Have you ever seen the episode of Star Trek with the aliens who kidnap Captain Pike and add him to their underground menagerie as a zoo specimen? The aliens in this episode had veins running through the sides of their heads that would pulse when they spoke. At eight years old, I was convinced that my dad was such an alien.

I never really lived up to my father’s hopes for me; I am sure he envisioned many things his newborn son might become. A scientist just like him, perhaps? A successful businessman? President of the United States? Alas, poor dad’s dreams were doomed to be dashed as even the most basic things he thought he could safely assume about his child were to be proven untrue.

The first few years were probably okay, that initial time in a father’s life where you can see your child’s future laid out before you as they nap. It’s not until the child is maybe three or four, when they really can express themselves, that the problems likely began.

I remember being very young and playing in my parent’s closet while my mom got ready for her day. Before long, I would be wearing a dress with a huge hat on my head, and heels which swallowed my feet in the tips of the shoe. My mom was okay with this; kids play dress up, right? She would help out adding a hint of perfume or maybe even a bit of makeup to my play. All was right in the world; well, at least for me.

My father would inevitably walk into the room, and his alien veins would begin pulsing. I don’t really remember what he would say, just that dress-up time was over.

Another time, my mom bought me a doll set called “The Sunshine Family.” The dad was dressed in his khaki pants and sweater, the mom in her floral print dress, and the baby in their yellow pajamas. After countless domestic life adventures with the Sunshine Family, I discovered that you could pop the rubber heads off the mom and dad without breaking them and switch them around. I would do this and just stare at them as my young mind would try to process the gender that already seemed to haunt me.

My dad would inevitably walk into my room, and his alien veins would begin pulsing.

At Halloween time, my father and mother would take me to the “Treasure Island” department store to buy a costume for trick-or-treating. There were rows and rows of the quintessential 70’s costumes with the face of a superhero or cartoon character worn over the child’s face with a rubber band, then a plastic outfit of said character, which the child would wear over their regular clothing. Everyone was there, Scooby Doo, Bugs Bunny, The Hulk, Batman, Robin and dozens more. I made a beeline for a specific box, stared at it joyfully, and then proudly announced, “I want to be Wonder Woman!”

My dad’s alien veins began pulsing; his face reddened as he snatched the box from my hands and handed me another instead. “You can be Superman…”

Years later, this injustice would be rectified. Following my gender affirmation surgery, I received a gift: Wonder Woman panties. I did not tell my dad; at his age, I worried about his alien veins pulsing too much…

About a year later, my father called me and rather matter-of-factly admitted that he had spoken to his doctor and told him that “my son is now my daughter.” We talked about this for a while, along with stories of my childhood and what the word gender really means.

I believe that my dad’s alien veins left him at this point. He became a human, fallible, and with his own issues which he never spoke about.

Sadly, later that year, Dad died. I had already been buried with my problem with anxiety, so I was unable to make it to his funeral. His obituary, however, told of the family he had left behind, including his daughter. Me.