Pride, Parades and PFLAG

Posted on June 16, 2013 by Jen

We attended our first Denver Pride Parade this morning.  As one of the largest Pride events in the country, it attracts around 325,000 people, with 100,000 attending this year’s parade.  I work with the Boulder County chapter of PFLAG (Parents, Families and Friends of Lesbians and Gays) so we marched with the PFLAG groups. I’d been told PFLAG often gets some of the loudest appreciation during the mile long trek and that didn’t surprise me. Having lost my Dad for all intents and purposes when I came out, I have a deep appreciation and awe for parents who not only accept their children but then educate and advocate on their behalf.  I thought it might be a little odd to be surrounded by other people’s supportive parents on this particular day but I pushed that aside because I wanted us to participate.  And boy, am I ever grateful we did.

Upon arriving, the Divine Miss M looked through the signs available to choose from and was thrilled to find this one:

Sweetest thing ever!

Sweetest thing ever!


There was also a couple in our group who have been long time members of PFLAG but hadn’t marched in a Pride Parade before this year.  Judging from the reaction she received, I’m guessing this won’t be her last.  While she held this sign:

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so many people, especially young adults, came out of the crowd to give her hugs, high-fives, tell her she is awesome (which she is), give her beads and leis.  Her husband was proudly carrying one end of the PFLAG banner at the front of our group, leading the way.  She was a little surprised by the crowd’s reaction but I wasn’t.

All along the route of thousands, there were innumerable cheers and shouts of “Thank you, PFLAG” and “Happy Father’s Day!”   It was such a marvelous experience. It’s hard to quantify what an organization like PFLAG must mean to people whose family have rejected them, or maybe just tolerate them.  There I was, on Father’s Day, occasionally thinking about the phone call I don’t make anymore and the card I no longer send.  Though I hadn’t mentioned it, in speaking with another long time member and activist whose son is gay, she said there is rarely a year someone, often with tears in their eyes, doesn’t tell some member of their group, “Oh, I wish you were my parent.” She shrugged and said, “All you can do is hug them. Sometimes, there is a lot of pain that goes with this pride.”  That statement struck me as oddly profound.  Yes, yes, there is.

For that moment, however, there was happiness and cheers and we were celebrating the acceptance of family.  I held Jo’s hand and we walked down the parade together, something we could never have done a year ago.

A couple of times, kids around the same age as the Divine came out of the crowd and onto the street to high-five her about her sign.  I don’t even know how many people yelled to her about it and how much they liked it. She smiled and waved and I could see in her face and her stature how much it all meant to her.  At the end, a reporter from the Denver Post asked her what she liked about the parade. She first responded, with a twelve-year-old girl air, “I liked the happy atmosphere and the rainbows everywhere.”  But then he asked her if she liked anything else, and with words and conviction that far surpassed her years, she said, “I like letting everyone know that my family is just like everyone else’s and they deserve the same rights as everyone else’s.”

I was speechless and had to look away quickly to blink away my tears.  There is a lot of pain that goes with this pride. But sometimes, there is just pride.

The Divine Miss M is a Harry Potter aficionado. She was most impressed with a sign today that said, “Give Dumbledore his rights!”  She’s already planned that next year her sign will say, “PFLAG supports Dumbledore!”  Our little activist, with her own personal flair.

Our start in the parade

Our start in the parade

Moving along

Making our way

Along the route

Along the route

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At the end. And yes, I got a lot of reaction from my sign as well. Everyone loves puppies. : )

At the end. And yes, I got a lot of reaction for my sign as well. Everyone loves puppies. : )

It was a little bittersweet today but I got a chance to tell a few great Dads, “Happy Father’s Day,” waved to a lot of good people and kids and celebrated my own little family. In the end, that’s what it’s all about and I’m so, so glad Pride was today.

Posted in Colorado, Parenting, Uncategorized, Us | 4 Comments

Last Place is the New First

Posted on June 7, 2013 by Jen

I don’t like doing things I don’t do well.  Let me rephrase that, I loathe doing things I don’t do well.   Also, I loathe losing.  Like so many things pre-children, I only vaguely realized this and wasn’t particularly bothered by it until I saw it reflected back to me in my daughter.  A few years ago, we noticed the Divine Miss M wanted no part of an activity, a game, a project, anything, if she didn’t feel like she could do it well.  This was true whether it was playing a board game, trying a new sport or more recently, taking 6th grade keyboarding.

