I'M LINO NOW

The story of a trans child and their famly.

Some things, Lino just knows. He knows that he loves playing football. That he wants to be a policeman. That he likes his new bed with the LED lights changing colour every three seconds. That his family loves him: his mum Corinne, his dad Stefan, his thirteen-year-old sister Lea, his eleven-year-old brother Yan and his seven-year-old twin Amia. Above all, he knows that he is a boy. He points to his chest: “This is where I know.” Where else? Well, on the inside. Everywhere.

For many people, gender is something self-evident. We are born, and someone writes on our birth certificate that we are male or female, based on our primary sexual characteristics. A penis for boys, a vulva for girls. We get a name that fits the gender, people refer to us as a “he” or a “she”. For most of us, the name and the pronouns never change. But what if they feel wrong?

At the railway station of a small Swiss town, get on a bus and go up the hill, past old carpentry workshops and villages with hairdressing salons called “Coiffure” plus a first name. “Coiffure Agnes”, “Coiffure Doris”… Modest-sized posters at the side of the road advertise tournaments in Jass [a Swiss card game]; civic-mindedness is signalled by Swiss flags in front gardens. In twenty minutes, you arrive in the village where Lino has lived for as long as he can remember. His home is a detached house: there is no other kind here. It’s an inviting place, confident-looking, with a large driveway, terrace and garden. The children can go out on their own; they know all the neighbours, and all the neighbours know them.

Which also means: everyone knows that this family is different. A mother, a father, two daughters, two sons, a detached house in a small village not far away from Basel. All just as it should be, except that it isn‘t.

The double birth

Lino is born in May 2015, pulled from his mother’s womb shortly after his twin sister, Amia. His parents assume that he, too, is a girl and name him Alina. Corinne and Stefan have feelings familiar to all parents of twins: they are happy but also scared. Two babies at once, will they manage alright?

Yes, they will. Alina and Amia are uncomplicated, cheerful babies, and their two older siblings show little jealousy. Corinne loves to dress her two girls up nicely, with little skirts and bows in their long hair. She notices that Alina prefers to play with cars and tries to emulate her brother Yan, while Amia favours dolls. Corinne doesn’t care, whatever’s fun is fine. When Alina starts to talk, the tendency becomes more pronounced. She only wants to wear Yan’s clothes, she doesn’t like pink, and she really doesn’t care for dolls. As soon as she learns the word Bub, Swiss for “boy”, she says it again and again: “I’m a boy.”

At the age of three, Alina begins to reproach her mother. Corinne must have done something wrong during her pregnancy, she says: she knows that she’d been a boy back in her tummy. When Alina finds out that she was born by caesarean section, she wonders whether the doctors might have cut off something essential by mistake. You know, Mum, she says at one point, it’s like I have a splinter in my head. It makes me a boy. Maybe this splinter needs to be removed, then you’ll finally have the daughter you keep talking about. Corinne tries to explain to Alina that she loves her no matter what. But you can’t just change your sex, that’s a given. Not with me, says Alina.

According to current estimates, around 40,000 trans people live in Switzerland today; the Transgender Network Switzerland suggests a much higher number – between 0.5 and 3 per cent of the population. These are people whose gender identity does not match the one assigned at birth. Many trans men and women report to have known as children that their assigned gender did not fit them. There has been little research into where this early certainty comes from, into how a child can sense that the gender-specific factors they grow up with don’t match some essence. The data on trans people is sparse, and for children, it is close to zero.

Off with this hair!

The American psychologist Kristina Olson is one of the few scientists researching gender identities in children. For twenty years, she accompanied around three hundred and twenty trans children between the ages of three and twelve. Today, after ten years, she can refute two of the most common assumptions about trans people.

Assumption one: they are more prone to suicide than cis people. False. Trans children who grow up in a benevolent environment that supports them in their gender identity are mentally stable and have fewer tendencies towards depression and anxiety disorders than trans adolescents and adults who were not allowed to embrace their gender identity as a child.

Assumption two: many people want to return to their biological sex after a social and/or medically assisted transition. Also false. Five years after a social transition, only 2.5 per cent of children would want to go back to the gender assigned at birth, which suggests that even young kids know exactly which identity they want to live. This does not mean that they do not enjoy trying out different roles. Trans children, says Olson, experience the same kind of gender development as cis children – just not within the gender they were assigned at birth. A trans boy is therefore simply a boy with genitals that are considered non-male.

