“What about the children?” As an adult, I’ve heard this question countless times. It’s been asked at any moment when opponents of equal rights sought to cling to their versions of normalcy. At any time true change was on the precipice. First in 1997, when New Jersey allowed same-sex couples to adopt. Then in 2010, when members of the U.S. military fought to repeal “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.” I heard it in 2015 when the U.S. Supreme Court in Obergefell v. Hodges ruled in favor of same-sex marriages. My entire life I heard it screamed from pulpits, saw it in the clutched pearls of women in grocery stores as my queer family passed by. It’s regurgitated rhetoric designed to fear-monger, purportedly well-meaning concern wrapped around hatred and bigotry.
Growing up, my house was the safe house. My couch became a bed to more than one queer kid who had just come out and needed a place to crash because their own family threw them out. I grew up as the child of openly gay women in the ‘90s and early 2000s, which meant that I got into a lot of fights. Now, I would never condone the use of violence, but the ‘90s was a Wild West of audacity and fearlessness. It only took one beatdown to make sure someone stopped using the f-slur in my presence.
My mom grew up in an oppressive household, where Jesus was King and kindness was only extended to those who toed the moral line. This led to many years of denying herself, repressing the parts of her that made her, well, her. She became my mom when I was twelve, and to this day I am so grateful for her.
After we moved from New Orleans to Connecticut, before the first parent-teacher night, she asked me which of my two moms I wanted to go meet them, to present as my parent. I shook my head, because I didn’t understand, and it was on that day that I found out my mom expected me to be ashamed of her. She expected that I kept my home life a secret. Something inside me shifted when I saw he shock and then joy that spread across her face when she realized that not only did my friends know, but everyone else did too. That she had someone who not only didn’t care she was gay but who celebrated it. She gave me a life built on empathy but was still shocked when the same kindness was returned.
That day I learned the importance of being seen.
When people ask what it was like growing up with gay moms, I don’t know what to tell them. I don’t know how it was different. Did other kids grow up listening to Melissa Etheridge, Ani DiFranco, Joni Mitchell? Maybe not. Did they attend pride events and see all the love and joy and acceptance? I can’t be sure.
It took me a long time to figure out my own queerness. I knew pretty early that I was deeply attracted to multiple people, but polyamorous situations weren’t as mainstream then as they are now. But I never thought twice about dating a woman, never came out formally, never felt the need to explain when I married a man. I have never felt persecuted for my sexuality, because at the end of the day, I am in a hetero-presenting relationship and have been for the last decade. It doesn’t make me any less queer, but it does mean that my life, my experiences, will always be different than those who are hard targets for hatred and bigotry.
It’s interesting, being the child of those who refer to themselves as “old gays.” My parents’ friends are a real-life girl gang of ’90s lesbians, and seeing them thrive, seeing the community they have built, gives me hope. I look around at my own circle, full of love and laughter and steadfast friendships, and hope that in twenty years we will be just as strong as them.
My has a different partner now, one who complements her in so many ways. One who loves her, and pushes her, and stands by her. I call her mom, too. I’ve had so many friends lose contact with their families in the current political climate. Every time I get off one of those heartbreaking calls, I immediately dial up my parents. I thank them for their love. I thank them for their courage.
I worry what the world will make of them.
“What about the children?” they ask. But those of us raised by LGBT parents are not the children fleeing from white-nationalist conversion camps. We are not the children cutting off family members who claim to love us but vote against our rights. We grow up in homes of acceptance and love.
I want to contribute to change.
Because it makes my parents proud.
T.C. Kraven is a writer and activist who seeks to normalize the diversity that is representative of her hometown of New Orleans. She specializes in contemporary mythological retellings with an emphasis on the culture of The Big Easy, the queer community, and healthy kink. Kraven travels the country and globe, attending signings and pulling inspiration from the myths of the Greek pantheon and the amazing muses around her. For more info, visit her website tc-kraven.square.site.
