrum cry, a sad, painful cry. As I tried to coax the shoes off his feet, he took his shoes and threw them and said so clearly, "No! They are ugly!" Again, I got it. He wanted pretty shoes. I took my little one shopping and he picked out pink cowboy boots and purple Peppa Pig Ballet flats. I had to field some questions from kids in his preschool classroom, but they seemed to get it quickly. He liked the color pink and purple. Pink and purple aren't boys' or girls' colors, they are just colors. And I believe that. But, I think I was also convincing myself. In my mind, I kept thinking that he'd likely be gay. 

Aunt Jess then donated princess dresses that her daughter had outgrown. I've never seen a happier Waylon. He danced. He spun, he smiled, he laughed. He was so happy. I was so happy for him. But then he asked to wear his dress to school. A lump formed in my throat. "No, honey, dress up is for home." He kept asking for about a year. Mike and I would look at each other, knowing, fearing, trying our best to be supportive, but not let him get hurt. And that's what we both envisioned. Him being bullied, someone saying something cruel to this sparkly baby.

And that is the best way I can describe Waylon. He sparkles. He loves everyone. He does not care about age, size, race, language, sex or gender. He fearlessly approaches people who look nothing like him. He talks to them. He hugs them. He spreads love to so many people. I've witnessed it so many times. And I'm astounded. I was petrified that someone would take this away from him. I had my own experiences - as a sexual assault survivor, as a person who had been rejected for being bisexual, who had been misunderstood for having a different gender as well - a mixture of feminine and masculine. But, I don't think I could ever remember being so fearless, so open-hearted. He was that in spades. 

Waylon complied with wearing no princess dresses outside the house, but he would wear them nonstop in the house. He would sneak my clothes and dress up in them. He even took my swimsuit once and put it on, along with a pair of my earrings. Eventually, he began to ask to wear ponytails and pigtails to school. He was so adamant about it that he would have his teachers redo them in school after nap. He loved having his hair "pretty".

On his birthday, I took Waylon, for the first time, to pick out his own clothes instead of having his brother's hand-me-downs. Nonni and Papa had given Waylon a gift card for his birthday, so we went out to spend it. Waylon half-heartedly picked out some button down shirts and some tiger shoes. Then he put his hands on his hips and said, "Now...Where are the skirts?" I froze. My mouth dropped open and before I could respond, he turned, saw the "girls" section, and said, "Oh there they are!" With such joy, he bounded over to the toddler girls section and picked out a red sundress. He looked at me and said, "Mommy, can I have this, please?" His eyes looked longing, sad. He showed no interest in the other clothes, but this look was a complete different look - he wanted this so badly it hurt. I responded, "Baby, it's your money. You pick out what you want!" He picked out a whole outfit. As soon as he came home, he stripped and put the clothes on himself. I've never seen such happiness ooze out of this kid. 

That night, I, calmly but fearfully, asked Waylon, "Are you a boy or a girl?" Waylon said, "I'm a boy!" I thought, "phew". But the next day, Waylon said, "Mommy, I'm a boy and a girl." Being two-spirited, I totally got that. "Ok!" I said. He fought us a bit on not wearing the dress to school, but I told him that he was playing at school, so he needed shorts. We bought some neutral types of clothing, bright colors, but could be seen as possibly not feminine. Although, Waylon was always seen as feminine by others. Most of the time people called him a girl in public - not knowing him. Waylon never corrected them. He just smiled.

One day, Waylon asked to wear his underwear that had princesses on it that he had picked out. These were, of course, "girls" underwear. I thought that since they were hidden under his clothes, it would be ok. I was wrong. He came home that day and said, "I can't wear panties to school anymore." My heart immediately dropped. I hated that word (like REALLY hate that word), so that message did not come from us. He wouldn't talk about it, but wore boys underwear, and began to wear boys clothes as well. A few days later, he finally told me what happened. He went to the bathroom, and another child saw his underwear. They said, "You are wearing girls' panties! You are going to get in trouble!" and ran out to tell the whole class and teachers. The teacher stopped the child and said that it was ok what Waylon was wearing, but the damage was done. Waylon cried hysterically and was withdrawn the rest of the week. When I spoke to the teacher about it at school, Waylon looked at me, with a little quivering lip. He started to become sad, tearful, and kept withdrawing at school and at home.

