To whom it may concern:
I just spent the better part of my day gathering forms and getting signatures notarized for my wife to adopt our son, Niky. I can't help but find it odd that for all these testimonials to her health, and her job, all her papers and recommendations, - nobody anywhere asks for my opinion. I have friends going through what we're going through today. I have family devoted to proving themselves contributors to our cause. But even they - with all their good intentions and noble efforts - often just don't really get it.
My wife, Amy, is a doting mother, a fierce advocate, and highly intelligent instructor capable of facilitating the most productively fun, memorable days of all our lives as well as the lives of her lucky students. She is the fuel my family runs on. She is the director of the way things go. She is never too proud to stand up for what is essential and important no matter what the personal effort or cost.
As for "adopting" Niky, she was there the day Nikkan was born - seconds after he was ripped from me in an emergency C section, I was helpless as they shuffled him off to NICU for some elusive fluid drain. Laying there trying to wiggle life back into my limbs, I was left to ponder all the plans I'd made that had been abandoned in minutes - between natural child birth, cord blood retrieval, instant breastfeeding... something had gone awry.
It was my wife, Amy, - Ema as our kids have come to call her - who immediately took off after Niky, stood by his side, demanded no pacifier be given him least he should waste important early precious energy on nonsense and pumped her own breast milk for him to be nourished when there was sudden talk of our dreaded "F" word. She was the one who calmed me down, who got us a private room, and who saw to it I was allowed to hold Nikkan just as soon as I was able to land myself in that wheelchair to get to him even when the hospital policy said "No" and the nurses said he had to remain immobilized. She was the only familiar voice he heard for those first few terrifying hours of hurried hands, cold, and lights. She was the first one to tell him she loved him - who marveled at his beautiful trembling lips.
Amy left us that night (just as I had to Kody's first night) but she's been there every night and day since we came home. She nursed me through my recovery, took on half the breastfeeding, cooked, worked, taught, played, snuggled, disciplined, laughed, and hugged him every day since. She's more than a wife or a husband. She is a mother.
Maybe it's because we had to elope when we actually married that I don't feel like I get the opportunity to say this enough publicly, but Amy is the perfect wife. She's my best friend and often my most diligent competitor. She's always my sweetest comfort, strongest knight, and funniest comedic relief. And just as she supported, challenged, and molded us into the most euphoric zone of my existence, I know she'll do the same for our Takoda and Nikkan. Amy is one choice I made in our lives that created the best of mine.
So yes, I highly recommend Ms. Amy Rothman, Ema, my incredible wife, for the position of "Adoptive mother" to our son, Nikkan Liam Polizzi Rothman, - not that anyone asked but just in case anybody was wondering.
Sincerely.
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
Sunday, April 27, 2014
So much for progress in the future!
First thing after waking up today, I go in the living room where the kids are watching "Mickey Mouse Clubhouse." Something had just occurred that launched Donald Duck onto Goofy's lap. "Hey what's the big idea!" I hear in angry Duck dialect.
Really?
Really?
A few minutes later my older son left the room because the younger one requested "Barney and Friends." He used to light up and giggle in a way that made me believe in magic again when the Barney doll would spin into the full out and proud purple dinosaur everyone would dance and sing around! I go in after him purple dinosaur doll in hand playing the song it sings when you squeeze him. He's giggling but physically takes the doll from me and throws it to the side. My wife playfully engages in this "Barney is the Monster" game "protecting" him from this villianized icon, but how can anyone hate this character? Maybe be "not like," or even "find annoying," but I find the haters very suspect. And I find Donald's homophobia inapproproate for the bew millinelum. I mean, come on people?
Friday, April 25, 2014
The Right Questions
It's been consistent. Since my "So Many Questions" blog, we've all been experimenting with this notion Kody has picked up that boys kiss only girls, and vice versa. The other day, Grandpa bought Kody an actual Kermit and Fozzy doll from the Disney Store. When my wife had them so excited to know they were going home together that they kissed, my beautiful, sweet, innocent 4 1/2 year old son said without missing a beat: "Fozzy's not a girl!" Later when prompted to wonder what marriage is by the most diverse Disney movie to date, Frozen, Kody seemed to think it more appropriate that he marry Ema than me.
