My Two Moms: On being queer and choosing your own family.
I don’t have two moms in the way a lot of people might think of a person having two mothers.
My two moms have never met. My two mothers are not a product of a step or blended family.
I have my birth mother.
And I have my chosen mother.
One, I have no relationship with, and the other provides the emotional support and love that a lot of queer folx who’ve lacked parental support crave from a mother or mother figure.
Six years ago my birth mother lost the gift of hearing my voice call her “Mom.”
And that’s the thing — now that I am a parent, a “Mapa” as we say in my home, I cannot fathom a single thing that is more of a gift than my child and of the day she calls out to me.
After a lifetime of pain inflicted by a mother who was, I think, never emotionally healed from her own lifetime of pain — she added another layer of pain that was the final broken straw — and, we’ve barely spoken since.
My chosen Mother, or just “Mama or Mom” as I call her and I actually met because of this final straw my birth mother broke.
Six years ago while brushing my teeth my wife came into our bathroom and said that she never wanted to see or speak to my birth mother again. Her face was bright red and she was seething.
I stopped brushing, and with toothpaste dribble running down my lip I looked at her and asked,
“Uh oh, what’d she do now?”
At the time, two extremely important arguments were being heard at the Supreme Court regarding marriage equality, and thousands and thousands of people had shown their support in numerous ways. Some held signs in front of Court buildings, some wore pro-LGBTQ+ clothing, and some changed their Facebook profile picture to a red equality sign — at the time signifying support for the right of LGBTQ+ folx to legally marry.
My birth mother had changed her Facebook profile picture too. She changed it to a little black square that read, “I support the Biblical Definition of Marriage” with a giant white cross, and a pink & blue equal sign.
My first thoughts were not unlike my wife’s. After seeing the hateful image, I wanted to never speak to my birth mother again. After all, this was yet another incident of hateful anti-LGBTQ+ actions in a long line of painful actions on her part (comparing homosexuality to bestiality and likening queer people to pedophiles to name two other instances of homophobia.) She did other much more egregious and harmful wrongdoings, of course, than just posting these hateful public social media posts. But those things are for the day I gather the courage and can stomach reliving these memories enough to write a book or memoir.
She claimed her chosen facebook profile image wasn’t hateful and that she was simply stating her opinion on the issue. I couldn’t — and still can’t — fathom how a person can say that denying me and my wife the same rights as numerous straight American couples isn’t hateful. This wasn’t just about a piece of paper; it was about my being equal to any other American citizen.
My birthday had occurred just shortly before this whole debacle, and for my birthday my birth mother had sent me a check. After this incident, I took the funds from that check and donated them to Freedom to Marry, an organization working towards the legalization of “same-sex marriage”. It wasn’t much, but then I shared my story on my Facebook page, and others shared it, and then a local LGBTQ+ organization picked up my story and shared it. And over the course of a couple of months, because of my story and my birth mother’s hateful words and actions, over $3,000 was donated towards LGBTQ+ equality.
And…guess who read my story?
My chosen mother. She donated, offered words of support, and invited me and my wife for donuts and coffee. And hugs. So many hugs.
Six years later, she is my child’s “MomMom,” and my love her is as strong as any child’s love for their mother.
And maybe our child-parent relationship didn’t happen like most everyone else’s, and maybe there is a lot of pain that comes with our story, and maybe it’s a teeny bit hard for strangers to grasp why me and my wife both refer to the same person as “our mother.” But, that doesn’t make it any less true or valid.
My mom, time and time again, just shows up. She shows her love in ways I’m extremely unaccustomed too — literally a form of love that is alien to me (but as time passes I grow to believe I’m deserving of it and trust it’s not going anywhere).
I once suffered second-degree burns as a result of a cooking accident that left me with red welts from my face to my stomach. Right when the accident occurred I called my Mom and she was there in an instant, soothing my burns with cool cloths and urging me to see a doctor. She stayed by my side until I insisted I was okay.
Another time I was suddenly, without warning, laid off from a job (just weeks after learning my wife was pregnant). She rushed to be with me. Brought me tea, and allowed me to collapse into her arms heaving heavy sobs as I blubbered that I was absolutely terrified.
Over the years as I’ve battled horrible, crippling anxiety she has talked me through some of my darkest moments on the phone, her calm even voice saying the words
“Just breathe, Honey”…
until I found my breath, and could move away from thoughts of shame and despair again.
Beyond that, there is this beautiful and inherent nonchalance with the way that she, her two birth children (my sister and brother), and husband (my Papa), have folded us into their family. Thanksgiving? Of course we’re invited. A family picture: get over here in the shot! My sister (my chosen mother’s birth daughter) even helped me choose my “new” name, Ander/Andy — a name that honors our Papa and fills me with so much pride I feel like my little baby trans heart may burst.
And today…as I write this...with heavy, hot tears streaming down my face — what my birth mother did still hurts even now. It’s an awful truth that a lot of queer and trans kids face…the loss of a parent due to hate, bigotry, and ignorance. But I would not trade my Mama, who loves me as I am — affirms my every step in life, and walks beside me — for a relationship with my birth mother who still, even today, I bet thinks that the loss of our relationship is a product of sin and my unholy “lifestyle choices.”
The only choice I’ve made is the choice to be loved. Truly and wholly…because, I know now — that’s what real, loving parents do. And that’s what I deserve.
