Part 2 Chapter 3

* Writers note: I beg your pardon as of late. I am feeling, as you may be able to sense, a bit scattered lately and have a lot on my brain to ponder. As a result, the writing is not as focused as I would like. I hope you are enjoying nonetheless

Adjusting to a new life, a new neighborhood and life without my mother was not without it’s challenges. In retrospect my life had just become a lot better and my mother had done one of the most selfless acts one could imagine; she had given me up from her life so that I could have a chance at a  life. Now that I was in California I was also away from the loving support of both my mother’s and my father’s family. I no longer had my Aunt Nita to protect me or my cousins as playmates. My cousin Lea was no longer around to tell me what I should like and not like. I felt lost. Not only did I feel that isolation but I felt my dad’s isolation. When my dad left Washington he left behind a group of friends who no longer accepted him and family who would talk around him (didn’t want to speak on the whole gay thing). My mom in her rage over his departure spoke frequently to the people who had loved him over his unpopular decision to be true to his soul. I was not immune from this discussion.

My dad had located a daycare for me. It was conveniently up the hill from the elementary school I would eventually attend and this daycare had A LOT of kids running around. Jackie’s must have seen like the perfect place for a dad who was trying to give his little girl some kids to play with while also attempting not to draw too much attention to himself from the other parents. This place had constant activity. Jackie had 3 children of her own (one girl and 2 boys), a large front and back yard, plenty of toys and she loved to cook. She turned her 2 son’s bedroom into a nap room that had a built in divider so the boys were able to keep their own space. Only the select few were allowed to enter into the domain of Alan and Matt’s bedroom/Star Wars collectible enterprise. The daycare kids ranged from ages 6 months old to 11 years old. I would say Jackie was doing quite well for herself given she had no permit to run a daycare and believed in punishing her daycare kids in the same manner she punished her own children: screaming and slapping.

It was at this daycare I would meet my oldest friend, my first big crush/heart ache and feel I was a part of something even though I was constantly on the fringe of it. Allegra was about 4 months older than me and at a time in a child’s life where age ranks supreme this was a big deal. It was actually our first conversation and both of still speak of this meeting with great affection. It went something like this: How old are you? I’m 3. How old are you? I’m 3 too. Well, when is your birthday? June. When is yours? February? Which one comes first? I don’t know. Maybe we should wait to see whose birthday comes next and then that person will be older. Ok. Let’s go play on the big wheels. Yeah.

Of course by the time Allegra turned 4 she had already established herself as the leader of the daycare. This girl was tough. She refused to wear pants. She could outplay the boys in any sport. And, she spoke her mind all of the time. No joke, ALL of the time. If you were 5 years older than her, it did not matter. Allegra would tell you what’s what. She had me in constant trouble with Jackie. Here was me a shy, timid and scared of everyone 3 year old who had just befriended a strong willed child who was determined to exhaust her energy daily. Allegra ran everywhere and usually had a soccer ball or baseball with her. Tha girl had energy! She also got me in good with Alan and Matt so that I was allowed to touch (not play) with the Star War’s figures which was as good as hitting the lotto for the time. She was the first friend I looked up to and wanted to do everything she did. Our friendship has spanned 30 plus years and because we are girls has had its ups and downs.

One activity that used to get us into a lot of trouble was making water balloons out of plastic bags left at the school. We would fill them up, locate a twisty tie on the ground (this was before ziplock), shut them off at the top and proceed to throw them at an unsuspecting fellow daycare child patrons. You would then hear from what seemed like miles away “Allegra and friends!!! Get back up here NOW!!!!” Our stomachs would drop. We would ponder our options and then wonder how the heck she knew what we were up to. Deciding between a timeout in the kitchen if we came up now or a red rear end if we came up later, we opted to trek back up the hill (a very very very steep hill) and face the music. Allegra always received the more severe punishment: time out in the kitchen in which she would obstinately kill ants on the kitchen floor with her thumb. I usually was given some sort of verbal scare and sent to another room away from her which was punishment enough.