When Alina is four years old, Corinne takes her to the village hairdresser. Alina wants her hair short; Corinne allows a chin-length cut. When she sees herself in the mirror, Alina is not happy. She wants it really short, like her brother’s! But then you’ll look like a boy, says Corinne.

I am a boy, says Alina. No you’re not, her mother replies, whereupon Alina starts to cry. It’s not like the kind of crying that can happen in an argument or when a child doesn’t get what they want. It comes from deep inside, a keening over one’s very self.

A few months later, Corinne does allow her to get rid of the hair, with a fringe as a compromise, so that she can still decorate her daughter with a barrette or two on special occasions. That was her way of trying to hold on to something, Corinne says today, to hold on to the idea of a daughter who – as she actually knew – didn’t exist. The barrettes never stay in for more than a few minutes.

After Alina starts kindergarten, one of the teachers calls the parents one day. Alina always wants to use the boys’ changing room, she says; if the parents agree, she would be happy to let her. Then she says what Corinne and Stefan have suspected for a while: Alina could be trans. She suggests that they raise the issue with their paediatrician. “It’s embarrassing”, says Corinne, “but I always thought that trans people were those men who dress up as women.”

A variation of the norm

In their village, in their world, things are simple: girls are the ones with a Schlitzli, “a little slit”, and boys the ones with a Schnäbi, “a little beak”. Corinne and her husband start doing some research and are overcome with panic. The internet suggests that their child is in danger; the little data they can find are figures on depression, anxiety disorders and suicidal tendencies. However, according to the Transgender Network Switzerland, mental disorders do not naturally occur more frequently among trans people but are reactions to life circumstances, which are often difficult. Across Europe, one in five trans people has experienced physical or sexualised assault. In America, the probability of becoming the victim of a violent crime is four times higher for trans people. This information overwhelms Corinne and Stefan. How is Alina supposed to find her way in this world? Will their child even survive?

As if sensing her parents’ worries, Alina begins to say every night before going to sleep that she no longer wants to live. Corinne and Stefan are scared but they also realize that Alina is trying to make herself heard. They must start listening to her. And in a way, it’s true: their child doesn’t want to live as the girl Alina. But who will take her place?

The paediatrician sends Corinne and Stefan to the paediatric psychiatry clinic in the next larger town. This approach is not unusual: the belief that trans people are ill and in need of psychological help persists to this day. However, current findings paint a different picture: according to the WHO, trans is a variation of the norm – one that can cause a high level of suffering due to stigmatisation. Trans people are not sick but discriminated against due to their deviation from the norm, which is why they often suffer psychologically. Since January 2023, being transgender is no longer classified as a mental illness.

The psychologist arranges several appointments. One for the parents alone, one for Alina alone, one for all of them together. During her solo visit, Alina is asked to draw the family as animals. She draws Stefan as a meerkat, Corinne as a dolphin, Lea as a cat, Yan as a lion and Amia as a fox. She herself is a dinosaur. A week later, she says she wants a boy’s name. In gym class, she is now allowed to use the boys’ changing room. She is more balanced, and her parents breathe a sigh of relief.

Then, unexpectedly, the psychologist calls: she believes the path taken is wrong. Corinne remembers exactly what she said: “You have to set Alina more boundaries so that she can return to her role as a girl. Let her hair grow long, have her wear neutral clothes. Things can change at any time. And the way back is much more difficult!”

A long run

For the family, this makes the world collapse. The heavy door that they had just pushed open is slammed in their faces. Alina cries for days, and her parents realise that things can’t go on like this. They cancel all further appointments with this psychologist and turn to the gender diversity clinic at the Inselspital in Bern, where they get an appointment for a second opinion at short notice.

The sex therapist Marie-Lou Nussbaum has been running the gender diversity counselling service for children and adolescents in Bern since 2015. “In the beginning, we only had a few enquiries a year”, she says. However, the need for support has increased noticeably over the past few years. Currently, you have to wait four to six months for an appointment.

Nussbaum is not surprised by the reaction of Alina’s psychologist: due to uncertainty and lack of knowledge, professionals who do not specialise in gender diversity have very different opinions about how to deal with a trans child. However, the broad consensus among specialised professionals is that the approach must be needs-oriented and open-ended, with a focus on the well-being and healthy psychological development of the child.