Placing such a limitation on yourself doesn’t seem like too big of a deal until you consider refusing to do anything you don’t already do well means you rarely try anything new.  Also, you never do anything just for fun. While there may be plenty of things you both do well and enjoy, at some point, you need to be able to do something just for the sake of pure enjoyment – even if you suck at it.

While I type that, it still feels like an oxymoron … enjoying something and sucking at it.  It’s telling that my mind immediately morphs that into the phrase “fun failure.” But I have made a conscious effort over the past several years to participate in games I am likely to lose or activities I’ve never done, meaning that I’m also not very good at, so I could provide an example for the little Nazi perfectionist we’ve been raising. (My sole exception is I refuse to play Scrabble with Jo. Ever. It’s demoralizing and not good for our relationship.  Also, I’m convinced she cheats. That or the gods conspire against me because no-one else goes 10 turns without a vowel.)

Anyway, I’ve now done various sports and games and activities in which I looked and felt totally ridiculous but made sure to appear to be enjoying myself, or at least not complaining out loud.  And I can’t even count how many times I’ve followed one of Miss M’s descriptions of some activity with the inquiry, “But did you have fun?”

That brings us to a few months ago.  M informed us that she wanted to join the track team.  Now, understand, our daughter complains if she gets hot and also she has two speeds, slow and stall.  I can’t even begin to describe this aptly enough because I’ve never seen anything like it.  I love her more than breathing but seriously, elderly people and 3-toed-sloths move faster than our child and also, they’re more athletic. Needless to say, we were a little surprised by this new found track interest, and even more so when she announced after the first few practices that she wanted to do hurdles.  I looked at Jo and knew we had the same thought, “Hurdles? Really?  Half the time, you can barely walk downstairs without incident.”  But outwardly, we did nothing but encourage – and made sure our accident policy was current.

I went to the first track meet with more than a little trepidation, preparing for the fact she would probably come in last in everything.  It’s horrible, I know, that I have to psych myself up for that, when she not only isn’t going to win, but likely be the worst on the field.  Just like every parent I know, I tell people about M’s wins and accomplishments.  But it’s not as if I hear other parents saying things like, “Hey, my kid came in last today!  Woo-hoo!”

As anticipated, she came in last in most of her events: the hurdles, the 75 yard dash and the relay. I don’t know if she was actually last in the long jump but it’s a safe bet.  But you know what else?  She. Had. Fun.  She really had fun!  I didn’t have to remind her, either, she did that all by herself.  She knew she wasn’t going to win. She even knew she would likely be last place in some of the events. But she smiled and laughed and tried hard and told me proudly that she’d had her own personal best time in the hurdles and the dash.

Waaayyy back there.

Waaayyy back there.

I’m not sure I would have, or even should have, been prouder of her if she had crossed a finish line first.

Which brings us to this week.  I started running again a couple of months ago.  I use the term ‘running’ in the very loosest sense of the word.  I’m not fast and my distance is dismal.  In spite of that, I ran a 3k this week. I’d signed up for it back when I thought I’d be a little further along by now. Running in Boulder is intimidating. It’s basically the running capital of the world.  These people are serious, while I’ve just barely started.  Walking over to the starting line, I told Jo how apprehensive I was because there weren’t that many participants and I knew I’d be one of the last to finish.  And then the Divine Miss M, who came in last in four events and completely enjoyed herself, asked what my own goal was and then told me to have fun.

Turns out, I was one of the last to finish, placing 77 out of 87, but I beat my own goal – and I had fun.  In the end, once again, I think I learned more from M than she learned from me.

So, I guess I’ll be the parent who says, “My kid came in last in four events!  Woo-hoo!” and mean it.

Posted in Boulder, Lessons, Parenting | 4 Comments

The Supreme Wait

Posted on June 5, 2013 by Jen
Inscribed with the words, "Equal Justice Under Law." We shall see.

Inscribed with the words, “Equal Justice Under Law.” We shall see.

The Supreme Court’s last day of term is June 24, 2013.  Among others, there are four big opinions pending: Prop 8, DOMA, Affirmative Action and the Voting Rights Act.  I care a great deal about all of those but clearly, the first two affect my family and so many people I love quite directly. And so … I wait.

I’ve been reminded recently of the summer I studied for the Bar exam.  Obviously, it was a stressful experience but the real stress came after the exam. Prior to that, I was studying constantly. I ate, slept and breathed legal analysis and practice exams. The night after the second day, when it was all over, was dreadful, which caught me a little off guard at the time. Suddenly, after weeks and weeks of non-stop studying, I had nothing to do.  But wait.  For almost two months. When they would finally post who passed.  When I look back on that summer, the thing that stands out the most isn’t the misery of studying, it’s the first week afterward.

