I say fear, because that is the root of most intolerance in the world.
Most fear that causes intolerance is fear of the unknown.
I sat across from my mother at a little paint-your-own pottery place. Shocked. Tears streaming.
"What's wrong?" she asked me.
"Don't worry about it," I replied.
I couldn't tell her why. I couldn't tell her because I knew it would not just cause a scene. It would cause a rift, and my heart just couldn't take any more grief.
Any more loss.
I looked at my mother, trying to make sense of the words that had jus come out of her mouth.
My mother, who delivered meals to AIDS patients. Who marched for equality.
My mother, who had me come down to SoCal to talk to members of her congregation because she wanted them to understand how to respectfully treat and speak to transfolk, when their choir director walked into the church one day, no longer trying to pretendshe was something she knew in her heart of hearts that she was not.
My mother, who, when she was young, got on a bus and traveled for hours and hours to march with Martin Luther King.
How were these words coming out of her mouth?
"Well, I just don't AGREE with it. I don't think it's right. It's not natural. They shouldn't be FLAUNTING it in PUBLIC."
All things that had been said by hateful, fearful people over the years, when talking about mixed race relationships. When talking about gay couples. When talking about transfolk. When talking about so many vulnerable people who have done nothing, NOTHING wrong, only had the bravery to be true to who and what they are.
I had brought up, oh-so-casually, the concept of polyamory. I had told her it was becoming quite common to see poly dynamics in the bay area- relationships with more than two people, all consenting adults, who love more than one person. A parent, I told her, can love more than one child. A child can love more than one parent. A sibling can love more than one sibling. A person can love more than one friend. There are people, I said, who loved more than one person in the romantic sense, too, and when they are lucky, are able to form a family with more than one person.
"Oh, I've SEEN THEM, believe me," she said, "when your sister and I went to a music festival. They were all sitting on a blanket." Her voice was dripping with deirsion and disgust. "They shouldn't have been FLAUNTING it and SHOVING IT IN EVERYONE'S FACES like they were PROUD of themselves or something."
"Were they doing something inappropriate for public? Anything monogamous couples don't do all the time without it bothering people?"
"Well... no, I guess not, but it's NOT RIGHT. I just can't agree with that."
We went back and forth, a little bit more, and then I dropped it. Salt blended with the glaze on the bowl I was painting.
I knew, in that moment, that I couldn't share my family with my parents. I would never have the support of my mom and dad, which I so desperately needed.
I knew, in that moment, that I couldn't tell her that one of my beloveds, with whom I had been for over four and a half years, was dying, and I was so heartbroken. I couldn't tell her that it broke my heart twice over, becuase I felt so helpless while the cancer ate away at him, made him suffer, robbed him of everything that made him who he was, stole away his dignity, his light, quieting his great, strong hands... and because he was pushing me away. Pushing me away so hard, while he lay there dying, that I hadn't even been able to see him for two months. That I wasn't sure I'd ever see him alive again.
I'd talked about him, but not who he was in my life. Not that he was a beloved partner. So close to my heart. She'd made sympathetic noises, but as far as she knew, he was a friend, and a bit of a mentor, but I have many friends. She didn't know, and wouldn't ever know, I realized, that I felt so alone in my grief at times. That I wasn't ready to lose a partner, not like this, so soon. That when he died, he'd leave a crater in my heart. That the grief weighed on me, every day, like a great stone in my chest, choking me, coating my tongue in ash.
And that someday, if I ever found someone who cared enough to love me, to show my little family that they were safe and could be trusted, to become a part of our family, I would have to fight like hell, and I might lose my beloved parents.
Because I will never treat my family like a shameful secret. I will NEVER hurt someone by making them pretend to be "just this friend of mine." I will never be someone's dirty little secret again, and I will never put someone in that place. I will never treat someone I love like they have to be hidden, like they aren't worthy of being loved, and being introduced, with pride, as family.
Never.
I learned to stand up, to fight, to be brave.
I learned it from the persom my mother once was.
