For the Haycock family, the process of publicly sharing their story has felt like both an excavation and a family therapy session. It started with a sacrament meeting talk given in May by their youngest child, Emily, that spread on YouTube as she shared her evolution of learning how to show full Christlike love for her brother Carlos, who is transgender. It was a talk she was so nervous to give that her Apple watch clocked 25 minutes of cardio while doing so. But that experience was positive enough to nudge Emily toward also sharing her family’s story (with their permission) on the podcast, What Now. (links in stories)
And now, on a hot, summer night, Russ and Silvia Haycock share a Zoom screen with each of their four children: Norma – 49, Monica – 47, Carlos – 44, and Emily – 38, as they recount three decades of love and tears through their various lenses of Carlos’ complicated journey to coming to a place of self-identity and acceptance.
But first, they are careful to defer to Carlos. At age 12, he knew he was different. At 15, his mother found a letter in a backpack that outed him as a lesbian (at the time) who’d enjoyed kissing a girl after going to a gay club. He begged his mother not to tell his dad. He’d told his therapist he’d kill himself if his parents found out about his orientation. He just considered himself a “nerdy gay kid” whose male bandmates had crushes on, all subscribing to his female status at the time. Carlos didn’t have the language to know what trans was back then. And his parents – Silvia, who was raised Catholic before joining the LDS faith, and his dad, Russ, who came from deep LDS roots--had very little resources or knowledge in the LGBTQ department. Carlos kept much of his sadness and frustration to himself. When ward members didn’t want him to go to girls’ camp, the bishop called him in and asked personal questions about his involvement with other girls. Carlos didn’t tell his parents about this, but remembers being touched when the bishop still told him, “You’ll always be welcome in my church.”
At 18, Carlos moved to Provo to attend BYU. He lived with his sister Monica as he felt uncomfortable with the thought of living in a dorm with straight, Mormon girls. He felt uncomfortable in his skin and body, and preferred wearing baggy clothes. He says, “I presented as lesbian but was seen as male.” It was a different time at BYU in the ‘90s. The fellow gay friends he managed to find called him David. Carlos struggled. After failing a test and going in to meet with the professor, Carlos’ teacher said, “What’s up with you?” It was then that an adult first started explaining to Carlos how there are different genders and sexes. This teacher became a friend and later told Carlos to “take good notes,” when he got called into a meeting with the BYU Honor Code. Carlos had been reported for going to the University of Washington and sitting on a panel where he introduced himself as a gay BYU student, and for having a girlfriend at then-UVSC. Both accusations were false – but a student reported them anyway. An investigation began.
The experience was deeply traumatic. Monica vouched for her younger sibling. They didn’t tell their parents at the time how they both went in to the HCO together, crying, and were asked to bear their testimonies. Carlos internally reasoned, “I’m gay, and I’m a good person. Why do I have to be here?” The council demanded to know who Carlos hung out with, and where they convened. Monica now says, “It was a witch hunt. After that experience, I saw a gradual decline in Carlos’ ability to function as a human.” Suffering from crippling depression and anxiety, Carlos transferred to the U, where he failed classes and self-medicated with marijuana to cope, which lasted for years. “That was my therapy.”
In SLC, Carlos met others in the queer community and lots of ex-Mormons who became his friends. Later, he moved to Portland where he encountered his first trans male. “That’s where things clicked.” But as he wrestled with his identity and what really felt right, Carlos said even his friends in the queer community struggled to understand him. “I labeled myself lesbian, then dyke, then gay or queer, then trans. It was hard because a lot of my friends were female and didn’t understand—even in 1990s Portland. I felt like I’d lost my Mormon community, then my queer community.”
Carlos’ family learned of his process in stages. His parents flew out to join him for a therapy session in which he shared his plans to transition. His parents took him to get a second opinion from a woman who was actually a conversion therapist. After that, Carlos went for about two months without speaking to his family. Later, when he’d return home for visits, he’d endure being dead-named. He’d not mention his medical procedures and often stay in the closet of their home (literally) and hide when people from church stopped by to visit. He remembers having to put on a dress and having Monica re-pierce his ears so he could present as female at his great-grandfather’s funeral. He’d stuff his bra with toilet paper after he’d had top surgery whenever a certain grandparent was coming to visit. Shave his facial hair clean to hide it. A people pleaser, he didn’t want to upset his family members. But he was consumed by feelings of shame. “Shame that came from my whole life of everything I’ve ever heard, in society and the Mormon church especially.”