That feeling resonates with me now.  As an attorney, I analyzed the Prop 8 and DOMA cases both before and after the oral arguments.  Full geek disclosure dictates admitting I actually enjoyed that part because nothing brings out the nerd in me like constitutional law.  It is my first, and sometimes only, love when it comes to the legal field.  But the analysis is done, along with the fool’s errand of predicting a ruling based on oral arguments.  All that’s left now is this interminable wait.

I don’t anticipate a far-reaching opinion extending the fundamental right of marriage to same-sex couples. I’m not delusional. So, I’ve tried to approach my anxiety with the question of what is the worst that can happen. Without getting into serious legal analysis, I’ve done that elsewhere, the worst they could do is uphold both Prop 8 and DOMA.  Does that affect me?  Not directly. It wouldn’t mean same-sex marriage is unconstitutional, it would just mean, in the most elementary sense, that bans against them are constitutional. A distinct difference.  It would also mean that the feds won’t recognize those who can marry, but they don’t recognize them now.  Neither of those would take away any right I currently have, I suppose, so I try to combat my ever-increasing anxiety with that reminder.

But the truth is, those rulings would validate an insidious discrimination that is very specific to me, to my family and to so many others, and would likely halt any progress currently being made.   And further, on a fundamental and personal level, those rulings would feel absolutely demoralizing. Rare that a Supreme Court ruling has the ability to shake me emotionally, but those would.  And then, always the worst part, if they go badly we’ll have to explain them to the Divine Miss M, who adores her family and is consistently baffled by those who don’t.  She even more consistently asks why people care so much if it doesn’t affect them. I can answer legal questions far more easily than I can answer that one.

As of today, it is less than 20 days until the last day of term.  I remind myself that there is a chance the rulings will be good.  I hold fervently to a hope that the positive rulings I consider the most realistic will come to fruition.  Because in the end, for better or worse, these rulings will affect the hearts of so many of us.  When all of this comes to mind, which is frequently right now, my anxiety skyrockets but I take some deep breaths, cross my fingers, pray, send out good mojo, all of those things … and then I wait.

Posted in Parenting, Rights and Legal Stuff, Us | 6 Comments

Reflections on a Union – May 1, 2013

Posted on May 3, 2013 by Jen
The photographer called this a Mom-Sandwich, I just call it cute.

May 1, 2013, 2:00 a.m.  The photographer called this a Mom-Sandwich, I just call it cute.

Colorado’s Civil Unions Act went into effect on May 1, 2013. Denver and Boulder County Clerks took the date quite literally and opened their offices to the public at 12:01 a.m. to begin issuing civil union licenses. Jodi is on the Board of Directors for OutBoulder, the local LGBT non-profit organization that coordinated with the Boulder County Clerk for the midnight celebration.  Thus, she was already going to be present in her role as Board member and we took the Divine Miss M along to witness history.

We didn’t go there that night intending to get our civil union, though Jodi and I had been engaged for over a year.  One night out of the blue, she had presented me with a scrapbook, on every page a different theme and pictures from our life together. When I flipped to the last page, I saw the words, “Will you marry me?” I said yes, obviously, as I’m wise enough to know how rare a find she is.  We waited on a ceremony, hoping it would come with not only our own promises of faith and commitment but also legal recognition as well.  When that hope was realized with the passage of the Civil Unions Act in March, we began to talk about when and what kind of ceremony we wanted. We had strongly considered May 1st but we are blessed with family members who quickly informed us they wanted to be present. So, we decided we would wait until late summer or fall so others could attend.

As the midnight celebration came together, the beauty of this event began to unfold. Businesses and people donated items, including an anonymous ally who donated a long-stemmed red rose for every couple.  In what became known as the “Party Room,” there was a DJ and dancing.  PFLAG of Boulder County and other groups brought cake, food and sparkling cider.  There were gift bags for the couples. A local photographer, who was an absolute angel, set up in one corner and offered a free photo shoot to every couple. The generosity of the entire Boulder community was out in full force.  In one hallway, dubbed “Blessing Alley,” numerous faith leaders, pastors and laity decorated the area with small tables, flowers and candles and were present to bless unions and conduct ceremonies, including our own Pastor Bruns.

And then there were the couples themselves who began to arrive, along with their children, families and friends!  Couples of every single age group, some in their 30s, 40s, 50s, 60s and 70s, many of whom had been waiting decades for a day like this. There were also people who weren’t there for any particular couple, but just wanted to be present for the moment it all began, who thought they’d never see the day and stood by into the wee hours to cheer and support and just experience.