It's real. It's consistent. The weedy heterosexist paradigm has taken root in my son's brain. It's gotten me thinking all week about what it would take to combat this. Just this morning, on the way to work I heard a transgendered woman of color talking on the radio about the violence she experienced upon arrival to our "progressive" New York City, and found myself agreeing with her assertion, that as many different people as there are here, as much tolerance as we assume, - no where is there more blind prejudice as right here! Just as she was targeted and beaten right in the same area where the Stonewall Riots changed the course of our cultural history, so I have experienced more back stabbing, blatant homophobia as well. In addition, almost 500 gay men were attacked last year here alone. TV images are not enough. Marriage "Equality" is not even enough. When prejudice and ignorance are backed by history, religion, and law, - what can stop them? We've come so very far, yet we truly have so far to go.
The facts remain that heterosexists don't watch "Wil and Grace. " And heterosexists miss that flash of a gay family in a sauna during the store scene of Disney's Frozen. Heterosexists, in fact, rarely even realize they're heterosexist! Why would they? Their kids don't assume Mom and Dad are siblings!
But one other thing happened this week. Back in the days when I was first struggling with the realization that I was in fact attracted to woman like I'd always assumed I should be attracted to men, I came across a cable TV show called Queer as Folk. Amy and I both did, and we watched week by week, learning, judging, sometimes laughing with the characters. Some of it was cheesy. Some of it raunchy. The day we were hooked was the day the last episode of season one aired.
There we watched jaw dropped as the main couple, Brian and Justin, danced to the tune of "Save the Last Dance" in front of all Justin's Catholic High School peers at his Prom!
Maybe this sounds humdrum to you. But there are so many romantic situations that scare the homophobic (even the out queer ones) to their cores, and imagining the fear of dancing - and dancing in front of straight people - and dancing in front of straight people at something as traditional as a prom - and a CATHOLIC school prom - it stops you in your tracks! Even them - two beautiful, fit, rhythmic gay men (who could possibly be better dancers?) - to watch them together was a moment in my life I will never forget. You're dumbfounded. It wasn't a fancy dance. There was no theatrics. They were just two guys, both in suits, who happened to love each other, dancing.
It's the kind of scene that forces you to examine your expectations - your prejudices - your insecurities. And they do it so well, so eloquently, that by the end you want to leap out of your seat and cheer them on (at least I did) because the process of watching that dance is healing.
This gave me an idea.
Queer as Folk just finally came on Netflix. I put it on. It was just playing on my phone, but Kody loves music. I think he's attracted to all things classic. "What's that music coming from Mom?" he asked like clockwork.
"A show" I said.
"Oh, a show. Can I see?"
Perfect.
His eyes adjusted to the image. Yup. That was indeed two men - dancing - the Fox Trot. I let the image settle into his mind.
"They love each other." I said. "Isn't that sweet?"
"Yes" he said. He watched a little longer, and then eventually moved on to other things.
But, that was a moment. And there will be others. I just have to cease every opportunity.
We need more than the right questions though. We need the right images.
And we need them everywhere!
It's real. It's consistent. The weedy heterosexist paradigm has taken root in my son's brain. It's gotten me thinking all week about what it would take to combat this. Just this morning, on the way to work I heard a transgendered woman of color talking on the radio about the violence she experienced upon arrival to our "progressive" New York City, and found myself agreeing with her assertion, that as many different people as there are here, as much tolerance as we assume, - no where is there more blind prejudice as right here! Just as she was targeted and beaten right in the same area where the Stonewall Riots changed the course of our cultural history, so I have experienced more back stabbing, blatant homophobia as well. In addition, almost 500 gay men were attacked last year here alone. TV images are not enough. Marriage "Equality" is not even enough. When prejudice and ignorance are backed by history, religion, and law, - what can stop them? We've come so very far, yet we truly have so far to go.
The facts remain that heterosexists don't watch "Wil and Grace. " And heterosexists miss that flash of a gay family in a sauna during the store scene of Disney's Frozen. Heterosexists, in fact, rarely even realize they're heterosexist! Why would they? Their kids don't assume Mom and Dad are siblings!
