A Journey In Therapy From Homophobia To Acceptance

Several years ago, an adolescent boy was killed in a hate crime targeting an LGBTQ+ community center. The family set out for a normal day. Instead, their world crashed. “Montford” had never come out to his family members, who were shocked to discover that their 15-year-old son/brother/cousin/nephew had been murdered at a social event for gay teens. 

Montford’s aunt “Kate” and uncle “Stan” lived in a city near me, in a different state from Montford. A mutual friend referred them to my psychology practice.

Struggling with the initial wave of shock, Kate and Stan sat in my office for our first meeting. Before I could say a word, they began to speak. 

“Our friend said you were comfortable with those people,” Kate anxiously.

“Which people?” I asked.

“Gay people,” Stan shifted nervously.

I nodded.

Stan then stated he wanted an objective opinion. 

“An objective opinion about what?” At this point, the tension spiked so high that I asked quietly, “What’s not being said here?”

The floodgates burst open.  

It was “unacceptable” that Montford was gay, Kate stated. “Ridiculous, actually.” 

“He didn’t even like fashion!” Stan added. “He was on the football team!” 

“There was nothing gay about him!” Kate.

“He can’t be gay!” Stan. 

“He must have been at the LGBTQ Center by accident.” Kate.

“Maybe he was lost and asking for directions.” Stan.

“The entire situation makes no sense.” Kate.

As one spoke, the other nodded then jumped in, overlapping. They left no room for discussion as they frantically threw out an avalanche of reasons why Montford couldn’t possibly have been gay. Finally, they paused and looked at me expectantly. I waited a few seconds to see if they’d tolerate a short moment of quiet, but quiet wasn’t on their agenda. Kate leapt in. 

“You believe us, don’t you? He can’t be gay!” 

I listened closely, trying to figure out a path into a productive therapy.

“I can’t think about anything else,” Stan said.

“We can’t even ask Montford about it. We’re stuck with it.” Kate’s eyes filled.

With that comment, she gave me an opening. “I think I understand what you’d like from me — to help you get unstuck, so you can mourn the way you need to.”

They both nodded.

“I want to ask something that you might not expect. Why is it so important that Montford wasn’t gay?”

They talked about their relationship with their nephew, and with Stan’s brother and sister-in-law, Montford’s parents, who also had no idea that he was gay and couldn’t believe it was true. Kate and Stan’s son “Gil,” loved his cousin and was heartbroken to lose him. The boys were the same age and spent two weeks every summer visiting each other, alternating homes.

Stan explained that Gil’s reaction puzzled them. “He doesn’t seem to care whether or not Montford was gay. He’s not focussed on that at all. It’s very strange.” 

I tried again. “Can I say something that may seem even more strange?”

They nodded.

“Let’s substitute the word dead for the word gay.” 

They exchanged a confused glance, so I did it for them.

“Montford can’t be dead. It’s ridiculous that Montford is dead. It must have been an accident that he’s dead. It makes no sense that he’s dead. There’s nothing dead about him.”

There was a long pause and they both began to cry. 

Finally Kate spoke: “It’s much easier to focus on the gay piece than the dead piece.”

Session after session, layer by layer, Kate and Stan grieved. I couldn’t take away their pain, or rush their grieving process. Worst of all, I couldn’t bring Montford back to life. But I could offer them a different path, so that their grieving was, in Kate’s words, “no less painful, but a lot less impossible.”

As they worked through the harsh initial stage of mourning, I wondered if they’d ever be willing to address their homophobia. As it turned out, their son Gil helped the process move forward. Gil’s best friend came out to him. When he told his parents, saying he was so glad his friend felt safe telling him, Kate shook her head.

“Wow,” she said, “I never would have guessed. He always seemed so normal.”

Stan grinned. “Did he try to hit on you? I’ll bet he did. You’re a good looking guy!”

They were completely taken aback when Gil shouted at them and stormed out. 

Kate opened the next session. “Gil thinks we’re homophobic assholes.”

“An exact quote,” Stan said.

“Do you think you’re homophobic assholes?”

They both blinked then laughed, surprised by my language. 

Kate took a deep breath. “I think maybe Gil’s right.”

Stan nodded. “I hate to admit it, but he has a point.”