An event that stands out at Jackie’s, although I could write a book just on my experiences there alone, was when Allegra decided it would be a great idea to use a new word she had overheard the night before. She not only utilized this word in perfect context but directed it Jackie’s punishment towards her. We were undoubtedly doing something we knew we should not be (card board sliding down the hill, hitting up the janitors down at the school for milk boxes, throwing tan bark at birds, Allegra attempting to teach me how to swing on the monkey bars which inevitably ended in me on my rear end) and Jackie was providing her schpeel on why we were such terrible children. Allegra with full confidence looked at Jackie and said “This is BULLSHIT!” I do believe every child in ear shot dropped their jaw in full disbelief. All of us kids took our medicine and did not dare talk back to Jackie. All of us. We were terrified of Jackie and her wooden spoons placing warschock designs on our behinds. Allegra let the gaffe of all gaffe loose! Jackie looked at her. She looked at us. She looked back at Allegra. She smacked Allegra right on the cheek. And ya know what? Allegra did not cry. Talk about the ultimate middle finger right back at cha! The next thing I recall is watching Allegra’s mother hear of the events as they were told by Jackie and then watch Jackie cower to Allegra’s mother. The tongue lashing was unforgettable and I was forever frightened of pissing off Allegra’s mother from that point on.

To Be Continued………

This is what family looks like

Happiness is a little girl loved by her two daddys

A very happy father’s day to all of the daddy’s out there. I am blessed with two father’s who continue to love and support me as I do them. Which is all that matters to a child…do their parents love and cherish this child? Will they do everything in their power to protect their child? Gay parents, straight parents, adopted parents, transgendered parents, lesbian parents, bi-sexual parents and plain ol parents all feel the same way. Yes they will and do.

So a special HAPPY FATHER’S DAY to my two wonderfully loving dad’s who continue to guide me through the best and worst of times! I love you!!!

My Mom the explanation

My mother was a wonderfully flawed human being much like all of us. She was a contradiction and a mystery to me. She loved me but she abandoned me. She missed me but she was always in trouble. She was brutally honest at times and yet she lied incessantly. She must have been thankful to me dad providing a good life for me and yet she seemed to hate him. My mother was someone I did not really know and yet I did. Most of my family and her friends knew here more intimately than I did and yet I was someone she seemed to treasure. 

I don’t claim to understand her and I can only speak of what has been relayed to me. I hear these stories and I am able to weave them into an understanding of the person she allowed me to see through inconsistent phone calls. My mother was one of six children. She was no doubt a middle child seeking attention but she seemed to have a knack for obtaining this attention. She was outgoing, made friends easily and certainly beloved by most who met her. She was undoubtably very close and very dependent on her siblings. The photos I have her from when she was a child show her happy, gregarious and innocent. I see myself in her through these photos. She never did explain her family to me. She seemed to always want me for herself. There was never an effort for me to know my aunts, uncles and cousins – when she called me she only wanted to talk about the present and she never wanted to discuss anything but how much she loved and missed me. Because I was so young and so shy and so afraid of adults, I never challenged her on this until I was older and had found my voice. 

My mom never tell the tale of how she lost her parents and the effect this had on her and her siblings. Her mother and father died within a short period of time of each other. A family grieving wondering what to do with six kids shipped them all off to different family members. My mother was separated from her siblings not just by a few houses or towns, but by many miles and states. She was brought to Texas to live with a more religious family; this was not a life she was accustomed to. My mother the outgoing showman…the one who put on plays for the neighborhood, the one who would later get up on stage with Chuck Berry and dance, the gymnast, the singer, the artist, the writer, the joker and the one who would destroy herself through substance abuse because she could not tolerate the pain of remembering. My mother was taken from everything she knew but at least someone was willing and had the means to raise her. 

I know almost nothing about the Texas family except that she disliked the restrictions and ran to them when times got tough. I know that she never described her time there as happy, but I imagine this had more to do with grieving her parents and needing her siblings to grieve with rather than being unloved. It must have been earth shattering for her not to have anyone she depended on near her during this time and numbing to be away from anything familiar. This would have been a formative time for her. Puberty was just around the corner, it is a time when children start to separate from their parents emotionally and children begin to see highlights of who they will be as an adult. My mother was wounded and had no remedy for the pain. 

She journaled to me while she was pregnant and through my first 2 years of life. She wrote about her joy of being a mother, her depression, her worries of being a new mother, how much I stimulated and amazed her, I can see flecks of anger about my dad in her writing, I can hear her smile when she was writing and mostly she wrote about how much she loved me. In these letters, she seemed genuinely happy. It is in these letters I am assured of a mothers love and I am able to forget her flaws. I was someone who would always be hers. I would always be her daughter. I can remember her happiness when she was playing soft ball with her red glove. That smile would find me every time I needed it. I am able to remember my antics as a young free child that would infuriate her at the moment but send her into hysterics as she would relive the story. In my mother’s eyes, I could do no wrong. Not even when I eventually rejected her. 

