The Family We Choose

I was writing in my memory journal and it brought up some very real and important ideas to me. Things I hadn't really thought about, but define me as a person and how I interact with other people. The funny part is, as I continue to study my heritage, my kin has been doing this for a while. I didn't even really know that. I just felt so natural.

I do think that a little introduction is important so that people can understand the back story and how I got to where I am today. When I was young, around 3 or 4, my mother and I sat in JB's waiting for my father to pick me up for my weekend with him. He normally picked me up in the late morning/early afternoon. We went down early to get breakfast and waited. Mid afternoon came and went, and my father was nowhere to be found. I kept telling my mom that he would be there. He never came.

My mom took me home. I was silent during the whole car ride. My eyes burned. I dashes from the car to my room, too afraid to let anyone see me cry. I slammed to door and sat against it and just sobbed. My chest hurt and I felt I couldn't catch my breath. My mom tried to come in; to soothe me and tell me everything was ok. But I wouldn't let her in the room. There was nothing that could soothe that ache. I felt unwanted and unloved.

Eventually, my breathing got under control. But my heart was broken. My eyes were still flooded with tears. I wouldn't leave my room. It is the only time in my life that I cried in my sleep. My mom told me, years later, that she did come in while I slept and held my hand. When I woke up, I was different. I was convinced that my father would not be the only blood relative that would leave me.

Weird thoughts for a kid, but since that time, I have had two families. The family I was born into and the family that I choose. Don't get me wrong, I love my blood kin. My mother is probably the most important person in my world. Yes, that makes me a bit of a Mama's boy. For all the fighting we get into, she gave me my life and I hold her very dear. However, I don't necessarily see eye to eye with my parents. It is a bit ironic, I became the person they raised me to be: independent, forward-thinking, and opinionated. Yet, these same characteristics mean that I am not much interested in the things that they are passionate about.

That is where my other family comes in. Most of the people in this family started out as friends. They have grown into brothers, sisters, parents, uncles/aunts, grandparents, or various untitled members. I have a strong sense of familial affection for these folks and I am fierce loyal and protective towards them. While there are many people that consider, like the picture states, that friends are the family we choose for ourselves. However, for me, the group of people that I consider my family are not merely friends.  Once you have become family, I feel obligated to do what I can to take care of you when you need it (and sometimes when you don't).

I am far from the only person in my family that does this. My mother collects kids, adopting many of my friends, as well as adopting grand kids in the absence of her own. She shared with me that her mother was the same way. We sometimes adopt those that are most in need of family, and I certainly do that as well. In researching my Irish heritage, I came across an interesting meaning/history for my mother's maiden name: Riley. Ó Raghallaigh, which means “grandson of Raghallach.” The name Raghallach is thought to come from a compound of ragh, meaning “race” and ceallach, meaning sociable. I have heard that this trait of adopting new members goes back a ways.

Oh, is this your Wife?

I saw a great picture recently saw this picture come across my Facebook feed. Being in a gay relationship, I have had people ask this question a number of times. And it gets more frustrating each time it's asked.

The hardest one was from my mother. I called her to share with her that my partner and I had exchanged rings. It was private, just something between us. I meant the world to us. We sobbed and held each other and promised to be with one another for the remaining days of our life. The first person we called after was my mother. We were still in the car. Britain was holding my hand as I dialed. We were still teared up, and my eyes were blurry from the tears as I dialed the number. She picked up and a smile spread from ear to ear.

"I have something to tell you," I knew I was going to be a smart ass. "We're pregnant."
"Oh my... wait, what?" She was very confused.
"Nah, Britain and I wanted you to be the first to know," I took a deep breath. "We exchanged rings."
There was a moment of silence and then she finally spoke up. "That's great. Are you the wife?"

My heart sank when she asked the question.

Growing up, I would occasionally act effeminate. When I would do it, it wasn't because I thought I was a girl or even that I was gay. It just felt natural. My mother had the same response each time: "You are too butch to be gay." It was her mantra. Any time I would act "girly" or "gay it up" she would tell me that. It was her way of telling me to man up and act like a boy.

Toys were another place she would try to "butch" me up. For years, I asked for an Easy-Bake Oven for Christmas or my birthday. When Santa failed to bring it, I would ask why he didn't bring me the one thing I really wanted. My mother's response was,"Santa doesn't bring girl toys to boys." I should have figured the whole Santa thing out sooner. Maybe if I asked my Grandma for it, I would have found it under the tree. My Grandma was the one that would get me all my Care Bears and other "softer" toys.

These memories flashed through my mind when my mother asked me if I was the wife. I was hurt and offended. I suppose I had associated a number of negative feelings with being feminine in any way. I felt like I was a man. I dress like a man. I was raised to be a man and I am a man. Why the hell would I be the wife?

After a moment, I answered, "No." I know I sounded a bit indignant.

"Is Britain the wife," she sounded extremely confused.

"No." I wanted to yell. I am a man. He is a man. There is no wife. Relationships do not need a perfect binary experience of male/female or husband/wife to be validated.

