I’ve been writing this in my head all day, waffling between sharing my Aunt Gerry with everyone on #transdayofvisibility or saving her for Trans Day of Remembrance because she’s no longer with us. (Her death was tragic in the way that all deaths are sad and tragic but not tragic in the way that so many deaths of trans people are.) I met my Aunt Gerry for the first time when I was about 5. Maybe 6. The following summer, my grandfather, a hard, devout Baptist minister whose faith prevented him from knowing Gerry in the fullness of her humanity, revealed to me that Gerry had once been Jerry. That he, my Pops, had once had three sons. I remember thinking, at maybe 7, “so?” Why did this matter to me? If we were all precious in His sight, if Jesus loved us all, why shouldn’t I? Why couldn’t my Pops? Gerry, I learned over the years, left home as soon as she could, and I can’t say that I blame her. She transitioned in the 70s and was the first in our family to complete college. She live...