“Why do you hate to admit it?” I needed to see whether he’d follow through or veer away from this part of himself.

“I don’t want to be an asshole,” Stan looked down. 

“I don’t want to be a bigot,” Kate added.

I held my voice calm. “So you’ve both realized you don’t like a part of yourselves.”

They nodded.

“What do you each want to do about it?” I asked softly, carefully non-confrontational.

This was a turning-point moment in therapy. My job was to show them they had a choice; their job was to choose. Many patients would have chosen to leave the treatment at that point rather than face the painful work ahead. The choice had to belong to them, so I waited. Their eyes locked.

“I feel like a jerk,” Kate said quietly. “I mean, Gil’s best friend is a normal guy. That hasn’t changed one bit. What I said was idiotic.”

“Not as idiotic as making a joke like I did,” Stan winced. 

“When we first met,” I said, “you were both  focussing on Montford’s being gay because it was less painful than focussing on his death. You were using homophobia to protect yourselves from something that felt more painful. Do you think that’s a piece of what’s going on now?”

We then embarked on one of the most difficult phases of their therapy as they confronted the intersection of their grief for Montford and their homophobia.

Kate wondered “why Montford never told anyone he was gay.”

They tossed ideas back and forth until Stan suddenly caught his breath.

“What’s wrong?” Kate turned to her husband.

He cleared his throat. “Montford didn’t tell anyone because the whole family is filled with homophobic assholes. My brother, my sister-in-law, the two of us. He was probably afraid to tell Gil, because of us. It’s our fault.”

“He must have felt so alone,” Kate whispered.

Over the next several sessions, they talked about what that must have been like for Montford to know he was gay and to be surrounded by people he couldn’t safely tell. 

This led to their both talking about their own secrets, the parts of themselves they felt they had to hide. 

As a child, Kate was a talented cellist, but also aced her math and science classes. She held a Ph.D. in biology and taught at a nearby college. She never told anyone how much she missed music, which her family considered “frivolous.” 

Stan grew up in a family of academics, and he taught chemistry at a university. But he had given up his secret dream, to become a chef. “A kitchen is like a lab. A lot of it is chemistry, except unlike in the lab, you create something wonderful to eat and you can share it with people you love. But where I came from…” Stan trailed off as a thought took hold. “Where I came from cooking was for girls, not guys. When I was little, I’d help my mother in the kitchen. But when I was around ten, my parents started making jokes that I was gay.” Stan closed his eyes. “So I stopped cooking, grew up, and did a version of the same thing to Montford and to Gil’s best friend.”

Over time, they both grieved for Montford, for themselves, for the pain they felt as they hid core parts of themselves, for the much greater pain Montford must have felt, for the closeness they might have had with Montford if they had been more accepting.

“It was us and them,” Kate explained. “We were the us, and anyone who was gay was the them.”

I asked why they thought they had focused so much of their us/them mentality on gay folks.

Stan shrugged sadly. “They’re an easy target. I was on the basketball team in high school. My teammates were always hassling the gay kids. I never stepped in, never stopped them, told gay jokes. I was a coward.”

“I was just as bad,” Kate admitted. “I didn’t care. I didn’t bother to notice when someone was being targeted. I let it happen, sometimes right in front of me, and I just walked away like it was nothing. I was a coward, too.”

I could feel their shame permeate the room, threatening to stop them in their tracks, shut down the issue. So I asked if they could acknowledge the courage involved in admitting cowardice.

A long pause followed.

“Maybe we can change,” Stan quietly. “Starting now.”

“For Montford,” Kate didn’t wipe her tears. “And for us. We’ve missed a lot.”

“We can never make it up to Montford,” Stan said sadly.

Kate nodded. “I failed him. But I can learn.”

“It took us too long to get there, but we’re here now.” Stan reached for her hand.

At the end of the treatment, Kate had started “my own little orchestra” — five friends, five instruments, playing together every month in an informal concert for their families. At each gathering, Stan planned the menu and cooked for the event. Anyone who wanted to cook with him was welcome. “Every time we’re in the kitchen and they call me chef, I feel great,” he smiled. In the colleges where they now taught, both Kate and Stan became active in the LGBTQ/Straight alliances. They began hosting an annual social event in their large yard, with Stan flipping burgers and veggies on their outdoor grill, bringing the two college alliances together. 