About a week after the event at school, Waylon came to me, so sad. He couldn't look me in the eyes. He said, "Mommy, I'm not a girl and a boy anymore. I'm just a boy." He sobbed. He still couldn't look me in the eyes. I could feel the pain in his heart. "I'm just a boy." I picked his chin up to look me in the eyes. I put my hand on his heart. "Waylon, you be who you are in your heart. Don't let anyone in this world tell you who you are, even your mommy and daddy. Whatever is in your heart - a boy, a girl, or a boy and a girl, we love you. You be who you are. Do you understand?" He stopped crying and hugged me. "I'm a girl and a boy." He said softly. I told him I loved him no matter what he was. 

For the next few months, Waylon dressed masculine at school, but on the weekends, he chose skirts and dresses. He began to hate going to school, and was so happy every weekend. I called a specialist that I knew for a gender assessment. I recognized the signs of discomfort with gender, and thinking it was gender non-conforming felt an assessment would help the school with knowing what they should do. We couldn't keep going with this boy at school, girl on the weekends. It was slowly killing Waylon's spirit and sparkle...and that broke my heart. The only happiness I saw was on the weekends, when he was dressed in a feminine way.

On Wilson's birthday celebration, Waylon wore a dress. I had been very absent from posting pictures on social media, but it was time. I posted our first picture of Waylon, very obviously in a dress, on facebook. It was one of the harder moments of my life. I was coming out for me, for Waylon, and opening ourselves up to people on my network - some of whom post anti-LGBTQ sentiments and others who specifically post things about transgender not being a real experience. This picture said everything to me. There was Waylon - somewhere between a girl and a boy, crossing this bridge on his journey. And there I was, way behind them, trying to catch up.

On my way home from work one night, I got a message from the Doctor who assessed Waylon: Waylon qualified for Gender Dysphoria (the DSM-5 category that describes trans persons). "How did I feel about that?" the doctor asked me. I sat reading the message in my driveway. And I cried. Gender dysphoria. So many emotions at the same time. Did I miss that? Did I not see that? I specialize in it! How could I miss that? Trans? Could Waylon be trans? And then all of those things I tell parents to not consider in their thoughts, came rushing in. Was it me? Was it my genes? Did I do something in my pregnancy? Did my gender (which isn't completely female) influence him in some way? No, I'm sure he'd grow out of it. Or he'd come out as gay. I couldn't say it out loud. If he was trans, I was accepting that he would walk the most difficult path in this life that I could even imagine. How would I tell our parents? How would I tell my friends? I was overwhelmed by a million emotions at once.

Waylon continued to present male, until the Doctor spoke to our school on ways to support a child like Waylon. Waylon's teacher, Ms. Latrice, wrote us this note. 

I cried. I held the letter and then I told Waylon that Ms. Latrice and Ms. Mary said he could wear whatever he wanted to school. He looked at me, excitedly. "I wear skirts," Waylon said decidedly. The next day Mike brought Waylon clothes and Waylon quickly put his hand up. "No, daddy. I wear skirts. Ms. Latrice said I could wear skirts." Mike and I looked at each other. I said, "Ok honey, but we just need to talk first." He started to cry. "I really want to wear a skirt." I said, "Yes, honey you can, but I want to talk to you first." I asked Waylon what he would do if someone said something about his skirt. He said, "I would say...Thank you!" We all laughed. That's a pretty good response! "What if someone tells you that skirts are for girls and you are a boy?" He said, "I will say - Thank you! But skirts are for Waylie." I thought, wow, he's more ready than me. I told him that Ms. Latrice was his safe person. If anyone hurt him or his feelings, to go to Ms. Latrice. He said ok and he happily went to school - for the first time. No arguments, no crying or whining. He was excited, happy. He danced through the house. And he made me play the "dancing skirt song", which of course is Abba's Dancing Queen.