But one other thing happened this week. Back in the days when I was first struggling with the realization that I was in fact attracted to woman like I'd always assumed I should be attracted to men, I came across a cable TV show called Queer as Folk. Amy and I both did, and we watched week by week, learning, judging, sometimes laughing with the characters. Some of it was cheesy. Some of it raunchy. The day we were hooked was the day the last episode of season one aired.
There we watched jaw dropped as the main couple, Brian and Justin, danced to the tune of "Save the Last Dance" in front of all Justin's Catholic High School peers at his Prom!
Maybe this sounds humdrum to you. But there are so many romantic situations that scare the homophobic (even the out queer ones) to their cores, and imagining the fear of dancing - and dancing in front of straight people - and dancing in front of straight people at something as traditional as a prom - and a CATHOLIC school prom - it stops you in your tracks! Even them - two beautiful, fit, rhythmic gay men (who could possibly be better dancers?) - to watch them together was a moment in my life I will never forget. You're dumbfounded. It wasn't a fancy dance. There was no theatrics. They were just two guys, both in suits, who happened to love each other, dancing.
It's the kind of scene that forces you to examine your expectations - your prejudices - your insecurities. And they do it so well, so eloquently, that by the end you want to leap out of your seat and cheer them on (at least I did) because the process of watching that dance is healing.
This gave me an idea.
Queer as Folk just finally came on Netflix. I put it on. It was just playing on my phone, but Kody loves music. I think he's attracted to all things classic. "What's that music coming from Mom?" he asked like clockwork.
"A show" I said.
"Oh, a show. Can I see?"
Perfect.
His eyes adjusted to the image. Yup. That was indeed two men - dancing - the Fox Trot. I let the image settle into his mind.
"They love each other." I said. "Isn't that sweet?"
"Yes" he said. He watched a little longer, and then eventually moved on to other things.
But, that was a moment. And there will be others. I just have to cease every opportunity.
We need more than the right questions though. We need the right images.
And we need them everywhere!
Tuesday, April 22, 2014
What's it all about?
The last time I was at work, just before my last class of the last day before Spring Break, I got the call that set up today's court appointment for my adoption of Kody. I was so tearful over the news that I blabbed to my one student present in that last very self-contained class during that beautiful weather of that glorious culmination of two straight months with zero breaks even for 2 "Nor'easterns", parent-teacher conferences, and another working Saint Patty's Day - (when will we stop persecuting the Irish???) - but after coming home and telling Kody about it, I just stopped caring. I didn't really give it much more thought all vacation. My kid made me realize this is like the paperwork part of a marriage ceremony. The real important part is in saying "I do". And, well, I already did. For better or worse, I'd signed to at least be second in his life for a little while.
So, this morning, in trying to get two kids dressed and ready in time after a week and a half of learning to sleep late (7a), a still-sick wife hacking up a lung every time I talk to her showered, medicated, and ready, and a grandma's notorious logic which mandates her to emerge late after being called early to walk in the opposite direction of the car for a half block just to discard the three tissues she used this morning in a plastic "Have a nice day" bag due to a commitment of immediate use of a dumpster, even though she knows you're in a rush and asked her to meet you at the street specifically in the interest of time saving. The first time I even got a hand free to completely button my own shirt was after I'd stopped at the mailbox!
All that was subconscious over zealousness though which I only realized after going out to put more money in the one-hour-limited-meter and finding "Meter expired" parking ticket next to my clearly displayed 15-more-minutes-time-allotted-parking-tag, after waiting 45 minutes in a room with a window, a few chairs and cold radiator/awesome balance beam that my kids weren't allowed near according to the child expert/security guard busily reading his newspaper. (Apparently there may be something "pointy" my kid could get hurt on).
Finally, we were allowed in to sign some papers that took 4 1/2 years to gather, 2 1/2 minutes to complete, and Kody is now "mine" - in all states.
Walking briskly back to the car in fear of a random tow, I carried Kody in silence. He'd chosen me to carry him today and I was the hug recipient of his affections all morning. Lips pressed against his ear I had little to actually say. I thought of how heavy he'd gotten since those first glorious moments I'd held him in life. I thought of the night we made him. I thought of the prayer circles we'd held to call him to us. I thought of how incredible it felt to have his arms grasping me in this street and I thought of how happy and fulfilled he's made my life already.
