Really Great Parenting (Not)

Usually we are positively enthusiastic and attentive parents.  But after an entire summer, and now the Jewish holidays, even the best parents get tired.  This morning was the first time in a while we lay in bed with the pillows over our heads.  I looked at Amy and got up fixing them food before heading out to the store.
   "I'm out.  Don't worry.  TVs on but low so they're bound to be distracted from this ridiculously loud pretend play soon."
   She thanks me profusely.  I do my errands and return.
   Rummaging through the kid's backpacks to get ready for the coming week, I found they there was a little bit of homework that never got finished.  Calling them from the TV and the pretend play that spanned the length of the apartment proved to be lengthy, especially since I'm tired and scarcely care.  Amy, up now and energized, comes in laughing about how their hiding in their room as to not do homework.
   Maybe we should not be letting them get away with this, I suggest.
   "Are you kidding?  This is the quietest they've been all morning!  We should have broke out the homework on Friday!"

Lessons from a Teacher

Maybe I'm getting old but it's dawning on me that there are experts out there at my age who are contributing to the welfare of humanity, and all I do for my degrees, my debt, rented home and shaky finances, is teach in the South Bronx.  However, I've picked up a few truths in my years I know would fix us all if everyone truly understood them, so I'll share.

Being a teacher I've learned and internalized:

We are all born with the odds stacked against us.  Appreciate this.

All attempts to veil reality from children fail.

When someone does something for attention, the best thing you can do is give it to them.

We all need different things to learn.  Children won't take more than they need.

You can try to teach anything you want but the only thing that will ever be learned, is truth.

Everyone wants to please if they know how.

Learning happens within a zone that is naturally wide but narrow on demand.  Control of those parameters is an art, a science, a team effort, a dance, and a calling.

That zone requires summers off.

No answer neglects a question.

You only get angry at others for what you're guilty of yourself.

Love really is the answer.

Being gay didn't make me as good as straight parents.

Twists and turns either knock you down, or build character.  

   I have an uncle who told me once that he "didn't mind" my being gay as long as I never birthed my own children.  He wasn't particularly religious but expressed a kind of scientific dogma that was new at least to my experience.  He knew and accepted that 10% of most given populations (human or animal) are gay.  What he derived from this however, was that to him "gayness" could be explained as a natural form of population control.  He felt that 90% of any given population must "naturally" be charged with the burdens of sustaining that population, mainly reproduction, while this elite 10% can focus their energies on what the rest are too tired to accomplish.  In his mind, my sexuality was "ok" by him provided I either abstained from having a family, or did so only through some means of adoption.  This way I was either adhering to "Nature's wishes" by focusing on some kind of furthering of my species (professionally I guess), or caring for "another's" child to relieve them from the burden of having to do so.

   If it makes anybody feel any better about the vehicles and personality of "Nature," it might amuse you as much as it did me to know his daughter came out as gender fluid to me just a few years after his assertions.

   Regardless of all this unsolicited speculation, it's true that study after study exlpores the success of same sex parented families.  We are often put under a microscope and held accountable in every possible way.

   I find it absurd now in hindsight that anybody ever uttered the words "gay parents can be just as good as straight parents."  I find it absurd because I now know that being gay didn't make me "as good as" straight parents.  Being gay made me an exceptional parent.  Not only that, but being gay made my wife an exceptional parent.  It made my friends exceptional parents, even when they divorce!  And ultimately, it made our children, our schools, our communities, our whole planet and future - so much more exceptional.

   I remember the peculiar hurt and anger I felt at this uncle.  My mother died young and I have no biological siblings.  The thought of someone telling me I couldn't - or shouldn't - ever make a child based on some obligation to ...nothingness was just too difficult to internalize.

   But such is the nature of our political existence these days.  Even as study after study shows that kids of same sex couples grow up loved and supported by two people who at this point in our evolution fought hard internally and often externally to be together, only to then often even have to fight harder to have a family.  They show these kids start off awesome, well provided for, and looked after generally by grateful, enthusiastic, attentive parents who definitively planned to have them and raise them.  By mid-elementary school studies show they sometimes begin to report being teased in some way by their peers due to their same sex family and many at this point face that choice between authenticity or a kind of clandestine existence.  No matter what they choose by high school they are more aware, more confident and more adventurous, and yes, they are often more sexually adventurous, meaning these kids don't stay in any closet long.  They are who they are often faster than even any of us pioneers.  Overall all of them wind up just as often straight as gay - meaning "gay" parents don't have "gay" kids any more than straight parents do.  But our kids know what it is to be different, and they deal with it sooner rather than later.  But they also do so knowing they are wanted and loved unconditionally by their community the whole time.  Love is what defines this culture and community.  There is no other cutlure like ours.