And it didn't end there. His teacher sent me this message. Waylon was finally feeling what it was like to be authentic. I recognized that feeling. When I am authentic, I am at peace, happy, not angry, not defensive. I am. The way that God - or the Universe - intended me to be. 

That night, Waylon said, "I don't want to wear boy clothes ever again." Over the course of the next week, we went shopping, got a new wardrobe, since the only clothes on Waylon's menu are skirts and dresses, apparently. That same week, Waylon came to me. "Mommy, I'm really a girl. Waylon's always a girl." My heart dropped again. "Not a boy and a girl," I said? "No, mama. I'm a girl. I'm daughter. And sister. Girl."

Waylon packed a bag with extra clothes for the preschool (extra clothes for accidents). Way removed all of the boy clothes and put in the girl clothes. Waylon did this independently and wouldn't let go of the bag all morning.

That day is burned in my brain. Because it was the first time I really saw HER. It didn't matter my years of training, my specialties, my degrees. I didn't see HER for over four years. I saw Waylon the way that I categorized "him", and the way society did because of his body parts. Being in the queer community, literally writing the book on it, did not prepare me for the emotions I have experienced. I have guilt. I have fear and anxiety. I have pain. I think the dumbest thoughts: You have high estrogen - did that do it? If I like dressing her now, am I supporting it too much? If I didn't let her wear the princess dresses, would she have felt differently? And then my rational voice comes in: You are not responsible for your hormones, and neither is she. You are happy that she is happy - that is what a good parent does. You dressed her as a boy for most of her life; she found ways to dress up before the princess dresses - she stole heels and wigs and scarves, and made her own outfits. You TRIED to make her conform to being less feminine, and all that got her was sadness, withdrawn behavior, and pain. She loves to go to school, is more affectionate, more communicative, more confident, and most of all, happy.

We have come out to my parents, my friends, some of my students. And I've had my heart raw open the whole time. My father said something that I won't ever forget. He always has that way about him. He said, "Misty, God gave you this child for a reason. All you can do is love and protect Waylon." And that stuck with me for so many reasons. God, or the Universe, however you see it, gave me Waylon. And what is that meaning? I spent my whole life thus far, speaking for those who society deems less valuable. I speak to race issues, affectional orientation, indigenous issues, immigration, gender and gender identity, disability, sensory processing, etc. By giving me this child, God is saying, "You aren't done yet. You will take this more seriously and put your whole heart into this if I give you a trans child." And it's true. I will never stop working for a better world now. My baby's safety and happiness depend on it. 

In the past, I would have easily built up a wall. If you don't like me, get lost! No, forget it, I'll leave you. Buh-Bye! I would have done worse than that - I would have called them ignorant, uneducated, hateful, and stupid. I completely missed that I was returning anger and fear with anger and fear.

But I can't do that here - on this issue with Waylon. You see, I am not there with her 24/7. I cannot protect her from all the negativity and bullying that she will face. Trans children are bullied, abused, neglected, and often attempt to take their own lives. Ninety percent of trans persons from rejecting families attempt to kill themselves at least once in their lives. But, even when they are from accepting households, forty-five percent of all trans people attempt to kill themselves at least once in their life. That means my influence matters, but so does yours. Your attitudes about gender literally can save my child's life - taking the time to question why gender matters so much, what is being challenged by children like Waylon, and why it makes you so angry or afraid, can save my child's life. Please. I am begging you. Do this work. For me, for my baby. Take time. Ask questions. But, please, challenge yourself, as I am doing as well. This baby, this life, is worth that challenge.