Two years after our first meeting, we said goodbye. As Kate and Stan walked out of my office for the last time, she turned at the door.

“There’s a path for everyone to become an ally. All you have to do is take the first step. Stan and I will be there, waiting for you.”

“And Montford,” Stan said quietly. “Montford will always be there, too.”

*All identifying information in this essay has been changed.

*This post was first published on Medium, on the platform Prism & Pen.

Defending Normal

It’s hard to defend normal.

The quirks every person carries hidden within — the eccentricities we all display — the oddities we’re barely aware of that cause others to stare and quickly look away. Ironically, in healthy humans, many abnormalities are actually signs of normality. The issue becomes confusing because in our culture, all Normal is not created equal. 

For instance — suppose I put a bright blue streak down the middle of my bushy gray hair. Most likely, people would smile and shake their heads in quiet amusement. Some might find me ridiculous, but others might admire my moxie. 

Suppose a teenager put the same bright blue streak down the middle of her thick brown hair, and gave a speech to support #NeverAgain. Her blue streak might draw an entirely different reaction. For people who disagree with gun control, hunting for a way to discredit that girl — her blue streak would provide the perfect lightning rod. “She’s just a teen pitching a tantrum; I mean, c’mon, look at that blue streak!”

Suppose a gay or lesbian parent put a blue streak in his or her or their hair. For those uncomfortable with same sex moms and dads, an entirely different reaction would rocket to the surface. “Gays and lesbians shouldn’t be parents; I mean, c’mon, look at that blue streak!”

The LGBTQ+ community continues to be under attack, and Oklahoma has now enabled adoptions to be banned if the parents are gay men or lesbian women, single mothers or interfaith couples. To me, the LGBTQ+ spectrum, added to cisgender and straight, is simply the range of normal. But as I said, it’s hard to defend normal. If you’re determined to find quirks in these potential parents, you’ll have no trouble finding them, not because they’re gay or trans or single or bi or straight or interfaith or non binary — but because they’re human. If you’re equally intent on viewing those quirks as flaws, then you’ll disqualify a lot of loving and stable homes. 

We all carry a blue streak of one kind or another, literal or figurative. But a blue streak in a cisgender, straight, white mother of three grown children (my own description) is often assigned a vastly different meaning from that same blue streak in others. If somebody makes you uncomfortable, then suddenly their blue streak is evidence of a character deficit. All blue streaks are not created equal.

If you’re judging parents for being gay men or lesbian women, then I wonder if you’ve actually met LGBTQ+ parents. Do you know them well? Did you have a friendly conversation, or were you digging for evidence of flaws? I do know lesbian parents, gay parents, cis parents, bi parents, trans parents, straight parents, other parents —  we’re all in the community of parents. Would you consider that maybe, possibly, we might share more common ground than you expect?

Confused Children (Or Not…)

What is it about lesbian moms and gay dads that sends thoughtful and rational folks off the rails? I’ve had versions of the following conversations too many times.

Conversation #1

“I draw the line at gay parents.”

Why?

“Because the children will be confused.”

Conversation #2

“Children need a mom and a dad.”

Why?

“Because the children will be confused.”

Conversation #3

“It’s one thing to be gay, and another thing to impose it on children.”

Why?

“Because the children will be confused.”

At this point, faced with a National Epidemic of Confused Children, I ask the same question: “Do you know any same-sex parents?” Almost always, the answer is NO.

But I do. I know families with two dads and two moms. Down the line, the kids are quite clear about the identities of each parent, about their own identities, about their places in their families. Of course the kids have issues, and if you’re bound and determined to Blame The Gay, then I can’t stop you. But honestly, all kids have issues; it’s the nature of growing up.

So let’s reconsider. Are these children truly confused?

NO. And YES.

As a parent of three, I’ve seen the world through the eyes of two developing boys and one developing girl. I’ve learned that the world is a confusing place. Why do we eat in one room, but not another? Why are some words fine at home, but forbidden at school? Why do we say “thank you” to a friend for candy, and the same “thank you” to our doctor for a shot? If kicking is wrong, why isn’t soccer illegal? How can bite and sight possibly rhyme, and what in the world is an irregular verb?