   That's the difference here.  I started off life wanting to be a preacher and wound up rounding life's twists and turns until I find myself with a same sex family.  That road has afforded me with a lot of sympathies and perspective shifts I can now handle with ease.  I'm well practiced now at being loyal and religious, scientific and dogmatic, happy and sad, and different and ok with that.

   When it turned out one of my children was on the autism spectrum, I understood that I'd been thrust back in to another more complicated kind of closet.  Here I was with a kid who could easily "pass," but also with a unique understanding of the rewards that come from valuing honesty and support and how much they outweigh the burdens.  I also knew the pitfalls and impositions of a stranger's fear and the insecurities that make one vulnerable to them.  And throughout all of it I also now have to navigate this process while shouldering a responsibility to a future adult of whom I was actually busy helping to shape.

   It makes your head spin!  And as another of my children is deciding between his/her gender identity, I'm providing the safety and support with which to explore this territory.  My kids will have every opportunity available to support their happiness first, and couldn't have been born into a better family situation to do so.

   Because in a nutshell, I rock.  My wife rocks.  My kids? - totally rock!  Who was the first first grade comedic hit at the school talent show?  My Kody!  Who learned to read at 3, play Chess at four, and practices 2nd grade math (in Kindergarden) almost every night after working on learning a second language?  My Niky!  Who lives by the mottos "Do no harm" and "Always make new mistakes?"  MY kids!  And who is prouder than proud to have created, sustained, encouraged, and believed in this family?  ME!  Being gay made me a exceptional parent!  There's nothing equal about us. 

My Son's Coming Out

My son just came out of his closet the other day.  It's funny how we joke about this; my friends and I all being mostly 2, 3, 4 mom- headed families.  We all had our different coming out stories.  But now, being in the parental roles, it's just as strange to navigate.

   We were on a playground when a friend of mine mentioned how galant my Kody was to her daughter back on the slide,  taking her daughters hand and helping her and her friend off gently.  Later, alone with my boy, I expressed how proud I was and how his gentlemanly reputation had reached me.  He asked what I meant, and when I explained, he got very serious.  "Mom, I have to tell you something."

   I recognized the severe tone, but not from experience with him.  "What's up Bud?"

   "I like girls."

   I laughed.

   "No Ma, really.  I'm serious.  I know I want to marry a girl."  

   We're always so quick to include "wife or husband" or "husband or wife" whenever referring to anyone's future marriage plans.  I told him not to worry about who he wants to marry right now, and to just be nice to everyone.  "Just because you like and want to marry a girl doesn't mean you only be nice to girls.  I want you to help boys too if they need it."

   He scrunched up his nose.  "Help boys?"

   I felt my defenses go up.  "Yes help boys.  What's wrong with helping boys?  I want you to be nice to everyone no matter who they are or who they love."

   Five minutes after telling all the girls my son's coming out story, I hear a familiar "Mooom!!!" coming from the slide.  My son's head pops up from behind another couple boys.  "Mom!  I helped a boy!"
   I love this kid.

   

One Nice Thing

You were the one nice thing in my story.

The day we met, I knew

The day we kissed,  I loved you.

I told it all to you

My whole story sad and true

And let you take or leave me.

You took me.

I took you.

Our love started so high above any other couple I ever even heard about.

Both parents divorced

No couples remaining...

And we kept it up.

One nice thing about you

Is that part is easy.

But when things are easy 

They get taken for granted

And sometimes ...you take me for granted

And I can't remember the last time I wrote you a love poem.

Sometimes I blame you

Couples often blame each other for the lives they lead.  I see that in the other's pitfalls.

I blame you though because it IS you

You, my partner, my spouse, my wife, my life

You hold the keys to my happiness in a way I never would have forgiven before

When I gave you me.

When I took you.

And more importantly you hold the keys to the happiness of my happiness.

We built this life from fun and love and laughter into kids having fun, being loved, and laughing

But they're not laughing at you or me

It's we.

It's us that surround them with all we got every day
all day

Not five days a week or the weekend.

And I blame you because this is not a nice part of this story.

People don't actually take each other.  They corcle each other.  They trap each other!

We kept this up.

This dance.  This undulation.  This ...

...And then you say 

            one. 

            nice. 

            thing.

And I feel the heat of your hand on the small of my back

And all I can feel again is love.

Thoughts on Orlando, Four Fears, and the Creation of Fire.

I'm so conflicted.  Everyone and their mother is writing about this usually purporting that "words cannot express"...  