So here I am. A pile of emotion. I can't predict the future and what Waylie will feel or how this will change. Mike and I are taking Waylie's lead.  I am open to whatever happens for Waylon. I am open to accepting this difficult path as ours. I am opening my heart to those who have deeply hurt me in the past. I am praying that God will help others see what I see. Waylon is loving. Waylon is smart and sweet and amazing. Waylon is a gift. She is opening my eyes to my own gendered attitudes, the way I have imprisoned myself in categories, the way I have blocked off others with walls. She approaches life with happiness, with abandon, with no care to what others tell her that she "is." She sees herself. She finds joy in herself. She loves herself. She loves others, as they are, as well.

In indigenous societies around the world, when a person like Waylon was recognized by the tribes (called two-spirit now in Native tribes, and different labels around the world), the tribe celebrated. You see, a person like Waylon WAS seen as a gift from the Creator. They carry feminine and masculine spirit within their bodies. They see life from a different perspective. They have deep empathy and compassion for others. They were seen as inherently spiritual. After colonization, we reduced these gifts to "freaks". At a recent conference, I got to hear Dr. Anneliese Singh talk about changing our focus as counselors from "affirmation" to "liberation". And that is something my little Waylon has brought me, and I believe, many people around her. Freedom to be who you are, not what you have been told that you are. So, we will celebrate. We are, in fact, planning a celebration for family and friends, an acknowledgement of the blessing that we have been given. 

We are proud of our two-spirit. We are proud of our beautiful daughter. We are blessed by her presence, and await the adventure that we will share as a family, the path that we will travel, as we wish to leave the world better than when we found it.

Full Professor

Well, it is official! I have just been promoted to full Professor at Southern Connecticut State University. This is the pinnacle achievement of my career as an academic. It is beyond exciting. But as I tend to do, I'm feeling quite existential and nostalgic. As I receive congratulatory messages, which I adore and appreciate, I keep reflecting back at all that brought me to this place. Yes, I worked hard, but there is no way that I would be here without a number of people, guardian angels/spirits, and pure luck that allowed me to reach this major career milestone. I wrote this blog in a totally unfiltered, authentic way to tell my true experiences. Those close to me know this full story; but many do not. In some ways, this is a full "coming out" that I am sharing about my career journey: the good, the bad, and the ugly.

The Letter! It's official, ya'll!

I graduated high school when I was 14 from a home-based accelerated correspondence high school program. I don't consider it a you-were-a-genius kind of program, but rather a stuck-at-home, dear-god-I-am-so-bored, so let-me-finish-up each subject within days of the curriculum's arrival to my house. I finished high school in a year and a half. This experience taught me that I could achieve if I put my mind to something; it also taught me that I could find all the answers I needed by reading the background material, practicing, and believing in myself. I worked hard for my own learning. I will forever be thankful to my mother who believed I could do better with schooling from home.

My graduation photo. And Yes, I was only 14.
I always looked much older.
What a nightmare for my parents.

After graduation, I had to wait until I was 16 to go to college or I could bring a parent with me to classes; since parent-in-tow was not exactly a cool college accessory, I decided to wait until I was 16. My parents gave me enough money to pursue any correspondence learning certifications I wanted while I waited. When I asked my father what I should do, he said, "Anything with computers, honey. That's where the world is going." Wise sage that he was! I spent the next year and half gaining two certificates: computer-assisted accounting (I am a pro at taxes and can make a spreadsheet like nobody's business) and a certified fitness instructor (kind of let that one slide a bit...). I also ran a day care center for several local children in order to save up enough money for a car: my beat-up beautiful 1984 Plymouth Horizon that cost me $600.

Me, Age 16. Oh God, the perm. Should have loved my straight hair...