Every day presents challenges, and many are confusing. But the issues that confuse a child are not always the same issues that confuse an adult. If you know any kids who have two moms or two dads, then you know that these children are not at all confused by their family constellation. However, other people’s reactions are quite problematic. Other adults look in, hunting with determined tenacity until they find a sign that the child is somehow at risk, or the parents are somehow deficient. The issue here is not a confused child, but rather a confused adult. What confuses the child are the baffling reactions of these adults, and of the children who follow their cues.

Each subculture has its own set of unspoken, unwritten, complex rules and expectations. But same-sex parents are just moms and dads, raising their kids, forming a family. As a mother of three grown children, I can count on parenthood to remain extremely straightforward and totally confusing. I’ll always welcome all parents of any gender to help me figure it out.

 

Waiting To Forget

When I entered my final trimester of my first pregnancy, I craved every detail of my friends’ birthing experiences. Some shared their stories frame by frame. But I heard from many moms that they didn’t remember much and that I, too, would forget the hardest parts of labor. I was told that the pain would fade, and I’d hold onto the positives: the excitement of beginning contractions, my newborn in my arms. I do remember those wondrous moments. But I also remember the feeling that I’d never get through, the exhaustion with no end in sight, the panic that I’d turn out to be a medical miracle: the only woman in history whose labor lasted forever.

This was nearly 24 years ago, and I’m still waiting to forget.

My first labor lasted forty hours, and I worked with two labor nurses, both extraordinary. My first nurse brought me through endless contractions while my cervix stubbornly remained three centimeters dilated. A doctor examined me around 12 hours into my labor, and I remember his voice: “You’ll feel some pressure.” I answered, “Go right ahead. You could drive a tractor in, and I wouldn’t feel a thing.” To my complete surprise, the doctor, my husband and my labor nurse all laughed. I hadn’t meant to be funny; I was speaking a simple truth.

I remember exactly what my contractions felt like. The tightening in my outer thighs, radiating to my inner thighs. Then, like a vise, clamping my entire pelvis in a slow-motion internal stretching. Stress to pain to something beyond impossible.

I remember when my first nurse left with the change of shift. I lay in a haze, and realized I was feeling a new set of hands. I was spent, wracked, beyond speech. My second nurse recognized I was in an alternate space, unreachable by the spoken word, so she placed her hands on me. Eyes closed, panting quietly, I thought: “These are the hands of a healer.”

Thirty-eight hours into my labor, I remember gripping my husband’s hands – large hands, with hair on the back – and thinking I had never known such comfort. I remember the moment when the head crowned, thinking through a shock-wave of pain: “It feels like a burning bowling ball.”

When my baby was born, they nestled him in my arms. His eyes were wide, and we stared at each other. He stopped crying immediately, his warmth mingling with mine. Tears filled my eyes — not from pain, not from exhaustion, but from wonder.

For years, I waited to forget the hardest parts. Finally the obvious hit me: I’d never forget because I didn’t want to. Sure it was tough; it’s called “labor” for good reason. But labor was a crucial part of my journey. I’ll never forget because remembering is woven into my fabric. It’s with me, in me, here to stay. Exactly where it belongs.

If My Child Came Out As Trans

I wonder how I’d react if my child came out as Transgender.

I don’t have experience with this, either in my own family or with close friends, and I won’t pretend to be an expert. But the world has lost too many — trans children, adolescents and adults — who felt too unsupported, too misunderstood, too tormented to go forward. Yes, I feel judgmental toward their families and communities, for their lack of support. But it’s relatively easy to feel judgmental, and much harder to figure out how to help. I want to try to help. So I’m imagining one possible scenario, step by step. To avoid a confusing array of pronouns, I’ve chosen to write about a young person with an assigned male gender at birth, whose gender identity is female. However, I think the issues will hold true for a transgender boy or girl, any gender, and for his, her or their family.

I’m imagining the conversation:

“Mom, can we talk?”

“Sure.” (Uh oh. Torpedoed a test? Drugs or alcohol? Speeding ticket?)

“I don’t know how to say this.”

“Okay, whatever it is, I’ll help you through.”

“I know everyone thinks I’m a boy, but I feel like a girl.”

Thud of silence.