The County Clerk’s office is on the second floor.  OutBoulder loosely organized couples in sequential order, calling for them in groups of five or ten, some in casual clothes, formal suits, tuxes, wedding gowns, one couple and their friends all in pajamas.  I watched from the crowd as the first five couples went up the stairs at 12:01 a.m. and into the office. The crowd below cheered and cheered and as each couple came back down those same stairs with their license, the crowd blew bubbles and cheered even more.  Miss M was assigned the task of official bubble blower, a role she relished and performed dutifully, when she wasn’t trying to sneak more cake.

In all, there were between 250-300 people, they filled the party room, the hallways and the stairs. The excitement in the air, the happiness and the celebratory nature was the closest to palpable I’ve ever experienced.  It was impossible to look around and not get choked up at the truly innocent nature of why everyone was so happy.  We were being recognized as valid, we were being offered rights and responsibilities.  That was all it was, and it was everything. Everyone was just happy.  Or, maybe the right word is joyful. Laughter and smiles and a pure, simple unadulterated joy I’ll likely never be able to replicate in my lifetime spilled through the crowd, shining on everyone’s faces and echoing off the walls.

I began weaving through the crowd in the hallways and Party Room, peaking down Blessing Alley to watch a few ceremonies, always finding my way back to Jodi, who was helping near the stairs, to watch the ascending and descending couples.  A woman next to me was smiling and clapping and said to her friends, “This is a lot different than when we were here protesting in 2004! Did you think we’d ever see this?!” I wasn’t here in 2004 so I don’t know that particular protest but I can certainly imagine.  Taking it all in, I had to reflect on the road to get there, the good and the bad.  How many hours of legislative committee hearings and endless floor debates had we listened to exactly?  30? 50? We’d met with legislators, trying to persuade them to recognize our family. One particular night we’d spent at the Capital sitting through a seven-hour Judicial Committee hearing. I’d squeezed Jodi’s hand until it surely hurt when they finally took the last vote, while also silently willing them to hurry because it was later than we’d told the sitter and we needed to get home. (Yes, it’s a radical gay agenda at our house, let me tell you.)  I’d known this was supposed to be the year but I tried not to let my hopes get too high.  Then, finally, the Act passed, the Governor enthusiastically signed and May 1st had arrived as the first official day.

It didn’t take long that night for us to realize we didn’t want to leave the County Clerk’s office without our own civil union. May 1st had been the day at the forefront of our minds since that final vote in the House in March.  This was what we fought for, this was the culmination of talking, persuading, debating, getting knocked down but showing back up. It was historical and well, magical.

We talked with M who nearly bowled us over in the crowd with her enthusiasm.  We spoke with our Pastor and asked that he bless our union and sign our license, and that we would do our full exchange of vows later with family present. He readily agreed. I told our friend, Aubree, who was organizing the couples, to add us to the end and about an hour later, at 2:15 a.m., we became the official “last couple up the stairs.”

And then unexpectedly, the County Clerk employees added a whole other layer of memories. When we ascended the stairs and went into the office, there were around 10-15 employees present who were utterly thrilled to be there – in the middle of the night – and made it clear they’d been looking forward to this night/morning for years.  I read later that some even worked in different departments and had volunteered because they wanted to be a part of it all. There was as much joy upstairs as downstairs. Molly, the clerk who did our paperwork, was actually disappointed when we told her we were the last couple. Aside from what it felt like personally, when you have a 12-year-old child who has watched and experienced a government refusing to recognize your family, it was a marvelous, beautiful thing for Molly to sit across from all three of us and make us feel like it was her privilege and honor to usher in our recognition.  I will never, ever forget her.

We filled out our paperwork and were given our license, then we descended the stairs to be greeted with cheers and shouts from the still present crowd.   When we got to the end of the hallway with our pastor, I realized it was snowing outside, a perfect addition. I took Jodi’s hand and Pastor Bruns said a beautiful blessing over our union.  Then he took our hands in his and said a prayer.  And yes, for those that know me, I may have shed a tear or two and maybe even had our pastor choked up.  There was much hugging and laughing and the Divine Miss M was beside herself with excitement. Then we signed our license, along with our Pastor and our friends, who acted as witnesses. We headed back into the Clerk’s office and it was official.

I’ve certainly tried but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to describe the evening in a way that feels adequate.  We are going to start the adoption proceedings now and soon we won’t be Jodi, Jen and M, anymore, we’ll just be the Martins, a regular family.