My dad, however, would not always be hers to own and control. They had an arrangement that became disagreeable to both of them. She had, as I explained, always been adept at getting attention and the manner in which she attempted this with my dad is not something he has ever forgiven her for and I imagine she never forgave herself either. When she was most angry at my dad he would ignore her. She just wanted to have safety and security in this relationship and my dad was not able to provide this to her. This only turned her anger into a seething fury;  she knew the one thing that would get him to engage in a battle with her was if she upset me; hurt me. And so she did. And I remember the fear even though I have tried to forget. And I remember their fights: physical, emotional and a loudness that could silence a screaming stadium.

Eventually my dad left and eventually my mom discovered substances that would soothe her for longer periods of time. She was agreeable to letting my dad take me and saw no reason to fight it because she believed it would be temporary. It was not. I had a stable home and a mostly stable home life. My mother was thankful for it and insanely jealous of it. Her drug induced telephone calls to me were a stranger. She was scattered, cruel at times, inflicted guilt, babbling and needing reassurance that her daughter loved her. I was scared of her when she called and she was high. My dad not wanting to disrupt her relationship with me allowed these calls. He explained to me that he did not want to protect me from my mother. She was who she was and I needed to love her for all of her and not just one side. No one is single faceted and there were good times with her. He always said it was up to me to dictate my relationships with my family. I actually preferred when she was in jail because she was sober and I could follow her train of thought. She was funny, loving, sad at times and wanting to see me. But, she only came once when I was 5 years old. The next time I would see her it just be the shell of her body she left behind. 

My mother is an easy target to be angry at, but this is not all of who she was. This was mostly who she let me see and I see her through a child’s eyes that were trying to make sense of her life and surroundings. I stopped contact with her when I was about 12 years old. She was too far gone and too angry when she was calling. I had found my voice at this age and I started using it. I was also very angry, very hurt and confused with our relationship. I was scared of her coming to visit me and yet I could not understand what kept her from me. I asked her not to call anymore until she got sober. To my amazement she stopped heroin for sometime, we reconnected but unfortunately alcohol became her new demon friend. For my own mental health I could no longer entertain a relationship with her. Her family tried many times to help her, but she was sick and she was hurt. I believe my mother suffered from a debilitating form of depression and this was what she eventually succumbed to. 

I believe any of us could take successful aim at our parents, but what we fail to see is the love they have provided to us in their attempts to be good parents and good people. Our parents want us to see them as good people. They want to be our heros, our teachers and our role models. My mother selflessly gave up her daughter because she knew she could not provide a better life than what was being offered. She let me go so I could succeed. If that is not complete evidence of a mother’s love, I do not know what is. 

So as you read this story, I ask you to look at a few things: first and foremost the names have been changed and some of the details altered to protect those I love; there are no villains in this story (except for my 4th grade teacher); and this story is both my catharsis and my joy. I love all 3 of my parents and I am a better person for all of them.

Gay Life…the first memory

One of my first memories is when my mom and my dad were together. I was about 2 years old and we lived in the same apartment complex as my mom’s youngest sister, aka my babysitter. I remember that my dad hung out at his friend’s place a lot where interestingly enough there were only men around. This was my first clue that my dad was gay. He would take me every now and then. I remember enjoying this apartment because they all treated me like little doll. They enjoyed holding me and catering to my requests. I was, after all, a Princess in Training. I was a tiny blue eyed blonde object of affection for all of his friends. I could not get enough of them and their cooing. They bought me toys and books for my visits. My uncles took care of me. They read to me, they cradled me in the blanket my grandmother knitted for me and they would talk to me as if I was the most important person in the world. The best part of it was that I was near my dad. 

Anywho, one of my very first memories is my mom and my dad getting into an argument. I remember they were yelling at each other, I was scared with the screaming and then the worst thing that could have happened occurred…my dad left. I ran after him. He was walking quickly and all I could see, being as that I was vertically challenged at the time, were his red stitched leather ankle boots and his jeans swaying around them. I tried to follow him past the pool and to his friends house, but I kept falling. The pathway had a slight incline and for reasons I cannot remember I had an inner-tube around my waste that I was desperate not to lose. I finally relented to the ground and started to cry. I cried the abandonment cry; ya know the one where you hyperventilate? Through my stinging tears I saw what I had hoped for. My legs stopped their brisk walk, turned around and great big hands scooped me up. He pulled my head to his neck and whispered “Honey, I didn’t know you were behind me.” Everything was instantly better. 