As soon as Amy and I were alone again in the car she said "So? Feel any different?"
"Nope." Truth is, I don't. I'm always this happy.
Makes ya wonder, no?
So, this morning, in trying to get two kids dressed and ready in time after a week and a half of learning to sleep late (7a), a still-sick wife hacking up a lung every time I talk to her showered, medicated, and ready, and a grandma's notorious logic which mandates her to emerge late after being called early to walk in the opposite direction of the car for a half block just to discard the three tissues she used this morning in a plastic "Have a nice day" bag due to a commitment of immediate use of a dumpster, even though she knows you're in a rush and asked her to meet you at the street specifically in the interest of time saving. The first time I even got a hand free to completely button my own shirt was after I'd stopped at the mailbox!
All that was subconscious over zealousness though which I only realized after going out to put more money in the one-hour-limited-meter and finding "Meter expired" parking ticket next to my clearly displayed 15-more-minutes-time-allotted-parking-tag, after waiting 45 minutes in a room with a window, a few chairs and cold radiator/awesome balance beam that my kids weren't allowed near according to the child expert/security guard busily reading his newspaper. (Apparently there may be something "pointy" my kid could get hurt on).
Finally, we were allowed in to sign some papers that took 4 1/2 years to gather, 2 1/2 minutes to complete, and Kody is now "mine" - in all states.
Walking briskly back to the car in fear of a random tow, I carried Kody in silence. He'd chosen me to carry him today and I was the hug recipient of his affections all morning. Lips pressed against his ear I had little to actually say. I thought of how heavy he'd gotten since those first glorious moments I'd held him in life. I thought of the night we made him. I thought of the prayer circles we'd held to call him to us. I thought of how incredible it felt to have his arms grasping me in this street and I thought of how happy and fulfilled he's made my life already.
As soon as Amy and I were alone again in the car she said "So? Feel any different?"
"Nope." Truth is, I don't. I'm always this happy.
Makes ya wonder, no?
Tuesday, April 15, 2014
So Many Questions
I got caught up in the moment.
It was the spontaneity of the whole thing. Here we were, shuffling through Toys R Us - me with a Fozzy Bear muppet on my hand, when my son spots a Kermit-the-Frog doll from another isle. He launches himself toward Kermit, Fozzy and I in tow, while I'm still trying to conjure up my best "Fozzy/Bert" laugh 'cause I'm out of rated G jokes to tell and I've already done the "Wonka Wonka..." thing way too many times.
They saw each other... Their eyes met... Two different worlds... One from the aisle themed the "Street" and the other from a "Muppet Show" extravaganza, ...yet we knew these two belonged together. Unable to think of any one thing to say to sum up the gravity of such a reunion, I guided Fozzy toward Kermit to do the most natural thing I could think of: I had Fozzy kiss Kermit hello.
"Mom, Fozzy's not a girl!"
Dumbstruck in a toy store by societal norms infiltrating my private oasis, a million thoughts reeled behind my eyes like a Vegas slot machine, but looking down at my innocent 4 year old, they somehow all stopped on 'What? They're puppets! It wasn't a French kiss!' - but I didn't even say that to him.
Amazing though! What are the odds? - justifying my worldview to a kid who's grown up in a home headed by two mommies. He learned to wave when he was 7 months old at Pride parade! How is his conception of the Heterosexist Machine being constructed under my regime? Where is the break in the ranks? Heads must roll for this - but who's? Surely there will be some moment of pause between now and his first gay bash!
But it alerted me. Something has changed in the past six months. My boys pour through the giant electric "car" asles. The 2 year old is slower, gingerly interacting with each vehicle from red Mini Cooper to Barbie's Dream car. The 4 year old muscles out the ones he's interested in. The aisle fills with Jeeps, police cars and fire trucks, dune buggies, and dark Corvettes. He's racing them, crashing them, and checking under their hoods with some kind of blank authority. We've had relatively new cars since he was born. I don't think he's ever seen me check the fluids.
When did he become so genderized? Why isn't that a word on my iPhone's spell check? Will life ever be free of such unpenetrable questions? Your advice and comments would be most appreciated. I'm just too busy right now dumbfoundly shaking my head.