Posted in Boulder, Colorado, Parenting, Us | 12 Comments

You Don’t Get to be the Psycho Nanny

Posted on March 8, 2013 by Jen

The Divine Miss M’s road through elementary school was not without its bumps and we received  a few phone calls regarding her behavior. I don’t really know how to describe her then except to say numerous parents and a few teachers told us M reminded them of Junie B. Jones.  If you’re at all familiar with that series, you’ll know our  parenting challenges and joy.  If not, then let me just say M has always been exceedingly precocious but also exceedingly black and white (as in more than most elementary school kids), has never handled change well (as in worse than most elementary school kids), throw in some analytical sass and there you have it.  In fact, her kindergarten teacher, who had taught long enough to be approaching retirement, told me at the end of the school year, “Your daughter has made me a better teacher.”  Even in hindsight, I’ve yet to come up with what might be a proper response to that.

In any event, our phone calls generally had a theme involving some characteristic highlighted above.  So, imagine my surprise when I received a phone call a while ago from M’s Vice-Principal and ultimately learned she was facing possible suspension for hitting someone.  Hitting?  Really?  And holy crap, suspension??? Looking back, I’m sure my facial expression as she explained why she was calling was more than comical.  Though, the Vice-Principal was also a little startled right along with me as she didn’t even know who M was prior to that, saying, “She’s never been in the office for so much as a tardy!”

It’s a long, drawn out saga of how we finally got the full story about what happened.  Suffice it to say, even a child not prone to hitting can snap if picked on long enough, ours included.  When M started 6th grade I wrote about the Mean Girls in every middle school, dubbed them all SassMasters and wondered if they would indeed emerge this year.  I’m not sure the girl our child hit is a SassMaster exactly, but the Vice-Principal did describe her as “not popular exactly, but powerful.” Marvelous.

There is a very fine line to walk when your child engages in completely unacceptable behavior but you know they were also goaded and baited until it occurred.  We did what I think most parents do – definitely did not condone but also empathized and discussed various options on removing oneself from the situation, none of which she had considered.

That’s all fine and good and of course, probably the right thing.  In reality, though, are there any parents who don’t secretly fantasize just a little bit about The Hand that Rocks the Cradle scene where the psycho nanny (Rebecca DeMornay) visits the playground and physically threatens the little boy who had been bullying one of the kids she watched? If you haven’t seen the movie I posted the scene below, though it does contain R-rated language.

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Obviously, no parent I know would actually do that but I have to admit, it was not without its appeal a couple of weeks ago.  Alas, I am a sane, responsible adult instead.

 

 

 

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Why So Gay is So Wrong

Posted on March 8, 2013 by Jen

I’m not easily ruffled by general vocabulary slang, though I’m also not naive to the occasional undertones.  Still, the Divine Miss M surprised me this year and reminded me that even when we’re choosing to ignore them, words matter.  M’s new school participates in a national program that helps schools establish student ally groups who develop projects to enhance appreciation of diversity, foster harmony amongst diverse groups, and combat intolerance, bullying and hate.  The program covers The Big Five – race, religion, body shape/size, sexual orientation/gender expression or disabilities. When she got home from school one evening, Miss M was incredibly excited after she learned the program addresses not using the phrase “so gay” in a disparaging context.  I had no idea that one, kids at her school in Oklahoma even used the phrase all that often and two, it bothered her to that extent, but apparently it did.  She even brought it up in a speech she had to give in one class near the beginning of the school year in which they were required to introduce themselves in a substantive manner (I’m sure the assignment instructions were worded more eloquently, but that was the basic gist).

Learning this about my daughter made me far more aware of people’s word choice, including my own.  Too often we have become … I’m not going to say immune because I don’t think it stops having an effect … idle, I guess, when it comes to taking care in our daily dialogue.  In light of all that, you can understand why this video of a local Boulder activist that is currently sweeping the internet caught my eye, with the added bonus that it inherently highlights some of the things I love about this town.  They call it the People’s Republic of Boulder for a reason.

YouTube Preview Image

 

 

Posted in Boulder, Us | Leave a comment

Sacrificing the Smartphone

Posted on February 13, 2013 by Jen

Slave To Your Smart Phone-Mobile Phone Addiction-Cell phone slaves-Technology slavesI laughed when I first saw this picture.  A bitter, cringing laugh that was followed by the thought I didn’t want Jo to see it because she’d enjoy it way too much.  I don’t know about other people but I am an absolute slave to my cell phone.  It started with my first Blackberry when I was introduced to the world of texting and constant connection.  And then along came the iPhone. I resisted the iPhone for years as part of my sanctimonious rejection of all things Apple … oh, how the mighty have fallen. Today, I have an iPhone, an iPod, we have an iPad and I’m currently typing on a Mac.  Coincidentally, I used to mock Starbuck’s as the quintessential yuppy habit and now it’s a place I embrace far too often.  Perhaps, rather than my cell phone habits, I should be examining my obvious tendency to sell out.  But, you know, so many flaws, so little time.

