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By KB Brookins
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I didn’t get bitten by the “who is my father?” bug till I was 13. Before then, I had an adoptive father who took me in as his own, and that was enough for me. We went fishing, bowling, shopping; any outing that my daddy or I wanted to do, we would do it together.
But that changed when I hit puberty.
At that age, I started dressing more masculine, having crushes on girls, and questioning the bible’s teachings on queerness. Relatives started to whisper and so did my father’s friends. Quickly, he withdrew his love—no more fishing, bowling or shopping. He did little more than keep me housed and clothed. I started to feel like my existence was a nuisance.
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So I asked my birth mother about my dad.
...
“Who is my dad?” I texted. My adoption was not one where I had no contact with my biological family, so we were still in each other’s lives. She took a while to reply, so I know my message must have shocked her. She had to know I’d ask someday.
“I don’t know, baby . . . I’m sorry,” she replied. So I buried any ideas of finding my dad for 11 more years—until an old boss introduced me to DNA testing websites.
They had done a test in solidarity with their partner, who was trying to find a parent. In the process, my boss learned that they had an older sister.
“It was WILD,” they said with wide eyes, explaining how shocked their parents were that they found out. My boss stayed up all night talking to their new (to them) sibling the week they found out.
The radiance on their face made me smile. The warmth they emitted, that I was then feeling, gave way to a clear, scary action: I had to try DNA testing myself. I had to try to find my father.
Two weeks (and two vials of spit) later, I got my results. Though I would’ve loved to have immediately gotten a direct link to my father, I knew not to expect the search to be so easy. You should not assume that any information provided to you, whether now or as genetic research advances, will be welcome or positive, the company’s disclaimer read. Plus, many adoption sites had warned me that finding a lost relative could take months.
...
To my happiness, my results showed that I share about 23% of my DNA with a boy who lived in my hometown. “A nephew,” the website said.
I messaged the boy, hoping that he’d be down to help me find my father. The boy’s mother replied instead. She told me that he was only 8; she’d ordered the test and had him do it. Since my nephew's mother was white, I figured I had to be siblings with his father who, unfortunately, the boy had no relationship with. Still, I was excited to finally have a lead.
The woman and I exchanged some 100 messages over the course of a month about our families and interests. We even planned to meet up so I could get to know her, her son and their extended family. The day before we were supposed to meet for the first time, I sent my nephew’s mother this message:
“Hey! I wanted to let you know that I’m trans, and I go by the first name KB and use they/them pronouns. I hope that that is cool, but I wanted you to know before we met up!”
She never replied.
I waited days, then weeks, then months before I finally admitted to myself that I was ghosted because I was trans. I got as close as I’d ever gotten to finding a father—and, hopefully, finding some acceptance—then it was all over. Why would somebody be this cruel? Why would this woman reject me on the basis of my gender—something I have no control over? What loving God would tell them to hate me, to deny me family love?
I cried. I raged. I flipped through social media hoping I could numb all my feelings away. My adoptive father died. I cried some more. I wrote about all this pain. It took a while—years, truthfully—but I learned to not see my lack of an accepting father (chosen or blood) in my life as a negative.
Looking around at the men who have actually shown up for me has healed my father-shaped pain. There are men and masculine people who have seen all of me and celebrated it. I looked at my mentors, teachers, uncles. I looked at the friendships I’ve made with other trans men and transmasculine folks.
I looked in the mirror at the person that I’ve become.
I’ve got a great career as a professor and a spouse who loves me. I advocate for other trans folks—especially those of us who’ve experienced familial homophobia. I’ve published three award-winning books—one of which is all about my journey growing up Black, trans, adopted and masculine in Texas. Writing my story has connected me with many others who are learning to find fatherly love beyond the confines of a family.
And father is a discipline. It is not solely a title for the man who gives you shelter throughout your childhood. Father, to me, is synonymous with protector, teacher, someone who intentionally raises another being into a healthy, happy adult. Multiple men in my life have done that for me, and I do that for me now. I loved my adoptive father for the time that he was a father to me. I’m sure I could love my bio parent if I ever met him, but I don’t need to anymore.
KB Brookins (they/them) is the author of three books, including Pretty (2024), winner of the Lambda Literary Award in Transgender Nonfiction. They are an Assistant Professor of Creative Writing at Santa Clara University. Follow KB online at @earthtokb.
All views expressed in this article are the author's own.
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