This is the principle Nussbaum and her colleagues follow as well. It means that parents should take their child’s wishes seriously and support them but not jump to conclusions: sometimes, children just play. “Children try things out, they work through topics such as gender by play. A boy wearing nail varnish won’t necessarily go on to wish for gender reassignment.” The spectrum is wide and should be viewed with composure and goodwill. It is often the parents who need support more than the kids. “The children know exactly who they are.”

The main part of Nussbaum’s work consists of reassuring parents and encouraging them to walk the path together with their child. According to the sex therapist, a supportive environment rapidly reduces the risk of depression or anxiety disorders. She tells this to Alina’s parents, lifting a burden from their shoulders: they’ve been doing a lot of things right intuitively.

Nussbaum suggests that a comparison might help, an image: let’s say Alina is sprinting, ahead of her parents and siblings. Some in her family are jogging after her, others are still in the starting blocks, or not even in the changing room yet. But it’s okay, everyone has their rightful place, they don’t need to catch up immediately. Over time, they will come closer together all by themselves.

Lino

One evening in April 2021, Alina and her siblings decide on a name: Lino. It sounds similar to the old one and yet unique. Besides, Lino likes the meaning: “strong as a lion”. This fits! Corinne and Stefan inform relatives and close friends – and the reactions are not at all as difficult as they had feared. The world keeps turning. Lino is overjoyed and patient with those around him who need time to get used to the new name. He celebrates his birthday in April. Corinne writes in her diary: “It’s a change for everyone. But Lino is happy! Lino is six.”

The house is inviting and bright. The children’s rooms are on the second floor, with laminated crib cards on the doors. Three in pink, one in blue. Lino hasn’t removed his card, although he is adamant about photos in which he can be seen as Alina, throwing them away if they are on paper or telling his siblings to delete them from their cameras. “I don’t need to see this anymore”, he says. He has shown Alina the door – but something stays behind.

The eldest sister Lea still misses Alina. “It’s like she was still here, in my head.” To her, she is not the same person as Lino. “They’re like two different people. One is my little brother, whom I love more than anything. But there’s also the little sister I used to have.” It’s similar for brother Yan: to him, Alina is still around somewhere. Only twin sister Amia has little to say about loss, as if she wasn’t affected at all. She is the only one in the family who has always understood the situation, her parents say. It’s as if she’d always known: her twin sister is actually a brother.

“We love Lino, our son”, Corinne and Stefan say. “But we’ve also lost a daughter.” They find it difficult to accept the loss – and difficult to grieve it, too. Time and again, sabotaging thoughts block their grief: our child is still alive, after all; why are we crying for a lost daughter?

Psychologists who accompany families through transitions say that every feeling must be allowed. The family is involved in the process the child goes through. Sooner or later, everyone has to start down that track.

“Looking in the mirror makes me sad”, Lino says today, “it just doesn’t fit.” He has short blond hair, and when dressed, he looks like every other boy in the village. But when the clothes are gone, he sees what’s missing. Only Corinne is allowed to see Lino in the bathroom.

Lino is afraid of puberty and the physical changes he sees in his older sister. For his sixth birthday, he wished for a Schnäbi. For Easter, too, and then for Christmas. It’s a wish he thinks about every day, even though he knows it won’t be fulfilled anytime soon. His parents explain to him that this option requires a difficult operation, that he isn’t yet old enough for it. Lino tries to understand, but he finds it difficult. Everyone else gets to be who they are, he thinks, only I have to stay someone I’m not.

Farewell

While Lino is in his nursery dreaming of having a penis one day, the topic of trans children and adolescents is gaining momentum in the Swiss public discourse. There are claims out there that more and more young people want to change their gender and undergo serious, sometimes irreversible medical procedures to have the body they want. There is talk of “social contagion”, of lax specialists who prescribe hormones prematurely.

Experts argue that trans is not a trend. On the contrary: the number of retransitions is small, they say. No teenager would undergo this stigmatisation if they didn’t really need to.

If a young person expresses a desire for gender reassignment before puberty, they can take hormones that inhibit breast growth or prevent voice change. These puberty blockers are reversible and can be discontinued at any time. If the desire persists, testosterone or oestrogen can be administered a few years later, which leads to changes that cannot always be reversed.