Anyway, my iPhone is not only with me everywhere I go, I’m on it constantly.  Twitter, Facebook, the internet, text messages. My attachment has only increased since we moved as it is a quick and constant connection to old friends while I flounder here with new people who haven’t had the same years to decide it’s easier on everyone to simply find my awkwardness charming.  I love the constant connection to my friends via texting, especially the group text number set up by one of the chosen tribe.  It’s hard to beat the comfort offered from texting your best friend, who will instantly be indignant on your behalf, if you find yourself spending New Year’s Eve in the E.R. after your partner slices her hand trying to cook dinner and the nurse starts flirting with her as if you’re completely invisible … you know, if that just happened to occur.  *ahem*

But my addiction stems beyond texting.  I go to Twitter so I can click on news stories, scan Facebook, there are a few games I like to play, and a few bloggers I read religiously because I’m a sucker for good writing.  In the end, I’m reaching for my phone the second I’m still and oftentimes, when I’m not.  Even I’m beginning to notice I miss half of what’s going on around me.

I’m also beginning to notice my iPhone affair is gaining a bitter tinge to it.  I glance at it sometimes and think “Ugh, would you just leave me alone?” followed by the thought of “Wow, you’re kind of losing it.”  Recognizing irrationality is probably a good sign.  Hopefully.

There is also another aspect.  The Divine Miss M occasionally asks for a cell phone and though we do not think she is ready for one now, the time is coming.  I’ve heard and read a lot about setting ground rules on cell phone usage for kids, including time periods it stays off or has to be put away.  How am I going to enforce such rules if my own use is so completely undisciplined?  Kids can sniff out the slightest amount of hypocrisy when it comes to adults.  Miss M would have a field day with something that glaring.

Ironically, though I’m clearly addicted to most every aspect of the iPhone, I loathe talking on it.  That’s not about the iPhone, I loathe talking on the phone in general.  I’m not sure why.  I think mostly because the only easy time to have an actual phone conversation is when you’re alone … as opposed to being able to ignore everyone around you while you text, tweet, search the web.  I’m rarely alone, though, and I don’t like spending the precious few minutes I am talking to someone else.   However, actual talking it’s going to be because for the next 40 days of Lent, the iPhone is being set aside outside of telephone calls and e-mails.

Yes, I may have just whimpered.

It’s 7:30 p.m. on the first day of Lent.  It’s going to be a long 40 days.

 

 

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Advice and Anniversaries

Posted on February 8, 2013 by Jen

The best advice I ever received in my life is this:

“You don’t have to ride the truck all the way to the dump to know where it’s going.”

I took my last drink of alcohol on February 7, 2007.  ‘Drink’ should be plural because, believe me, if I was capable of taking ‘a’ drink on that night or any night, then I wouldn’t be marking this anniversary.

6 years ago yesterday.  Huh.

I’m likely supposed to feel pride in that accomplishment.  And it’s not that I don’t.  Exactly.  I certainly don’t have negative feelings about it. I just can’t really pinpoint how to describe it and I know pride doesn’t quite fit.

When I think of the quintessential rock bottom, I picture someone waking up in a gutter wondering how they got there, friendless, family-less and broke.  Did I hit that rock bottom?  No.

I’ve written and then deleted descriptions of the year preceding 2/7/2007, especially the preceding six months when I was in a downward spiral of depression and self-destruction, but I can’t quite bring myself to publish that.  Cowardice, shame, whatever.  It wasn’t everyone’s rock bottom, but it was mine.  It took far longer than it should have for me to  acknowledge I had a problem.  It is amazing how well reasonably intelligent, professional, inherently controlling people can hide that sort of thing. And certainly, it takes a while before such people admit they can’t fix themselves.

No-one can hide it forever, though, and eventually, cracks in the surface can’t be smoothed over anymore.  Though I can think of multiple incidents during that last six months that should have forced me to get some help, it was one colossal parenting fail that finally made me look at myself honestly. I hold myself up to impossible parenting standards anyway and to fail spectacularly because I was basically a drunk still makes my skin crawl.  Finally though, finally, I stopped and asked myself, “Really?  This is the person you want to be?”  I’d already lost some friends at that point and my career was beginning to be adversely affected, but I began to get it together.