While I was waiting to go to college, I remember talking to two people about what I should do for a degree; my friend Holly told me the famous Confucius proverb "Do what you love and you will never work a day in your life." I thought a lot about what I was good at and enjoyed - it was really learning about people, talking to them, and helping them to find peace and their way on their path. My brother Steve told me about his love for psychology and directed me to information about it as a profession. When I turned 16, I got my license, got a job to support myself, and registered for our local community college. I will never forget when my dad, who always had issues with reading since he dropped out of school at such a young age to support his family, brought me to school to help me fill out the financial aid forms, attend orientation, and encourage me to go to college. It must have been very uncomfortable for him in that he did not know how to fill out these forms; and a college atmosphere was probably pretty foreign-feeling. I will be forever be grateful to my father for supporting me to start this path and always doing whatever he could to support me while I was doing my best to survive college and working full-time.

My dad always supporting me!

I loved college and learning. I loved the people there. But I was still struggling with my own demons: I had Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) as a result of being molested as a child and growing up two-spirited (bisexual) in a very small town didn't help my feelings of normalcy. When I started dating, the impulse to run away from my problems intensified. After a year, I moved away and got married to the first guy that I had dated. Not a bright move, and before the year was over, I understood that clearly. My brother Steve was kind enough to take me in while I went through the divorce, got back on my feet, help me get a new job in the field of developmental disabilities, get back to another community college to finish my Associates' degree, and seek counseling for the PTSD and depression I had at that time. As stupid as I felt for my brief first marriage, having been married made me an "independent" student so I did not have to consider my parents' income and was eligible for more financial aid. Yay for stupid decisions! I worked as hard as I could at work, college, and on my own mental health. I learned Yoga at Corning Community College, which would be with me as a coping strategy continued through today. I began to embrace my differences, including being two-spirited (although I went through a long journey there as well!) and made some lifelong friends (Leah! Davette!) who supported me. I graduated with my Associates' degree at 19 and transitioned out of counseling happy and healthy.  I will forever be thankful to Steve for supporting me and helping me to find my happiness again. I became the first in my family to earn a college degree, and I was hungry for more.

Steve and me holding a Pocahontas doll; she needed love too.
We took weirder pictures, believe me.

Over the next few years, I worked in supervisory and administrative roles in a developmental services agency, went to SUNY Cortland for college, learned a tremendous amount in the fields of psychology and genetics, and continued to find myself and my career goals. I had some great mentors here and was even given a teaching opportunity in an undergraduate teaching assistantship. I also met Alina here, an amazing lifelong friend and person, who became my roommate and cheerleader. I had an amazing supervisor at work (Lori Gallerani), outstanding professors, great friends, and such a positive support system through this time. There were so many professors who meant so much to me, but one in particular, Dr. Judith Ouelette, will always stand out to me. She was a funny, passionate, intelligent professor who made experimental psychology not intimidating, but easy to learn. She also was authentic and an advocate for LGBT rights. She impacted me in so many ways. I would hang out in the Psychology Department, helping new students, advising, and learning about academia in the field of psychology. It took me a few more years, but I graduated at 21 with my Bachelors' degree in psychology with a concentration in psychology of exceptional children. I will forever be thankful to Dr. Ouelette and the other amazing people at SUNY Cortland for sparking my love for academia.

My 21-year old self & Dr. Ouellette

I did it!

Unfortunately, I did not have any information on how to apply to doctorate programs; I made many errors. I did not know how to write admission essays, I did not know to look for a specific mentor to match to, I really had no idea what I was doing. Even though I graduated Summa Cum Laude and had a ton of awards, as well as research experience, I did not get into either doctoral program to which I applied. After my second rejection letter, I sat at my kitchen table and cried. I knew I wanted to be a psychologist. But, I had to go to a doctoral program for that. I was also afraid for my student loan repayment to kick in if I didn't go back to school. I moped for a few hours, then jumped online to see which Masters programs in New York were still accepting applications. I ended up applying and being accepted into SUNY New Paltz for my Masters Degree in Psychology. That move was actually one of the most luckiest moves in my career. Not only did I attend an amazing program and meet incredibly interesting fellow students, I met a profoundly impactful mentor, who directly influenced my life and career. I learned a lot about counseling, about myself, and about what I could be capable of achieving. I also made another lifelong friend, Jess, who I will probably be with in my twilight years, rooming in a nursing home together. We share a soul energy that everyone picks up on, asking us if we are sisters or twins, although we legitimately look nothing alike. I loved SUNY New Paltz, the region, the students and faculty; that first year in New Paltz will always register as one of the  most happiest times of my life.