I'm devastated.  I wasn't there.  I didn't know anyone, and I'm appalled quite frankly still over Sandy Hook.  As a mother I feel assaulted every time someone's innocent son or daughter is wasted in the powerfully petty smallness of this hyper-masculine bravado.  But as a queer mother, this brings me back...

   I was first coming out and I was insanely in love with my (now former) best friend.  I was flirting but reluctant to pursue a real relationship with another girl I knew personally who was purportedly bi but just as scared as me.  So I was eager to go out with the girl who worked in the deli around the corner.  She was older, Latino, and very, very comfortable with this sexuality I was only newly aware I shared.

   She took me to see Schindler's List (How's that for a first date culture shock!)  A bar called Reflections and then a nightclub named Hatfield's on Queen's Blvd.  

   Hatfield's was a little hole-in-the-wall kind of place, probably very similar to Pulse,  and after a few body shots of tequila, and very close dance where she began grinding against me on the dance floor, I was weakened, ecstatic, completely turned on for the first time in my life, and terrified with my head between my own legs in the bathroom.

   I do not know if I can explain all the fears.
#1 I was completely turned on.  I had been dating for years almost nonstop fooling around with guys I was not really into (looking for connection).  I always had control over how far I'd go.  But if this girl wasn't such an adult I'd have done anything.

#2 I was convinced the police would be at the door any moment to arrest us all, although I wasn't exactly sure on what charge.  This was the early 90's.  I mean I don't know why I thought that but I did.

#3 I was hyper-aware that I was in a condensed space with a vast amount of sexual "deviants" and I was terrified some religious fanatic would burst through those doors any second and do exactly what they did Sunday night in Orlando. 

#4 And I was convinced that if they did and I died, I'd go straight to hell.

   Earlier that evening I'd met a girl in the first bar as my date went to the bathroom.  That girl wanted to come out to her parents, and was worried about how they'd respond.  I was instantly connected.  I'd told my father already that I was questioning my sexuality, and he'd responded with love and concern that I'd lead a more difficult life.  As my date returned the other girl withdrew, but it spurred conversation about my own hesitance.  I turned to my date, my mentor and asked if she was worried about God's retribution, and though she believed in God  she responded that she was not worried because "God loves everybody."

   I was not convinced.
   The God I'd grown up with had boundaries.  The good I knew drew lines.  And the naivety I percieved from my first lesbian mentor actually made me shake my head.  Obviously, she was too far gone - too emmersed in this sinful life to see the light.

   Instead, I soon found myself drunk, spinning and huddled, head between my knees in a tiny bathroom, worried about fire - this new fire in my groin, the hot fire on my throat (tequila), and the fire I feared from the world, and from God.

   It's taken years to comprehend what my date said to me that night.  It took years to forgive her, years to forgive myself, and years to forgive my love.       

   Now it's time to forgive the world.

   This man was an extremist.  He was a homosexual.  He was born in America, raised in a religion that didn't accept him.  (I know the feeling).  He tried to marry, tried to date, and failed at both.  But he was able to go out and successfully buy a weapon that allowed him to shoot rounds and rounds of bullets at people without even having to aim.  He was assisted by so many creators of this world.  Assisted at amplifying his hate, not his love.

   I've been so lucky.  Lucky to have my every dream come true.  I have a beautiful wife, and two beautiful children who are the sweetest, most empathetic young men I've ever known.  But they didn't come out of a box like that!  It took - it takes - a lot of love, attention, and as much control over the environment as my wife and I can create.

   But I was lucky to be accepted at least at first at home.  I was lucky to fall in love with a woman courageous enough to love me back.  And I was lucky to really feel God's blessings at the exact moments when I needed them the most.

   See, we create the world we live in.  And we affect those around us who create here too.  There is no difference between Islam, or Christianity.  There is no difference between blaming Jews, or women, or blacks, or Latinos, or Muslims, or queers, or white men.  We are all individuals, charged with living or dying together whether we like it or not.  We cannot avoid being part of some group.  But we can help supply and sustain the love or the hate, the confusion, or fear together.  No ethical person believes any good comes from the availability of these ridiculous guns for the hyper terrified insecure.  No armed civilian was there in Florida that night to protect these hundreds of people.  No argument against vigilant, disciplined peaceful people like Barrack Obama makes any sense.  Think about all the labels you perpetuate, and all the evil perpetrated by other individuals in those groups.  Do they deserve to be ousted?  Do they deserve to be unloved?   Hated even?  Due to crimes committed by other people who's lives you know little-to-nothing about?