It was the spontaneity of the whole thing. Here we were, shuffling through Toys R Us - me with a Fozzy Bear muppet on my hand, when my son spots a Kermit-the-Frog doll from another isle. He launches himself toward Kermit, Fozzy and I in tow, while I'm still trying to conjure up my best "Fozzy/Bert" laugh 'cause I'm out of rated G jokes to tell and I've already done the "Wonka Wonka..." thing way too many times.
They saw each other... Their eyes met... Two different worlds... One from the aisle themed the "Street" and the other from a "Muppet Show" extravaganza, ...yet we knew these two belonged together. Unable to think of any one thing to say to sum up the gravity of such a reunion, I guided Fozzy toward Kermit to do the most natural thing I could think of: I had Fozzy kiss Kermit hello.
"Mom, Fozzy's not a girl!"
Dumbstruck in a toy store by societal norms infiltrating my private oasis, a million thoughts reeled behind my eyes like a Vegas slot machine, but looking down at my innocent 4 year old, they somehow all stopped on 'What? They're puppets! It wasn't a French kiss!' - but I didn't even say that to him.
Amazing though! What are the odds? - justifying my worldview to a kid who's grown up in a home headed by two mommies. He learned to wave when he was 7 months old at Pride parade! How is his conception of the Heterosexist Machine being constructed under my regime? Where is the break in the ranks? Heads must roll for this - but who's? Surely there will be some moment of pause between now and his first gay bash!
But it alerted me. Something has changed in the past six months. My boys pour through the giant electric "car" asles. The 2 year old is slower, gingerly interacting with each vehicle from red Mini Cooper to Barbie's Dream car. The 4 year old muscles out the ones he's interested in. The aisle fills with Jeeps, police cars and fire trucks, dune buggies, and dark Corvettes. He's racing them, crashing them, and checking under their hoods with some kind of blank authority. We've had relatively new cars since he was born. I don't think he's ever seen me check the fluids.
When did he become so genderized? Why isn't that a word on my iPhone's spell check? Will life ever be free of such unpenetrable questions? Your advice and comments would be most appreciated. I'm just too busy right now dumbfoundly shaking my head.
Sunday, April 13, 2014
'Doption Smoption
How do I explain the significance of an adoption day date to my 4 year old? He's like "Yay!" - picking up on my enthusiasm (which quite honesty comes from the additional news that this whole thing somehow turned out to be free!) "What's 'doption'?"
"Uh...m" I stumble. "It means I'm definitely always gonna be your mom."
I don't even know why I'm saying what I'm saying while I'm saying it. He reacts as I should have expected: with a confused brow, a pause, a shrug and eventually a patronizing "Oh... Yay..."
It's not his shirk. It's just absurd. It's amazing just how absurd it really is! You can't fool a kid. They haven't been corrupted yet. He knows who his mom is. He knows who his Ema is. He knows his parents. He knows he doesn't have a "father." He does have a very nice uncle upstate who was kind and generous enough to help his lesbian niece and her wife have a baby biologically connected to both of them, but my son doesn't care nearly as much about exactly how that help occurred. He doesn't ask questions or make strange assumptions. He knows the truth. His parents made him. Where do babies come from? Babies come from mommies.
And I tell people and get these half/half kind of reactions. My friends and fellow lesbian moms are all happy because they understand the length of time we have had to wait for this (4.3 years) and the amount of energy it took to get. My straight "ostrich" family are flabbergasted that A - I haven't gotten it yet, or B - I even need it. And some of those "B" people are actually angry.
Our marriage wasn't legal when we started all this, and yet it's legal enough now to undo the necessity of this adoption - some places. There are judges turning down these adoptions because the parents were married at the time of birth. But there are 17 states where our marriage is legal, and 33 with specific laws meant to ban our specific marriages from being legal. We have to file together now federally, but lose the tax break an adoption affords.
I inseminated my wife, - I did. Nobody else was in that room with us, yet I'm a part of a huge culture of "other" mothers - mothers who straddle both roles (mom aka "dad") but always do so deliberately, despite all obstacles both natural and human-made.
There are no "accidents" here.