For Lino and his family, such decisions are still a long way off. But they are foreshadowed in Lea’s puberty – it suggests to Lino what lies ahead of him. He shares his worries with his best friend. During the breaks at school, they sit down on the floor in a quiet corner and talk about “all this”. Sometimes, the teacher listens in and lets Corinne know later. Corinne is happy that Lino has someone to confide in but sad that he doesn’t share his concerns with her.

Before Lino started first grade, a friend suggested a ritual to Corinne that would help the whole family to say goodbye to Alina and to welcome Lino. That was the moment, says Corinne, when they fully committed – to Lino, but also to themselves, to their role as parents of a child who is going his own, different way:

One early summer evening, the whole family walks up to the edge of the forest. Corinne is looking forward to the ritual, but Stefan is sceptical. Do we really have to go through this touchy-feely New Age thing, he thinks on the way up. They have a barbecue – campfire bread and sausages. Then they lay out a spiral of candles, flowers and grasses, a little pinwheel in the middle.

Corinne sits down by the pinwheel, Lino and the others stand on the outside of the spiral. Then Lino gives everyone a hug and runs to Corinne along the spiral. “That really got me”, Stefan says. Suddenly he sees him clearly: the son who is going his own way, quite independent of his father. “I was always trying to cushion his fall somehow. Now I saw I didn’t have to do anything but to keep up as best I can.”

Corinne hugs Lino and sends him back through the spiral. Lino rushes out, beaming, while the rest of the family stands crying in the cool summer air. He goes up to everyone, patiently consoling them all. When they walk back down to the house late in the evening, they all feel they’ve witnessed a magical moment. Lino has now really arrived. And Alina is gone forever.

The boys’ changing room

Shortly afterwards, Corinne and Stefan write a letter to the parents of the new first-graders, explaining about trans identity and saying that Lino will start first grade under his new name. The letter is well received; there are only a few conflicts with children who deliberately call him Alina.

Sometimes kids ask his siblings whether their brother is actually a girl. “It breaks my heart a little every time”, says Yan. He gets angry at this and at the boys from his football club who like to make stupid jokes.

Apropos football club: Lino has been training there every Friday afternoon for a year now. He gets changed with all the other boys, most of whom don’t realise that he happens to have a vulva. It can stay that way until summer; then, it gets more complicated.

The club is mixed, but girls stay longer at each level. To move on to the next level with the boys, Lino has to apply to the Swiss Football Association for a player pass that would list him as a boy. However, this is only possible if he is also listed as male in his passport.

It is one of many little things that make Lino and his family realise time and again how ill-fitting the system is for people like him.

Since January 2022, trans people in Switzerland have been able to change their gender entry and first names without major bureaucratic hurdles. But something is stopping Corinne. She doesn’t know what, perhaps the thought that the change will then be even more final. Plus, there are the experiences of a mum she found on a Facebook forum: her trans son had to explain himself at the registry office until he was in tears. Swiss law stipulates that registrars are not allowed to ask questions – “but what if they still do?”

Corinne and Stefan know that they can’t protect their son forever. The big challenge at the moment, they say, is actually to protect themselves from the thoughts of what could happen to him.

They’ve stopped their obsessive googling; they fear less for the future. “We take things as they come”, Stefan says. “And try not to lose sight of ourselves in the process.” They’ve been both feeling better since a psychologist suggested they accept their own feelings – including admitting that sometimes their situation “just feels shitty”. Stefan says this apologetically, he doesn’t want to focus on himself. “But we are part of Lino’s process, too.”

Running on

The family is still moving at different speeds on that metaphorical running track. The constellation is changing constantly, sometimes weekly. Lino is always right at the front, sometimes several laps ahead of his family members. Right behind him is his twin sister Amia – long hair, pink t-shirts, loves gymnastics. A girl through and through, some would say.

Then, in everchanging order, sister Lea, who told a new classmate about her former sister / her current brother for the first time a few days ago. And the classmate understood, just like that! Then there’s Yan, who’ll be joined by Lino and Amia at his school in the summer. Lino’s radius will increase, and with it, Yan knows, the number of potential bullies. He is worried; he hopes that the older boys will leave Lino alone. “And if they don’t”, he says, “I’ll be around for another year. I’ll protect him.”

And finally, there are Stefan and Corinne. Loving parents who keep reaching their limits – and then transcending them. Like all parents, like every family.