To Be Normal
Nobody was gay. It was 1979, and my mother left my sisters and I standing in a driveway, sobbing. My family was shattered, I had a second mother, and nobody was gay.
I was 5.
A gay mom meant no sleepovers, no playdates. A brand new family, and isolation.
A gay mom also meant a home of our own, rooms of our own. Dinner on the table every night. A place to go when my father once again lost control of his temper. I still bear those scars too. Sometimes it’s hard to know which ones show more.
My childhood wasn’t happy. I wish on one the anger, isolation, or deep knowledge that I would never, ever fit in. No one should have my childhood. No gay child. No trans child. No child of gay parents.
For children of gays in most places, there is pride, openness, there are playdates and sleepovers. As it should be.
My mother didn’t choose to be gay. I spent much of my life trying to fit in. To be normal. To not be contaminated.
Because that was why no playdates or sleepovers, and few friends. Because back then, gay was thought to be catching.
It is 2016, and my life is a happy one. And while gays are still isolated and gunned down, we have come a long, long way.
It is 2016 and people are gay. And their children are out. And that is as it should be.