A year later my dad left my mom. Their arrangement no longer worked for him and her acceptance of who he was waned. My dad was my world; daddy’s girl does not quite describe it. I worshipped him and was addicted to his love. He visited me after he left but not as often as I wanted. I was only 3 years old and the world I had known was constantly changing. Actually, I don’t think it had ever been stable. My dad was gay. My mom knew this but in her desperation for love and consistency, she was willing to accept anything and any circumstances. I was not planned, but I was planned manipulation. This was not the first time my dad had left her. She had seduced him one night after what he thought was his final departure and I was the result. My dad was not surprised at the news because this had been resolved before, but this was the first time she had said she was keeping the baby. My dad’s reaction was a shock to her; he was elated. I often wonder what she had hoped for, but in truth it is painful to ponder. They were back together, my mom was happy and my dad was excited about becoming a father. Life was tolerable for them after I was born. I was their glue; the only thing they seemed to have left in common. My dad was in complete wonderment of me, but my mom was jealous of his attention. Oh she adored me…there is no doubt of that. Her affection was infectious and she never held back on telling me how much she loved me. My family says it was the happiest time in her life and her journal reflects this. My dad, however, became more distant and my mom resorted to drugs to soothe her pain. He would no longer give into her requests and attempted seduction. After 2 years of this game, my dad had met someone he could not stay away from. The problem was that this man lived in California and I lived in Washington. My dad decided he could visit and moved to California to follow his heart. He did not think my mom could handle if he took me from her. 

To be continued……..

Gay Parents….this one is for you

To My “Family” ….(“family” is gay speak for in the gay family). I recently received a request to share my information with another gay family. This is not my first request and I am always happy to discuss my experiences with other gay families.

So, what is it like to grow up in a gay family? Again, this is just a tidbit. I would say that growing up in a gay fam nowadays, probably pretty fabulous. You have 2 parents that soooooo want these little bundles of terror/joy and who will provide a very unique perspective of the world for these kids. My experience has been that gay parents teach a unique level of acceptance towards the world and a unique understanding of how wonderful and rough life can be. It is truly something to be proud of and I am proud to be a part of this community. 

But, what you ask, was it like for me? Home was loving and secure. I knew my parents were together and I knew where my home was 100% of the time. The outside world was especially tough though. There were no laws protecting gay employees from discrimination. So, my parents were in effect closeted to most of the world. They could have been fired and in all likelihood would have been had they been discovered. In their efforts to protect me they did not talk about being “gay.” This is something I understand but do wish was different. Shall I give you an example of why I understand this?

Well let me say this as plainly as possible. My 4th grade teacher was a cunt. Oh yeah, you read that correctly…I said c-u-n-t. She was a homophobic cunt. She was abusive, she ridiculed me in front of the class and she tried to fail me so she could torture me again. Think I am over reacting? Well, she wrote a letter to my dad and told him what she thought about gay people and a “fag child.” I saw this letter infuriate and crush my dad. Wanna know what the school did about it? Nuthin. Fuckin nuthin. It was one of the first times I realized that my home life was much different than my peers. Can you imagine my dad’s heart breaking when he read this letter? I saw it and it was awful. There was not much he could do either. We had no rights and this bitch was tenured. My biological dad had rights to me but my other dad did not. So, they could not join in as a united front. 

It is different now and I am so thankful this. Really…I AM SO THANKFUL FOR THIS. I love that I see kids coming out early. I love that gay teachers can be out now (I had many gay teachers all whom I loved….didn’t know why I related to them and why they were protective of me, but figured it out many years later) and there is no fear of being fired for being gay. 

My advice to gay families is to be open. Your children will be proud of you for living your life authentically. I love seeing my dad’s be out and open. I love seeing them with no fear of being who they are. And, I love them for giving me this life. Kids are going to be teased about something parents. It could be the car you drive is not cool enough for their friends, it could be your totally unfashionable jeans or it could be that you clap too loud at their school play….or more evil little things, it could be their clothes, it could be their hair is not perfect, they might have a pimple or it could be that they don’t hold themselves like kewl people do. But, ya know what? When they come home and know they are loved, it won’t hurt so bad.

Growing Up Gay

When I either share with or people find out I grew up in a gay family, they have 2 immediate questions: were you adopted? what was it like to grow up without a mother? 