These children were fought for, dreamed up; these children were researched, justified, expensive; these children were family goals lines before they were ever conceived. These "moms" are amazing. My son is right. Shrug! Shirk!! Eye roll!!! Give me my paperwork and my picture of my family "legitimized" and keep your scare quotes forever. And know that I got it free despite all your efforts to break us! Why? It's so crazy it can only be 'cause of God. You can't mess with God. God is love not hate! Love is family not legality. Moms are moms! Duh. 'Doption Smoption! What eves. Lol
"Uh...m" I stumble. "It means I'm definitely always gonna be your mom."
I don't even know why I'm saying what I'm saying while I'm saying it. He reacts as I should have expected: with a confused brow, a pause, a shrug and eventually a patronizing "Oh... Yay..."
It's not his shirk. It's just absurd. It's amazing just how absurd it really is! You can't fool a kid. They haven't been corrupted yet. He knows who his mom is. He knows who his Ema is. He knows his parents. He knows he doesn't have a "father." He does have a very nice uncle upstate who was kind and generous enough to help his lesbian niece and her wife have a baby biologically connected to both of them, but my son doesn't care nearly as much about exactly how that help occurred. He doesn't ask questions or make strange assumptions. He knows the truth. His parents made him. Where do babies come from? Babies come from mommies.
And I tell people and get these half/half kind of reactions. My friends and fellow lesbian moms are all happy because they understand the length of time we have had to wait for this (4.3 years) and the amount of energy it took to get. My straight "ostrich" family are flabbergasted that A - I haven't gotten it yet, or B - I even need it. And some of those "B" people are actually angry.
Our marriage wasn't legal when we started all this, and yet it's legal enough now to undo the necessity of this adoption - some places. There are judges turning down these adoptions because the parents were married at the time of birth. But there are 17 states where our marriage is legal, and 33 with specific laws meant to ban our specific marriages from being legal. We have to file together now federally, but lose the tax break an adoption affords.
I inseminated my wife, - I did. Nobody else was in that room with us, yet I'm a part of a huge culture of "other" mothers - mothers who straddle both roles (mom aka "dad") but always do so deliberately, despite all obstacles both natural and human-made.
There are no "accidents" here.
These children were fought for, dreamed up; these children were researched, justified, expensive; these children were family goals lines before they were ever conceived. These "moms" are amazing. My son is right. Shrug! Shirk!! Eye roll!!! Give me my paperwork and my picture of my family "legitimized" and keep your scare quotes forever. And know that I got it free despite all your efforts to break us! Why? It's so crazy it can only be 'cause of God. You can't mess with God. God is love not hate! Love is family not legality. Moms are moms! Duh. 'Doption Smoption! What eves. Lol
Sunday, April 6, 2014
These Colors Don't Run
My favorite colors are: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and purple, because these colors don't run.
Recently I was warmed off and berated for my "obnoxious" bumper magnets (the ones that out me, my wife, and my poor innocent children.) This is my piece of that conversation that I delivered, but find my thoughts lingering on. It was a "kind" berating, palatable mainly by means of deliverer: a 70+ year old lesbian neighbor. Her and her partner have been together longer than my wife and I have been out of diapers. And she gave my children a light-up Santa Claus last Christmas.
I wouldn't have any of the joy in my life without that neighbor's experience and courage. It's only due to the generations before that we are able to enjoy all the freedoms and pride that now fill our hearts and days. Because of her we can announce our sexuality without having to shoulder the burden of it actually equaling a psychological diagnosis. Because of her I can choose not to marry some poor unassuming man and squelch my life living and loving solely in secret. Because of her, I can join in the fad of family represented stick figure stickers on the back of my minivan.
This woman is college-educated. She's not harping on her constitution's "right" to bear assault weapons or advocating for some "God" to change my "evil" ways. This woman knows love, is kind to strangers, and been out her whole life. She tells me this in an effort to save me or my kids. Maybe I don't know of all the hatred and violence and homophobia in this world?
I try to explain that in 15 years, my wife and I have driven much more "obnoxious" cars, toured much farther than Bayside, Queens, and received countless glove compartments and armrests full of grateful letters and testaments to our "courage" and "tenacity." I find myself trying to share the elation over a Honey Maid Graham Cracker Commercial circulating Facebook demonstrating ten times as many fan letters than hate mail at their brave wholesome same-sex interracial family representations. I try to remind her that violence gets sensationalized and Hate Crimes are severe for that reason. I try to share my generation's metaphorical cross to understand these complexities and sport our family stick figure stickers deliberately, defiantly, and with pride, for we live in the world that we make.