In that instant, we’d be launched on a new trajectory, a hairpin turn, a lightning-bolt surprise journey. I imagine my first reaction would be shock that my most basic assumption about my child was wrong, and always had been.

My boy is a girl?

In an instant, my confidence in my parenting would be shaken to the core.

What else have I missed?

The guilt would hit, with anger on its heels. I’d feel guilty that my child had carried this alone for so long, and at the same time angry that she had kept something so huge from me for so long. I’d feel guilty for missing something so fundamental, and furious at her for slamming me with this magnum-force news bulletin.

Breathe. Just breathe.

I’d try to steady myself, because even though something huge would have changed, much would not have changed at all. She would still be my child – the same values of decency, the same wicked sense of humor, the same love for chocolate, the same conviction that okra and garden snails and Vaseline are biologically related and equally unfit for human consumption. She’d complete physics assignments with the same ease, continue her struggle reading music, and remain strikingly unable to complete a sentence without saying “like” or “y’know”. My child would still be my child.

Then the doubts would hit again.

This can’t be happening.

I’d remember my son, actually my daughter, as a newborn. Our first relationship to our children is through their bodies. We hold them, feed them, change them. We feel their foreheads for fever, and rock them to sleep in our arms. We develop a powerful bond with the body of our child, a physical and emotional connection, bone-deep. The foundation of our entire relationship stems from our child’s body.

That foundation misled me, betrayed me.

Then I hope I’d put on the brakes. My daughter did not mislead or betray me, and neither did her body. My own assumptions about her body did. I’d remind myself not to take it out on my child, and in turn, I’d ask her not to blame me for giving her a body that doesn’t match her identity.

We can get through this.

I’d feel a moment of calm, a quiet confidence. Then my emotions would surge, and run rampant. I’d be mortified to find myself up to my eyeballs in “wrong” feelings — politically incorrect, insensitive, hurtful, bigoted.

Did I do something wrong, make a terrible mistake that caused this?

Feelings don’t always make sense, or follow the rules of rationality. I’d try to be patient with my own “wrong” reactions. Does that mean I’d accept these wrong feelings, welcome them? No. But I’d allow myself the time I needed to process this new situation, to blaze an emotional trail. And as I struggled, I’d be surprised to realize that in some ways, my world had become a lot easier.

So much makes sense that I didn’t understand before.

I imagine that part of my reaction would be relief. I’d remember things my son did and said, which puzzled me at the time. I’d now realize that was not my son, but actually my daughter acting and speaking, and her behavior and words would make sense. I’d feel guilty that I didn’t follow up at the time, and possibly save my daughter years of pain and confusion. I’d wonder if I could ever forgive myself.

I never thought I’d be dealing with this.

At that point, I hope I’d pause, and begin to regain perspective, because that sentiment is felt by every parent, many times, in raising children. Kids are full of surprises, and the one sure-bet for parents is the unexpected. I hope my sense of humor would kick back in, to steady me, and I’d be able to smile at my emotional clumsiness. I’d feel the beginnings of a stronger bond with my child, a bond of truth and authenticity.

I love her so much, but I need support, and so does she.

I’d reach out. I’d talk to friends. I’d also find a new community of people who shared my experience. I’d encourage my daughter to do the same. No secrets, no shame. I would certainly encounter ignorance and bigotry. Worse, my child would be hurt at times by misguided people who’d feel a push to lash out. I’d be unable to protect her from being hurt, but I’d make sure our home remained a safe haven.

I hope that if my child ever came out as Transgender, we’d stand side by side. If I needed to cry, that would be okay, as long as I left room for her tears. I would try to accept my full reaction, and support my daughter through her full reaction, not allowing my emotions to eclipse hers.

I’d mess up, sometimes badly. If needed, I’d apologize. I’d ask questions. I’d learn. I’d encourage my daughter to do the same. I’d fall so many times I’d leave skid marks. But whether on our feet or on our asses, even shaken to the core, we’d love each other. We’d go forward as a family, a newly configured family – with a daughter instead of a son. Sometimes we’d walk tall; sometimes we’d stumble. We’d hold out our hands, helping each other regain balance. We’d talk. We’d eat our favorite foods, and enjoy our favorite activities. We’d have fun. Like always. Because we’d still be the same people, only we’d understand each other with a new clarity.

We’d figure it out.

Together.