My father is a woman and I'm proud to call her dad

This First Person column is the experience of Kenzie Sproat, who lives in Regina. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

I can still remember the nervous energy rolling off my dad when she first told me she was a woman.

It was the year after I had graduated high school when she called me into her room to show me a journal entry. In that entry, she confessed she was not the man I knew her to be, but rather a woman. 

When I read that, it was the last thing I would have expected and I was filled with disbelief. But as I looked at her, I could see she had been trying to get the courage to tell me this for a while and I wanted to provide her reassurance.

"Cool," I said.

"Cool?" she asked, surprised.

"That's cool. That's awesome," I assured her.

While I wanted to be supportive, I initially struggled to wrap my head around the revelation. I simply didn't understand. Here is my father, a person who never once in the first 19 years of my life showed any signs — or at least any obvious ones — of identifying with a different gender than was assigned at birth, telling me she is a woman. 

For years, she had hid her femininity behind an obsession with Star Trek, a well-versed knowledge in mechanics and lawn care, and a well trimmed beard. 

After she came out to me, she started wearing makeup and women's clothing. And while she may have changed her appearance, I still saw her as the same person she always was and still call her my dad. 

People sometimes wonder why I call her dad, but why shouldn't I? I called her dad for the first 19 years of my life before she transitioned. And, most importantly, it doesn't bother her. She and I — and many of the people closest to her — have removed the gendered connotations that usually come with words like dad. 

Her name now is Kelsey. When I asked her why she chose the name Kelsey, she said she liked it. I guess it can be as simple as that. I like the name Kelsey, too, dad.

When my dad transitioned, she was 50. I have spoken with her about what made her wait so long to accept her identity, or to live her truth, as she puts it. She told me that for her entire life, she was assigned roles — the eldest son, the eldest grandson, the brother and the father. On top of feeling she had to adhere to the roles assigned to her, she was continuously told that her interests in makeup, women's clothing and dolls were inappropriate.

"Boys don't wear makeup."