"Well then how do you..." I cut her off. I finally realized what was prompting her questions. I have never had THAT talk with my mother. And, while we do have a pretty open relationship, I don't imagine I will ever have that talk with her.

I have had similiar experiences when some of my wonderful heterosexual friends have asked these types of questions. I have come to realize that in many cases, they are not asking because they want to define our relationship through heteronormative roles. It is more like when you are trying to learn a new language. If you have a native tongue, you are often going to filter other languages through it. And I do appreciate when my friends have even reached out to learn the lingo or idioms, like tops and bottoms or pitchers and catchers. It is still frustrating that they want to define relationship roles through something as private as what we do in the bedroom. However, for me, I have realized that I define myself by what I do in the bedroom. After all, I proudly announce to the world on a regular basis that I am a homosexual man.

Most people, once they get to know Britain and I realize that our relationship isn't really about husband and wife or any other role-specific terms. Hell, even in our own relationship, we have a hard time really defining roles. Sometimes, we are partners or lovers; at other times we are best friends; some days we act very much like siblings; and sometimes, we act like the parent of the other.  But in the end, the roles I prefer are just simply Brit and Will.

For those straight folks, friends, families, and allies, my best advise is to not make assumptions based on your own personal experience as to who is what in the relationship. Even within heterosexual relationships, gender roles don't always apply to who or what your function. If your friends are open, they may explain how things work. They might not. Listen for titles they may use to describe one another. I usually refer to Britain as my husband, husbear or partner, depending on the audience. He usually picks the same ones. Ask them if they are ok with you using them to refer to the other. I am always fine with people asking about Britain using any of those terms. And know that we love that you are interested and want to be accepting and loving of who we are. It means alot to us.

Good Grief

Recently, a dear friend of mine passed away. It was so sudden -- jarring. Friday morning, he posted the he was going to be at the hospital having a CT done on his back to see if he had a degenerated disc. Sunday, his wife posted that he was being placed in a medically induced hypothermia and they hoped to know more soon. Somehow, he had spinal meningitis. Monday, they took him out of hypothermia, but he was still in a coma. Wednesday he was pronounced brain dead and Thursday, they took him off of the machines. He passed that day.

I went to work Wednesday night, I was told that the family said that anyone that wanted to come by was welcome to do so before they took him off support. In my heart, I wanted to go. To see him and to say good bye. To tell him that he was a good man, a great friend, a wonderful father to his little girl. I wanted to tell him that he would be missed. But I couldn't, but not because of a lack of desire.

When I was younger, my grandmother had hip replacement surgery and ended up with a staph infection inside where the new ball met the socket. She was on antibiotics for the rest of her life. I would frequently go to the hospital to visit her. I hated seeing her like that. One day, my father went in to see her and I was a couple steps behind. She was crying. She told my father that she was tired of dieing every day just to wake up in the morning. It stirred something inside me. She didn't want to keep up like that and wanted it all to be over. My father stopped me from coming in and we left. After that, I couldn't go to her. It was like the person I wanted to see was already dead; in her place was some half-self.

At her funeral, I couldn't be somber  I understood that was expected. But I just couldn't do it. She had finally passed and she was no longer in pain, wishing to die. She was free of it all. I understand, that God only gives us what we can handle. But we are mortal. Or frames are fragile. And there comes a point when we as the living/feeling part can no longer handle it. I wanted to celebrate, not sullenly hold on to the memory. I felt like she would have wanted it that way. That she would have been frustrated with how we were choosing to remember her.

To this end, I wore a bright colored shirt, shorts and sandals . It was the first time that I offended someone for being me. They were upset that I was not mourning as they mourned. That I was not grieving. They felt that I was childish and immature. But it was at the same time that I realized that there are many ways to grieve. Probably as many ways as there are people. Just because I was celebrating, did not mean that I was not hurting. Bur I felt there was a time to grieve and there was a time to celebrate. And now, in the church, was a time to celebrate. To not look back with regret, but to look back and see a woman who truly lived.

My time to grieve came a few years later. Due to letting my grandfather, who had lost his mind, have the ashes -- they ended up lost as well. But finally came the time for her to be u interred. I wept like I did the day my father left my life. He cried and cried and could not stop. I missed her so terribly and I knew that she would never be early again. That she was gone. It is still raw thinking about it.

My friend's funeral is tomorrow. I have learned that funerals are for the living. Too often, though, they forget what the person's life was like while they were alive. Each of us have something to celebrate  I won't be at my friend's funeral. And for those that will be, I pray that your grief not last long and that your heart remain heavy only for a moment. While he passed away young, with a new wife and child left behind, he had a good life. And for those that live, remember to live life so that when you pass you will be celebrated. Don't hold on to the woulda's, shoulda's and coulda's. They will take up more time than you need to give Them. Live your life so that others can say, "This man/woman truly lived." And remember that everyone grieve's differently. Just because they do not do the same as you, that they loved the person less.