08 Pride Post #14: “Not a target, a magnet”

LesbianDad, or Baba as a couple of very short folks know her, is one of those completely indispensable people, as in to the progress of humankind. Those charismatic-but-usually-all-aw-shucks folks who seem to be made of equal parts integrity, eloquence, and humor. She’s got her hands full with the Beloved and those kids, but you wish, with folks like these, that you could just pay them (handsomely of course) to sit in a comfy chair somewhere, and you’d round up all the nutjobs and haters and even just the boring unenlightened homophobes, the mundane next door neighbor folks who just don’t want to take the trouble to wrap their mind around things… anyway, you imagine what would happen if you could round those folks up and take them to their own comfy chair sitting opposite Lesbian Dad. They could drink some ice tea or lemonade, have a cookie or two, and just have a conversation with her, and their eyes would open, and the changes necessary for all of us to get along would happen a lot faster.

Below, LD ponders change, families, and marriage

I mean, sure, my parents knew my ‘twixt and ‘tween gender from the start. They helped me dress up as Robin Hood every Halloween. Got me the Tonka trucks, the Hot Wheels, the Hang Ten boys crew-neck t-shirts I’d asked for as birthday gifts. They were there, that inexplicably sorrowful summer of my eleventh year, when I fell for the pitcher on my softball team and she wouldn’t have anything to do with me, her worshipful catcher. But that doesn’t all inevitably add up to lesbian. I figured my parents needed as much time to come to terms with my sexual orientation as I needed. Which is to say, five to ten years. I just had a jump-start on them.

Parental and public approval, ironically, often comes long after one is in dire need of it. As with so many queer folk after they come out, I eventually stopped staring through the thick window at the party happening inside, and turned around. As I slowly became aware of the rich alternative queer community around me, I realized that my people have been making our own party outside all along. The marital table inside, groaning with vittles, no place set for us, is all well and good. But the picnic outside was made to order, the menu limited by nothing but our imaginations. So now that the door’s swinging open and people — okay, just a few right now, in Massachusetts and California — are waving us in (”C’mon! Have some, it’s great! We been chowing down on this stuff for years!”) — some of us picnic vets will be forgiven for muttering under our breath as we amble on inside.

‘Cause don’t get me wrong, I’m getting me those 1,138 rights and responsibilities. My two best reasons for them are 3.5 and 1.25 years old, and damned if I’m not going to fuse myself to them with every tube of Krazy Glue I can find. State of California nuptial Krazy Glue included.

Be sure and read the whole post, and buy some LD swag while you’re there.

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3 Responses

  1. Wow. Basically, you captured the primary reason (or one of the top three) that I write what I write, how I write it. So that perhaps one of the abovementioned folk might stumble upon a word or two of it, and even *think* about thinking differently. In between bites of cookie and sips of tea.

    Thank you, VT, for this. I read it over the phone to my beloved (who, as it happens, was in a Dallas airport waiting for a connecting flight back home!). She said, “Print it out and put it up on the refrigerator, and read it whenever you doubt yourself.”

    Which I think I’ll just do.

  2. Awww, damn. I can’t imagine LD having the time for self-doubt.

    Hope the Beloved made it home. I have been tossed about like so much flotsam and jetsom by the DFW vortex on more than one occasion. It’s a hellmouth.

  3. She did indeed make it home. Many hours later than anticipated. But in time to get a decent night’s sleep before SF Pride. Saints be praised.

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