Look at how rested I was before non-furry kids!

When it came to applying for doctoral programs, I had spent hundreds of hours learning about the process, what the tricks and secrets were, and what I needed to focus on in my essays and Curriculum Vitae (academic resume). Unfortunately, around this same time, I also got sick with a life-threatening infection and several other complicated health issues. After treatment and surgery, I recovered, but the close call shook me intensely. I did not truly deal with this until years later. When it came time to apply for my doctoral programs, I shared my list with my mentor, Dr. Carol Vazquez. She asked me why there were no Ivy league Universities on my list. I looked at her in shock; I certainly couldn't get into an Ivy! She, in her characteristic fiery way said, "You most certainly can. You are bright, have the grades and other skills to prove it. You WILL apply to Ivys." I went and did my research and came back to Dr. Vazquez defeated; I told her that I liked both Harvard and Yale's program, but I just couldn't afford even the application fees. She looked at me, turned around, and wrote me a check for the application fees on the spot. I broke into tears; her kindness, compassion, and belief in me will be something that I will never forget. To this day, I can't even think about it without getting tears in my eyes.

Dr. Vazquez and Me!

I got into every program (15 this time) that I had applied to that year. When I applied to Yale, I was insanely lucky that one professor saw my application, pulled it out of the ginormous pile (over 300 applications for 2 positions), and contacted me. He asked me to provide him with more information. I had prepared a website and learned html (thanks for the help, Michael Grandner!) to put a portfolio of my materials online. I contacted all of my previous mentors at Cortland and New Paltz to send additional letters directly to him. I spoke with him on the phone and did my best to share my interests and talents. For what I was told, when the committee met, he sat down, plopped my file on the table and said, "I'm taking her." I have no doubt in my mind that I would never have gotten into Yale without Edward Zigler. He even called me to tell me himself that I was accepted. I was 24 years old.

My first year at Yale. And that is Laila. Yes, she's that old.

Once I got to Yale, I had to deal with some not-so-great cultural competence in faculty, continued health issues, and a complete change of research area. Luckily, Ed Zigler directed me to work with Matia Finn-Stevenson, who became another amazing mentor to me. I continued to work with Ed and Matia, becoming involved in school-based programming, mental health/ social emotional learning in schools, and program evaluations. I learned an amazing amount in my time there. I was also a teaching assistant for Peter Salovey one semester; his ability to capture and motivate student learning was nothing short of amazing. He was a stand up-comic, an actor, and absolute font of knowledge in a way that I learned could make students enjoy class time. Half way through Yale, I also took time off to deal with the re-emergence of my PTSD symptoms that initially began with the near-death illness. As much as I tried to ignore them, I could not keep those symptoms at bay. Taking a break over the summer allowed me to work hard on my own mental health, and got back on my feet, working through those issues once again. Thanks to some amazing friends (Jessica & Joe Trzaska) and a stay in California (thanks again Michael Grandner!), I was doing much better. I remember Matia sent me an email after that saying, "I know you can do this! I believe in you!" I don't think she knew that I cut it out and pasted it by my desk so that I could look at every day. The day I presented my dissertation defense was also life-altering. I had made it! After it was over and my readers had left, Ed and I sat there just talking for hours. I was his last student; and I had reached a milestone of which I could have never dreamed as a child - I received my Doctoral degree from Yale University. I was 29. I published my dissertation, accepted a post-doctorate position with the School of the 21st Century, and got married to kind of the most amazing man ever, Mike Ginicola. Yale will forever be a place that I am incredibly fond of - they gave me the prestige that comes with Yale, amazing learning and teaching experiences, and mentors that made me a true academic. I could never repay Ed or Matia for what they provided to me; I know that my career and the people that I help are all possible because of their encouragement and support.