I don’t deal with daily cravings for a drink and I am usually perfectly comfortable with alcohol in the house.  On the rare occasion I’m not, it is disposed of or taken elsewhere.  I know I can’t take the first drink, because I also know without question, if I take one, I’m incapable of not following it with forty more.  Lay’s potato chips used to say, “You can’t eat just one.”  It’s an apt description of me and vodka.

During the time period following February 7th, I expressed skepticism at my accomplishment since my rock bottom didn’t include a gutter and I still retained most of my possessions; dignity, being intangible and all, doesn’t count.  And that was when a very kind man, who was familiar with my story, explained, “You don’t have to ride the truck all the way to the dump to know where it’s going.”  It may be odd but I find that very comforting.  It seems like such a simple statement, but it has a lot of layers.  Wisdom wrapped in simplicity usually does.

In February 2007, the Divine Miss M was in kindergarten, and blissfully clueless.  The only thing she knows now is that I don’t drink.  It’s been six years.  My life is such a contrast to what it was then.  A partner who remains far out of my league but chose me, anyway.  Miss M who surrounds us with twelve year old sassiness and an enviable amount of moxy.  Living in a town they describe as ‘twenty five miles surrounded by reality,’ my days are filled with mountain views and laid back people and the ability to just be.  I look around at this life I’d never have had if I’d stayed on that truck and I settle on … grateful.  Grateful is the right word.

 

Posted in Grim Reaper, Starting Over | Leave a comment

Daily Decisions of Coming Out

Posted on January 30, 2013 by Jen

Recently, we went to see “8” the Play.  For those not familiar with it, “8″ is a narrative account of the California federal district court trial that overturned Proposition 8, the law that stripped gay and lesbian Californians of their former right to marry.  The script is based on the actual trial transcripts, firsthand observations of what went on in the courtroom and interviews with the plaintiffs and their families.

The play was fabulous, very well performed and there was a particular line in it I found compelling. One of the plaintiffs said something akin to “I make a decision to come out every day.”  “Really?  Every day?” I thought.  “You were a plaintiff in one of the biggest court cases thus far this century.  I’m not sure how you can get more “out” than that.”  Yes, that was my thought for about a millisecond, and then I knew exactly what she meant.

You probably don’t realize how much your conversation or overtures during any given day tells about your family. How often do you reference “husband,” “wife,” “girlfriend,” or “boyfriend”?  How many times do you say one of those words in a sentence?  When the two of you are out, maybe purchasing something at a store or at the bakery getting donuts, do you reference home or ask if the other has ‘the’ debit card? When both of you end up at the store in August shopping for school clothes?  When you fill out paperwork at a doctor’s office?  When you are choosing a birthday present for your significant other and are conversing with the salesperson?  Have you ever said, “I’m trying to decide on this for my husband’s birthday?” or “ … for my wife’s Christmas present?”  When you open your joint checking account? When you’re choosing a Christmas tree and discussing whether it will fit in the living room? When you’re talking to someone sitting next to you on a plane and they make a seemingly innocuous inquiry about your family or holiday plans, how do you answer?  When you live and breathe as a family unit, these things are just part of your daily discourse, not something you think about.  But start paying attention, every single instance you communicate something about your family, that’s generally how many times per day a gay person decides to come out.

It’s also a decision I inherently make in front of our daughter every day.   We don’t lie about our family, anyway, as a rule.  We never wanted her to think it is something to be ashamed of or something that should be hidden.  Of course, she is aware that some people are not accepting, or worse, but she’s never directly faced hateful, bigoted comments or attitudes from adults.  Yet. (Children, on the other hand … Gracious, how I am glad to be out of Oklahoma).  She has stated multiple times that she admires how we stand up for what we believe in and who we are.  She is apparently unaware that I am filled with anxiety even as I’m doing all of this standing up and being who I am.

And while Colorado is certainly no Oklahoma, it’s no utopia, either.  Last May, Denver was ground zero for some of the most bigoted legislative actions this country has seen.  In October, walking down the street in Denver during the Zombie Crawl, I grabbed Jo’s hand without even thinking about it, while M had my other informing us that we would all be dressing up as zombies next year. I realized after about half a block what I was doing and had to decide whether to let go. Ironic that I was surrounded by eyes hanging out of sockets and guts trailing along behind people, while I had to decide whether to walk hand in hand with my partner and our daughter down the crowded street.  But, after all, zombies are just pretend, we are real life.

