In the heartfelt memoir Call Me Mom, Dr. Christopher King opens a window into the awkward, uncertain, and often painful journey of growing up amid identity transitions—both his own and those within his family. Through the lens of childhood memories, King recounts moments that seem, at first, to be about simple growing pains—fashion choices, social struggles, and clumsy attempts at fitting in. But beneath the surface lies a deeper and more poignant narrative: the emotional turmoil of watching his father transition into a woman and the isolating effect it had on a young boy trying to belong.
One particularly touching anecdote revolves around young Christopher’s lack of fashion sense. Clad in Life-Forms shirts featuring animals with punny slogans, sweatpants, and mismatched socks pulled to his calves, he saw himself as comfortable and quirky. But his mother’s best friend Jenna—a stylish, former model—saw something else: a vulnerable child ripe for bullying. She took him under her wing and brought him to Old Navy, a rite of passage for many suburban kids but a completely alien environment to Christopher. Amid the fluorescent lights and racks of unfamiliar denim, he took his first steps toward social camouflage: jeans and basic white socks. While seemingly trivial, these purchases symbolized something much larger—his first attempt at blending in, of reshaping himself to be more socially acceptable.
But even new clothes couldn’t hide the deeper truth that made him feel like an outsider.
As King writes, by fourth grade, he was beginning to understand what his father was going through—a transition not just of clothing and pronouns, but of identity. His father, now living as a woman, represented a complex reality for a young boy still grasping the basics of human relationships, let alone gender identity. And as the only child in his school with a parent in transition, Christopher couldn’t shake the feeling that his peers somehow knew. Knew that he was different. Knew that his father was different. Knew that his family didn’t look like theirs.
The perception of being known—but not understood—is perhaps the most heartbreaking element of King’s childhood recollection. No one may have outright said it, but the stares, the whispers, the subtle exclusions at lunch or recess cut just as deeply. To a fourth grader trying to forge new friendships, these nonverbal cues were a minefield. It wasn’t just about having no friends—it was about fearing rejection before even saying hello.
In many ways, this chapter of Call Me Mom captures a child’s desperate effort to maintain some control over his narrative. The shopping trip with Jenna, the jeans, the white socks—they were armor. If he could just look normal, maybe the world wouldn’t ask too many questions. Maybe he wouldn’t have to explain why his dad now wore lipstick and heels.
King’s honest recollection of those early years doesn’t blame his father—it seeks understanding. He doesn’t shy away from the emotional dissonance of loving a parent but struggling with the consequences of their choices on his social identity. The story doesn’t vilify, but neither does it romanticize. It simply tells the truth—raw, awkward, and brave.
Call Me Mom is not just about gender transition—it’s about the ripple effect of change, especially on children who often don’t have the vocabulary or maturity to process it.