Ed toasting us at a wedding celebration Matia & 21C threw for Mike & I

Flip Flop, wedges, Misty? Really?!?

At my Yale Graduation, I remember my father saying, "I wished we could have helped you more." And I looked at him dumbfounded. He had given me everything. He believed in me always, my parents bailed me out numerous times when I had no money left after buying books or my car broke down, and above all else, they taught me how to work hard. I was fighting through tears, but I was able to tell him just that.

Yale graduation

As I planned for my post-doctorate position in the fall, I realized that I would sincerely miss teaching. I had learned to love it; I could never be happy without being in a classroom. I sent my teaching portfolio to all the local colleges and was starting to get invitations to teach classes. At the time, I just so happened to have a new mentee, Christina Saccoccio, working for me in my Yale lab. She told me she had just started a graduate program in Counseling and School Psychology at Southern Connecticut State University, and that they had an open faculty position. She took my portfolio to the department and I received a call that afternoon. After an interview and a class presentation, I was offered the job. I was ecstatic to receive my first academic job before I turned 30. Christina and I are friends to this day, and again, without her telling me of the position, I would not be where I am today.

Before starting Academia. So young, tanned, relaxed...

As an Assistant Professor, I realized that people that thought academia was cushy, had no idea what was really required or were not doing it right. I was handed 4 old syllabi in my first semester and told to get my courses ready. I had to research the topics, get the books myself, research the accrediting organizations' requirements, understand student needs and plan 14 weeks of lectures and activities. Each 2.5 hour lecture takes about 10 hours to plan and create. Do the math. Times 4 classes. It wasn't pretty. I also continued my research and service activities. As hard as it was, I adored my students. I found myself settling into an academic identity as a teacher and researcher, focusing on issues of cultural competence in counseling. As my identity started to shift, I began to seek the requirements (clinical hours and education) to gain my license as a Professional Counselor as well. And I had another comrade-in-arms or work wife, depending on the day, Margaret Generali, who started at the same time I was. She is funny, kind, authentic and an amazingly hard worker. We clung to each other like we were on a life raft to survive our first few years.

All Professor-like

It was half way through this experience, that I unfortunately experienced sexual harassment. I was so horrified, but after finding out that this was behavior that had persisted in our department and had happened to 4 other women, past and present (that we knew of). Fearing what would happen if it went unchecked and that it had potentially happened to students (which we later learned it had), I went forward with a complaint. This will rank top 5 of the worst experiences in my life. I will forever be grateful for the support of Margaret Generali, Cheri Smith, Louisa Foss and Uchenna Nwachuku during this time. 2 years after going through the complaint, when I went up for tenure and promotion to Associate Professor, the Dean (no longer there) and Chair (no longer there) put the same man on my Department Evaluation Committee. When I spoke up that I thought it was ridiculously unethical, I was told that I should "be over it" and "that everything would be alright". Even after always having the highest level of evaluations every year, having a solid CV, just winning an outstanding teaching award, and leading our programs to successful accreditation, I was given an abysmal evaluation by the Department Evaluation Committee, Chair, and Dean. I felt insane (was this seriously happening???), victimized, and retaliated against. If it weren't for the support of my colleagues, particularly Cheri Smith and Uchenna Nwachuku, my friends and my husband, I'm not sure I would have made it through this. Luckily, the University Committee and Provost saw my work as it truly was and recommended me for both tenure and promotion. Getting that letter in the mail was like a mountain being removed from my shoulders: I cried in relief. Our entire department shifted after this event. The unsupportive people left and our department was left with an amazing group of people, who I call not only my colleagues, but my friends. Although I am incredibly grateful to all of these supportive faculty, I also owe a debt to those unsupportive asshats that made my life hell. It kicked my motivation and energy into super-gear and led me to pursue social justice and advocacy personally, and in practice, service, and research.