It would be marvelous if coming out was a one-time event.  You could plan it, get it done, deal with the fallout and if necessary, learn to let go. But that’s not actually how it works.  It’s a decision Every. Single. Day.  There is no moment to exhale, it’s a continuous, never-ending process, ideally best left to those with thick skin.  And if you’re like me and don’t have the thickest of skin, well, you make that decision, anyway.

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Lessons from Our Children

Posted on October 19, 2012 by Jen

shutterstock_115131493It’s humbling, isn’t it, when our kids are braver than we are?  In the past three months, I’ve received a startling lesson from the Divine Miss M about courage, or maybe about never learning to be closed-off.

I’ve learned plenty of other lessons from her before now.  While in elementary school, she reminded me that truly monumental things happen at recess.  A lesson that would serve adults well in our overly-serious grown-up world.  I’ve also surmised since she was born that logic diminishes the magic of life.  When our daughter was a toddler, she was convinced you could take her temperature in her belly-button.  She also believed the lightning bugs in the backyard were fairies and at some point, she had three imaginary friends who didn’t need names beyond the Nobodies, but did need to be tucked in at night. And just when I’d begun to embrace my new found perspective of “well, who’s to say they’re not fairies,” logic came along and she “outgrew” all of that.  But I came away with the wisdom that logic is highly overrated.

As most of you are aware, when we moved this past summer, Miss M came along kicking and screaming the entire way.  She was mad for months before we left and remained so after we arrived. She would occasionally show glimpses of cooperation or excitement but they were brief, and positive thoughts remained steadfastly hidden from our view.

Soon enough, though, she was starting a new school, in a new town, in a new state, with absolutely no intention of making new friends.  Instead, she protested all the way to the schoolhouse door … and then she thrived. She’s made friends, made plans and made a life.  She hangs on to her old friends through phone calls, e-mails, and old-fashioned letters, while having sleep overs, parties and school dances with the new.  When push came to shove, she was willing to give it a chance and when push really came to shove, she was open enough to make room for new people.

I am immensely proud of her, of course, but also a little envious.  I have an amazing, tight-knit circle of girlfriends in Oklahoma.  Friendships initially forged before we all started having children and still had time for forging.  Logically I knew that in moving, I’d have to make new friends, too, just like my daughter.  And how simple that would be, I thought.  It’s Boulder after all, where the only great sins are conformity and failing to respect the environment.

As it turns out, though, it isn’t so simple. Not because of the town or the people but because I’m not nearly as daring as my daughter, and that was a bit of a surprise to me, to be perfectly honest.  It’s been a really long time since I had to start at ground zero when it comes to friends, had to venture beyond my chosen tribe for more than just acquaintances or pals.  There are a few things I’d forgotten about myself, such as, I am exceedingly guarded.  Once a person is in, they’re generally in for life, but I’ve never made it easy to make the cut. I’m personable and friendly, but beyond my inner circle, I keep most people at arm’s length. I also never realized how much my identity was wrapped up in my friends. I read that about Generation X once but I didn’t know that I’d feel so incomplete without them.  I don’t particularly care for this vague but perpetual feeling of floundering.  And the thing is, I know I’m not the only grown-up like this. In fact, I’m likely in the majority.

Since our arrival, we’ve met nice, friendly, probably lovely people, but it takes real effort for me to go beyond friendly pleasantries and superficial conversation.  I forgot how difficult and disconcerting I find this process, and the fact that old friends are as close as a text or an e-mail makes it all the more difficult because it lessens any feeling of necessity.  The electronic age is nothing if not a double-edged sword.

The Divine Miss M, though, at the ripe age of 11, hasn’t learned to be guarded and her old friends aren’t nearly so accessible.  We often consider children naïve and less knowledgeable about the ways of the world, and to a large extent, of course, they are.  But they also possess certain strengths that most adults have simply lost. In the same way children have to be taught hate, maybe they also have to be taught fear, nervousness and anxiety.  There is a quiet, but distinct, bravery in their willingness to be open to not just places or possibilities, but to people, to new friends.  I hadn’t seen that in her before.  In fact, six months ago, I would have told you she didn’t have it, but it surely stands out to me now, as does my own lacking of it.

I’ve told her several times her willingness to make friends here and give it a chance was admirable, and how proud we are of her.  I don’t think I’ve labeled it outwardly as brave, though.  She hasn’t learned the weakness of closing one’s self off just yet and I don’t think I need to draw her attention to it.  Plus, right now, I’m a little pre-occupied with trying to emulate her courage.

 

 

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