My son spoke up on the playground–now it's my turn not to freeze

Yahoo

a day ago

When I came out in the late 90s, my mother warned me that life was going to be harder. Somehow, I don't think she was picturing me, at 48, debating whether it was too late to cancel my eight-year-old son's playdate because I was afraid to tell the boy's parents that I was married to a woman.
Writer Saeed Jones discusses a common misconception about coming out: that it is a one-time event. In reality, it's an act that LGBTQ+ people engage in over and over again. Before coming out, Jones asks, "Is it safe for me to share?"
As a femme-presenting white woman who has lived most of my adult life in New York State, there have only been a handful of times I've felt truly unsafe being out. There was the time a man screamed expletives at my girlfriend and me as we held hands on a New York City sidewalk. There was another time I went apartment hunting with a different girlfriend in a city with no housing discrimination protections for LGBTQ+ people. But now it is different.
Or so I assumed.
My son met his friend at a new public school, which, judging from the numerous Trump signs throughout the district, was a lot more conservative than his old, progressive Montessori school. It wasn't just the signs, though. While local conservative friends said they supported Trump for economic reasons and not any social agenda, I'd read some terrifying language in Project 2025 that defined families composed of a married mother and father as "the foundation of a well-ordered nation and healthy society."
Where did my family fit in that?
There was also an anecdote that my son had shared from the early part of the school year. On the playground, he'd heard one kid say, "Whoever moves first is gay." I found a meme on TikTok that explained it. Apparently, straight men played this 'joke' on other adult men. After the challenge was issued, both men froze in place. Neither wanted to be "gay." My jaw dropped when I watched this from the comfort of my living room, surrounded by my Carhart-clad wife, three cats, and Billie Eilish streaming from the speaker. Were gay jokes still a thing?
Before corporate-sponsored pride parades, legalized same-sex marriage, or The L Word, I'd learned from classmates in the 80s that lesbians were mannish, brutish, or too ugly to get a man. Being gay was even worse. It went beyond a description of one's sexual preference to include any behavior that was considered stupid, immature, or uncool.
I, too, might've frozen back then if someone had called me gay. The meme unsettled me at my core. I couldn't stop thinking about it in the days leading up to the playdate. As a mother, I'm used to pushing past my discomfort for my son, so I didn't cancel. Even so, I couldn't shake the feeling as I joined the boy's parents and younger sister in their cozy living room. As Halloween approached, I turned to small talk, starting with a question about the family's plans for trick-or-treating. The wife told me that she didn't care for the holiday.
"The sugar?" I suggested, remembering my son's unhinged exuberance after inhaling a sleeve of Smarties.
"I'm very religious," she said. "And the holiday is anti-Christian."
I nodded solemnly. It wasn't the best time to mention that my son had chosen a red devil costume this year. Or that my wife and I were planning to be witches, inspired by Katherine Hahn and Aubrey Plaza's sapphic relationship in Agatha All Along. Meanwhile, Jones's question continued to linger in my head.
I thought it was safe when I told my mother about my first college girlfriend. It was the late 90s, and I was confused about my sexuality. I hoped she'd help me understand it, as she did with other challenges I'd faced. But rather than reassure me that everything would be fine, my mother was upset. "Your life will be so much harder if you end up with a woman," she warned me.
Then, she ignored my coming out entirely for years.
Left to my imagination, I pictured how her premonition might come to pass. I might become an object of curiosity, like my short-haired high school math teacher, who was rumored to be a lesbian. I might be shunned by family and friends. I would probably never get married or have a family of my own. However, my lived experience exceeded my mother's expectations significantly. Acceptance of same-sex relationships in the U.S. grew in the early 2000s. In 2015, the Supreme Court ruled that same-sex couples had the right to marry. My wife and I got hitched and had a child.
Over the years, I became comfortable coming out to family members, friends, coworkers, accountants, and online forms. Now, coming out usually means I blithely share with a new acquaintance that I have a wife.
But I felt none of that casual confidence during the playdate. Instead, there was a dryness in my mouth. Something about this heteronormative, anti-Halloween, Game of Life-looking family in this hyper-charged political climate made me sure I knew the answer to Jones's question.
Was it safe to share? No, definitely not.
That's why I didn't reveal that my wife had been making pita bread daily when the husband complimented his wife's bread-making skills. Or, when the wife shared her aversion to ultra-processed foods, I didn't mention that my wife felt the same way. Then I slipped up. The husband teased his wife for obsessively reading labels in the supermarket. This time, I found myself agreeing out loud: "My wife does that, too." Immediately, I realized my error. I tried to cover it up by reciting some facts my wife had told me about carrageenan while hoping—no, praying—that my confession might go unnoticed.
But it was too late. The proverbial (telltale lesbian) cat was out of the bag.
Often in life, the things we think will be big deals turn out to be small deals. This was no exception. The husband immediately asked about my wife. To my surprise, he was welcoming and kind. Before we left, he even suggested getting the boys together again. I was relieved that the parents didn't turn out to be monsters, but I reflected on my own performance during the car ride home. I didn't want my son to get the message he had to hide. Hiding part of myself from the outside world didn't alleviate my suffering. It just turned the pain inward.
After that conversation with my mother, I stopped dating women for a time and began seeking out men instead. It took me a long time to become comfortable with my sexuality and permit myself to be me. If I learned anything from my own coming out, it's that you can't protect people from being who they are. In my son's case, his story is already written: His parents are two women. Even if I don't blab it to a bunch of strangers, it will still be true. But beyond my personal story, the interaction made me realize another vital reason for coming out.
It reminds others that people like me and families like mine exist.
I've also found that coming out can be a path to connection—something critical in this time of political divisiveness. My experience with coming out to strangers is that my sharing often engenders a greater openness on their part. They might mention that they have a gay sibling or a close friend who's gay. In one instance, a seemingly straight person revealed a same-sex relationship in their own past.
While Trump is eroding the rights of LGBTQ+ people with sweeping executive orders, state lawmakers are urging the Supreme Court to overturn the federal right to same-sex marriage. Meanwhile, others in power are staying silent. I'm thinking about my own ability to fight for the rights of LGBTQ+ people. I often feel defeated. Rights can be abstract, especially if your own aren't at stake. But one thing I do have is this small act: the power to tell another person face-to-face that I exist.
And if I lose my nerve, I need only think of my son.
Recently, he told me that someone challenged him on the playground with the "whoever moves first is gay" meme. I tensed up, imagining him freezing in a sea of boys, but he told me that he talked back to the boy in a matter-of-fact voice. "You shouldn't say that. It's not nice to people who are gay."
My son didn't freeze. Next time, I won't either.
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