With Uchenna at the Tenure & Promotion Celebration

Cheri Smith, Me, & Louisa Foss-Kelly.
Margaret, why the heck don't we have any pictures together???

As an Associate professor, I lived at work. My friends and husband became used to me being absent, exhausted, and/or sick, and yet still supported me. I pushed myself to achieve and found that in doing so, had made a real impact on my career, school, university, and the field of counseling. However, my self-care really suffered; no, maybe suffered was not the right term. I never fully developed my self care. From age 14 to age 35, I had never learned to truly take care of myself. I had a wake up-call at 34, I needed to be present for my life and my family and friends; I began making sure that I was there for them in the same way that I was for work. Then, I had a child; and then another within 21 months. To keep producing as an academic, be a good friend and family member, AND to be a good mother, self-care became necessary for my survival. It took me about 3 years and some solid good nights of sleep, but I had finally felt balanced. I began to say no to things, ask for help, plan realistically, and prioritize. I spent a brief stint in counseling again to support these new behaviors, and I finally found a way to care for myself, achieve, and be present for my family and friends. (p.s. there's an app for that!)

Learning a new role, much harder than graduating from Yale

When I applied for promotion to full professor, I got to see my career's work thus far all put together. From my hire in August of 2006 to  Fall 2015, I had accumulated a 30-page Curriculum Vitae. I had taught 97 classes of 16 different courses for a total of 271 credits. When I sent a call out for recommendation letters, I received 23 letters from students and faculty. I pretty much cried reading each one. To hear that you had made a positive impact on someone's life is so humbling. I had been evaluated by over 1,300 students with positive evaluations. I had 36 publications, 80 presentations, and had received 26 small grants. My work had been recognized by the University, local newspapers, CNN, and Fox CT Morning Show. I had served on 54 total committees/positions and, in the fall, still had 22 service assignments. I took 12 college credits for retraining, had gained 3,000 hours of counseling experience, and had 102.5 credits of continuing education. I became licensed as a Professional Counselor. I had 8 professional memberships, served as a consultant and expert witness, and had a private practice. I was proud of my relationships with my sons; I had been able to be close to them, help them with their special needs, and be mentally well. My relationship with my husband continues to be strong; and I am proud that he was also bit by the over-achieving bug and is being recognized with awards on his amazing work as an educator.

What 10 Years of Work Looks Like in Binder Form

None of this has been easy, but I am incredibly blessed to be surrounded by amazing, supportive people. I sincerely enjoy the faculty that I work with; they are amazing people. As this process was 1,000 times smoother than applying for my Associate Professor, I began thinking a few months ago about life after promotion to full Professor. I get to choose to do what I wish now. Will I slow down from my break-neck speed? Yes. But I will always pour my heart and soul into my teaching. I will continue to do research on those who need someone to advocate for them. I will continue to be known for multicultural counseling and competence. I will serve in ways that bring quality to my program, department, school, university, state and national field. I will continue my private practice and help children, adolescents, and adults find their path. I will also continue to dedicate my life to compassion, kindness, and increased understanding for those who are the most vulnerable among us.

The Over-Achieving Ginicolas

Looking back where I was 22 years ago when I started my college journey, if one event or person hadn't have been there, I wouldn't be here today. The pain, the joy, the support, the hard work, the long days, the growth, the learning, the mistakes, and the pride are overwhelming to consider. From a weird kid, broken in many ways, in an impoverished rural area to a full professor, living comfortably, happily married with two kids. All I really feel at this moment (in addition to massive relief for getting the official letter), is immense gratitude for the mentors, mentees, faculty, students, family, and friends that carried me to this place. I hope I have impacted your life in a fraction of the way that you have impacted mine.