Well, I was not adopted. I grew up with my biological dad and my step dad. And the answer to the 2nd question is that I don’t know. You don’t know what you didn’t have. I had a mom who was struggling with demons up until her passing sometime ago. So, I didn’t see her (complicated and sad story…I’m still debating whether to blog about it) and she was not a “mother-like” figure in my life. She lived in a different state to make matters more or possibly less complicated. What I did have was a family that stayed together and I lived in the same home for 21 years. As I sit here right now, I can’t think of any of my friends who did not come from a divorced home. Oh, wait – I just thought of 4, but these 4 were not in the circle of friends I hung with. To give you an idea of my upbringing…I grew up in a small community where if you did not know someone you knew someone they knew. 6 degree’s of separation? Try 2 degrees tops. I graduated from a high school that had about 100 – 150 people in my graduating class…actually it could have been less. I knew ALL of them. I had known most of them since elementary school. We had 4 high schools in our whole county. All of the girls I hung around came from a divorced home and moved every couple of years. Me – you knew where you could find me. I had the same address and phone number for 21 years…no joke. God I miss that house…*sigh*

Like I said….I am/was the Princess of the house. I was sheltered from a lot of things but I was also introduced to so much diversity that most kids would never experience. It was wonderfully different. Gay Pride Parades, I knew of Harvey Milk before the movie, Drag Queens, trips to Europe, struggles for equality, being a part of a community that loves you for you (and I mean LOVES and supports you no matter what…totally different from religious love), closeted actors, artists, writers. Because the area I grew up in was fairly culturally diverse and definitely “different” (it was colonized by artists and hippy’s who somehow found a way to may a shit load of money…it was the 3rd richest county when I lived there – you could be poor there and fuckin rich anywhere else), you literally did not “see” color lines until they were brought up from some movie or song. Well, I digress…back to the mommy issue. One thing that was lacking was that I did not have a mother to teach me to be feminine. Yes, I had 2 guys who were incredible decorators (oh you should have seen our house! Antiques, paintings, rugs…*sigh* GORGEOUS!) and our yard was the belle of the neighborhood. But they did not know about dresses, a vagina, a period, boobs hurting due to growth spurts, hormonal issues, or any of the wonderful growing up experiences girls go through. Thankfully I had some wonderful girlfriends who were willing to loan me their mom’s for such occasions. What I did not experience was body issues, growing up thinking I had to impress men to be happy and a sense of dependance on a relationship. Of course I was an insecure teenager, but my insecurities were different from my girlfriends. 

The only reason I knew I was different was because other kids told me so. But ya know what? If I was going to be taunted about something, this wasn’t so bad. Sure there were other things: I had terrible acne, I have a big nose, my name was a target for fun by children…but, I grew stronger because of all of it. And, ya know what? Kids are openly gay at school now and open about their parents being gay. My point is this…..I had a mom, but just because I lacked a relationship with her does not mean I was any less loved. I would, in fact, argue that I was very loved considering I am a part of a community that continues to support and love me. That’s right…HALF GAY!

 

Not my dads....but they are yummy!

Devirginized – my wordpress cherry has been popped

I am half gay. Not in the sense I like to fool around with women and men, but in the sense of I have a straight mom and a gay dad. That’s right half gay. The means I am the product of a straight relationship but I grew up with my gay dad’s in the 80′s and 90′s where it was way uncool to have gay parents.

There were no shows on television that depicted my family. The closest was a show called “My Two Dad’s” which was about a girl whose mom was a super freak and had sex with two men and didn’t know who the baby daddy was. Very Maury Povich. There was no Ellen and Elton John was not even out of the closet. I can relate when I hear people of different colors and creeds say that they never saw anyone who looked like them on TV. Well, everyone looked like me – blonde hair with blue eyes if I ever get kidnapped thank God I look like this so I will be on the news with a fucking manhunt looking for me. Yup – NO GAY people who were out on television. Freddy Mercury was even playing it straight. What did this mean? It meant that I felt odd and misplaced for most of my childhood through teen years. But, ya know what it also meant? I was never molested because I was the Princessa of the house and nobody puts me in the corner. Most of my girlfriends have been molested if you are wondering where I pulled that one out from.

Life was “normal” because this was all I ever knew. I knew that I had to protect myself from the teasing at school, you may find my tongue to be sharp, and I knew that my dad’s felt shame for who they are. But, ya know what? I grew up in a charmed county where artistic expression was nurtured and where pot was more popular than vicodin. Not too shabby despite all of its challenges.

So, my wordpress cherry has now been popped. You now know a smidge about me. Welcome to my world and God help you for joining it