"Hatfield's" long ago closed down, but I frequented that place long beyond that date with my deli counterperson.  I learned to face my fears and celebrate love with my equally brave societal rejects.  But I remember the fear, self-hate, disgust and homophobia.  I remember quitting high school because I was made to dance with a girl I perceived queerness from in gym class.   I remember the pain, and fury of the rejection of my best friend and first love.  I remember the general rejection, the lack of empathy.  I remember complete loneliness.  That place was dark, hot, excruciating.  It was hell.  But it's a place I'm now proud to say that I've been, and returned from.  And I would never put anybody else there, willingly.

   That alone will help.  Please, please join me.  Don't give in to hate, or fear.  Love.  Pray.  Forgive.

Me and Amy

   My wife and I are awesome.  We followed all the rules:  We met and had an instant meeting of the minds, we were friend's first, we valued honesty, we cultivated communication and trust while inspiring growth and adventure.  We're together now almost twenty years with two beautiful, well behaved, intelligent, interesting young children.  But, like life, it's always an adventure.

   We met while I was in a relationship with a straight girl.  I had no interest in putting up any guard.  Two years later, Amy bought me a skydiving gift certificate.  That day I left more than just a plane at 4000 feet behind.  I left my old self, the one that thought I deserved a relationship I wasn't number 1 in.  Of course being number 1 only lasted so long.

   The day my son was born was by far the best of my life.  It was incredible in large part because she birthed him.  And in addition because it took us over 4 years to conceive.  My favorite uncle, the donor, helped me defy nature by genetically connecting me to my fiancé's baby.  And we, determined to realize this dream together, proceeded to drive 3-4 hours south from the Canadian border when we were in college, and north from the city when we came home, every month or so often in the middle of the week our first few years as teachers.  Between calculating ovulation, correlating with a 55+ man's sexual readiness, and my astrological preferences (I really wanted only certain signs) it took us 4+ years.  But the minute I saw his beautiful face, heard the crackly sweetness of his beautiful first cry, and comforted him into his first quiet skin to skin snuggle - I knew it was all worth it!  I was happy and ready to embark on this next new adventure.

   But the next day we were greeted by the hospital photographer.  "He's a lucky boy to have two moms like me" she said.  At first I thought she was mocking us.  But she went on to us very interested new mothers about how she was raised by two moms, and she felt like the luckiest kid in the world.  All the while she's talking I'm marveling at the strong bonds between women are and how natural a lifelong commitment must be to us as a community.  That's when she drops the bombshell.

   "So how long have your moms now been together?"

   "Oh they're broken up now."

   "Broken up?!"  My wife and I look on her in horror.  Divorce?  Two women divorced??

   "Yeah.  All their friend's are too.  Lesbian couples all break up after menopause."

   And now, 18 years and 2 kids later, on the precipice of the big "M" we live in daily fear of this impending doom looming over our lives.  We've learned to tone down the fights.  We've learn to accept the worst in each other.  And we've learned that much of what breaks other couples up is the rolling momentum of life's potent stress.  I love my wife, but I've fantasized.  And my wife loves me, but she's hated me too.  The best advice I can give to any couple looking to make it this long, is to never rule out the possibility of breaking up.  Amy and I grew up knowing nothing is forever and that is true of marriages as well.  We're not the same couple we used to be and we're not the same as we'll end up.  The trick has something to do with always growing and evolving - hopefully in the same direction.

Little Red Writing Hood

Sometimes I feel a guilty.

We are invariably coming home Friday night, too tired to clean, too tired to ...anything.  This, however, is a time when all of us - even the four year old - each have our own devices.  You start to bear the burden of your choices.  Nobody has to watch or do anything they are not completely into.  Little by little one device gets a little too loud, a little too distracting, so that it doesn't seem like such a stretch to retreat into another room for what turns out to be the rest of the evening.  

Saturdays are usually so chocked full of birthday parties, visits, appointments, etc.  Sundays are pervaded buy the looming Monday and the weight of the rest of the week's long wait for Friday again.

This one was different.  The fatigue of the week didn't dissopate with Friday's sleep.  It hung over Saturday morning and hit us so hard it squashed all plans and kept us home in our individual worlds long enough until we finally were able to emerge from them.  

The kids fell asleep early, and the moms stayed up late.
This Sunday morning, I got to sleep in because Kody, my oldest, was designing a play.  It was a unique adaptation of Little Red Riding Hood.  Kody assigned the characters, handled the issues when Niky, the youngest, did not want to be the Big Bad Wolf, wrote the scripts (for Little Red Writing Hood), designed the costumes, brought in the auduence, and directed the play.  Before we knew it we were all laughing and loving our story right along with our chosen stuffed animals as Grandma came out of the closet and slayed the Big Bad Wolf herself!  We howled in unison and bowed together for our (imaginary) standing ovation and paid special homage to Takoda, the writer, director, costume designer and producer of our production, and stearer of us all back to the path.