But even as I watch her justify her fears with obscure news stories coming from [cough] queer places where men are chopped up for smiling in some "wrong" way; I think of how I participate on advisory "boards" for LGBT sensitivities, and buy every perfect rainbow (and boycott every phobic almost rainbow... you know the ones who throw in an extra blue or green, pink or even omit purple just to make it not "gay"?) ...and even with all the good intentions eliciting my "expertise," I'm told with a smile that a rainbow flag might "offend" some and "invite" backlash, and I tread lightly, hyper-aware of the fact that the idea of unsexing daily announcements may very well earn me the label of too "difficult," "hostile," and "antagonistic" to "please." I walk a fine line every day of not revealing too much to the wrong person, or hiding too much and inadvertently teaching my children to participate in the creation of a world where their happiness must be diluted to make room for another's fears, insecurities, and, - more often that not - very similar but unknown inclinations.
I think about these things and then I remember, this makes me proud. This challenges my intellect. This colors my life. These colors don't run.
We don't run. We're here. We're queer, and we're sporting our stick family stickers! And, we love you. And we love us. And that's my peace.
Recently I was warmed off and berated for my "obnoxious" bumper magnets (the ones that out me, my wife, and my poor innocent children.) This is my piece of that conversation that I delivered, but find my thoughts lingering on. It was a "kind" berating, palatable mainly by means of deliverer: a 70+ year old lesbian neighbor. Her and her partner have been together longer than my wife and I have been out of diapers. And she gave my children a light-up Santa Claus last Christmas.
I wouldn't have any of the joy in my life without that neighbor's experience and courage. It's only due to the generations before that we are able to enjoy all the freedoms and pride that now fill our hearts and days. Because of her we can announce our sexuality without having to shoulder the burden of it actually equaling a psychological diagnosis. Because of her I can choose not to marry some poor unassuming man and squelch my life living and loving solely in secret. Because of her, I can join in the fad of family represented stick figure stickers on the back of my minivan.
This woman is college-educated. She's not harping on her constitution's "right" to bear assault weapons or advocating for some "God" to change my "evil" ways. This woman knows love, is kind to strangers, and been out her whole life. She tells me this in an effort to save me or my kids. Maybe I don't know of all the hatred and violence and homophobia in this world?
I try to explain that in 15 years, my wife and I have driven much more "obnoxious" cars, toured much farther than Bayside, Queens, and received countless glove compartments and armrests full of grateful letters and testaments to our "courage" and "tenacity." I find myself trying to share the elation over a Honey Maid Graham Cracker Commercial circulating Facebook demonstrating ten times as many fan letters than hate mail at their brave wholesome same-sex interracial family representations. I try to remind her that violence gets sensationalized and Hate Crimes are severe for that reason. I try to share my generation's metaphorical cross to understand these complexities and sport our family stick figure stickers deliberately, defiantly, and with pride, for we live in the world that we make.
But even as I watch her justify her fears with obscure news stories coming from [cough] queer places where men are chopped up for smiling in some "wrong" way; I think of how I participate on advisory "boards" for LGBT sensitivities, and buy every perfect rainbow (and boycott every phobic almost rainbow... you know the ones who throw in an extra blue or green, pink or even omit purple just to make it not "gay"?) ...and even with all the good intentions eliciting my "expertise," I'm told with a smile that a rainbow flag might "offend" some and "invite" backlash, and I tread lightly, hyper-aware of the fact that the idea of unsexing daily announcements may very well earn me the label of too "difficult," "hostile," and "antagonistic" to "please." I walk a fine line every day of not revealing too much to the wrong person, or hiding too much and inadvertently teaching my children to participate in the creation of a world where their happiness must be diluted to make room for another's fears, insecurities, and, - more often that not - very similar but unknown inclinations.
I think about these things and then I remember, this makes me proud. This challenges my intellect. This colors my life. These colors don't run.
We don't run. We're here. We're queer, and we're sporting our stick family stickers! And, we love you. And we love us. And that's my peace.
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