His life looks much different now. Carlos works as an RN in a large hospital and is a licensed acupuncturist and herbalist. He is married to Lauren, and the two are happily raising their two young daughters. His mental health is much improved. Carlos recognizes that nowadays, things are different – in a good way. All of the recent media attention on the LDS faith and queer identity in general has created more resources and knowledge he wishes had been there for his family at the time. They concur, and they wish they would have done better.
Carlos says, “I feel a lot closer to my family than I ever have before. I always knew they’d come around – I always wanted to have that space to give them that chance. Yes, it took 15 years for some of them. But it’s in their blood – they were raised in this church to be a certain way. I understand, but at the same time, I was hoping they would just come around.”
Silvia recalls it not taking long for her to choose her child over her church during Prop 8. The family was living in the Bay Area and both Silvia and Carlos were horrified to see many of their church friends’ names on the lists of those who had donated to the campaign denying people in his LGBTQ community the right to marry, at the bequest of the church. Silvia was shocked and demoralized that a church that teaches “Love One Another” would try and impose their value system on other people, especially when they believe in free agency. That was the final straw for Silvia, who left. “There were already a lot of teachings I didn’t agree with, but this was the breakup for me – I would like to be a principled person. The church’s stance and policies are hateful and detrimental to families, even though there are speeches that are very loving.” As for what happened to Carlos at BYU, Silvia says, “I’m glad I didn’t know. I’ve been known to speak up. I would have gone to BYU to fight for privacy rights and civil rights.” Of the boundaries Carlos once put up with his family to protect himself, Silvia and Russ say it was so hard, and they wish they’d done better and not been in denial for so long. Silvia says, “I’m a Mexican mom so I need my kids there with me every day.” She appreciates that her own mother told her, “All children are born how God intended them to be. People are born that way – why do people judge?”
Russ did his own work to try to understand his son, attending a SLC Evergreen conference where he remembers there being a lot of resources for gay people, but not necessarily trans. He continued searching for answers and was referred to an organization in San Francisco that assisted people with gender transitions. While one-on-one with a nurse, he said, “Help me to understand this.” She replied, “I’ve been doing this a long time and I still don’t fully understand, but it is what it is. Don’t try to understand. Love your son. Get on board.” And he has, crediting Silvia with leading the way. Russ says, “Silvia is the leader of the pack with the love side. She has always had her arms, heart, and doorway open, and everyone tries to follow her lead. That’s one of the keys of being a good family.”
Putting family first is the motto Emily remembers most from her childhood. Family was always emphasized as the most important thing, and as each of the Haycocks came to remember that in their own ways, it made life easier for Carlos. It was when Carlos said he was going to be a father that his youngest sister Emily realized it was time to get on board – that it would not be fair to have his children know him as one name and pronoun, while the rest of the family confused things. She realized that this was bigger than herself; this wasn’t about her. In her lifelong process to understand her brother, Emily recalls Carlos once saying, “I’ll always be your sister,” and as much as she wanted to hang on to that crutch of a label and her upbringing “with four girls,” it was time to let go and let Carlos be Carlos.
Oldest sister Norma says that when Monica once asked her, “Do you feel like you’re losing a sister?” she thought about it and came to the realization, “I feel like Carlos is still who he always was – funny, talented, a great cook -- as a child he invented the yogurt parfait. We shared a bedroom, we played Lego, the bottom of our bunk bed was covered in boogers. I feel like he’s still the same person. And for me, it’s so heartbreaking to think of how much pain he’s gone through for so much of his life. How hard that must have been, and how hard things still are.” Still in the church and still attending all the family gatherings that sometimes Carlos doesn’t always feel comfortable showing up for, Norma says, “I do feel like we need to give people a chance, the benefit of the doubt. I think so many people are willing to love [him] no matter what. It’s sad for me when Carlos doesn’t feel comfortable coming, because then someone’s missing.”
While each of the Haycocks are on different paths spiritually – some in the church, some out – they make it a practice of showing up for each other, and their shared love permeates from each of their frames on our Zoom screen as we conclude our “therapy session.” Monica, who remained by Carlos’ side during those painful college years and is the only family member he felt safe enough at the time to share about his wedding, says, “There’s a difference between religion and spirituality. You can still have a direct connection to the higher power without the horizontal line of religion. Carlos is one of the most spiritual people I know.” Of her work in the mental health field, Monica says, “In my research, I’ve seen how it usually takes just one family member to be on board, one accepting leader. And then there’s the domino effect of love, curiosity, and question asking. It’s usually someone in the caretaker role. Then once that one person’s on board, acceptance gradually follows. It took us forever -- 15 years – for everyone to get on the same page. 15 years of Carlos having to live a double life. Looking back, he had so much shame and fear of not being accepted, when he just needed to be loved.” And now he knows he is.
