Broken Horses

Not only did we end up with 4 copies of Broken Horses by Brandi Carlile so we could attend a handful of the virtual book tour events, but I also downloaded the audiobook because she recorded 30 songs to include in it. We listened to it during a quick getaway to Flagstaff this weekend.

I was struck, as I often am, with how powerful it is to find myself in someone else's stories; to see myself reflected in someone else's song.  It reminds me of the power of marginalization. The power of making people feel "other." The microaggressions that on the own are inconsequential, but build up to such a heavy weight over time. It happens so slowly that you don't notice until you reach the breaking point and become "that angry lesbian" making mountains out molehills.  Or, like this weekend, you are caught unprepared by seeing yourself so clearly reflected back in someone else's experience, that you are able to set down the weight and know that you are not alone, you are part of a community. They weight is lifted, the isolation is broken, if only for a moment.

Brandi Carlile has provided me with moments like this for so long. I remember in 2008, as I was trying to get the courage to propose, I came across a video they recorded during their UK tour that included a cover of "I've Just Seen a Face." Hearing a woman sing those words changed the song forever. Sorry Paul, it is now a Brandi Carlile song. 

I've just seen a face
I can't forget the time or place
Where we just met

 
She's just the girl for me
And I want all the world to see
We've met, mm-mm-mm-m'mm-mm

 

(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TgBpgOZr6-Q, start at 2:25)

 

Moments like this have taught me how much representation matters.  How much we look to the outside world for acceptance and value. I fight against this, I don't owe anyone conformity. So the excitement and comfort that come with each of these moments of community are tinged with guilt and self doubt.  

Being a parent is hard. A and I often appreciate that the lack of gender roles in our marriage takes away a layer of expectations, especially around parenting. However, being a queer parent can be incredibly isolating. To be reminded we weren't alone in our struggles to carve out our little corner in such a herteronormative space was very impactful. 

 

I am eternally grateful for the wonderful community we found in our birth center. I became a member of the community advisory board and we are now friends with the amazing nurses and midwives who helped E and C come into this world.  However, we were always "other." It was challenging to set aside the protective, defensive shell and see the families and medical providers in the group as our new community when our experiences were so fundamentally different. 

 

As we've connected with other LGBTQ families, it often feels like coming home. There is an ease, an unspoken understanding. This doesn't mean I don't value all of these other relationships, because of course I do. Rather, it reminds me of the value of things like our Rainbow Families group that met monthly before the pandemic. It makes me excited for the day we feel comfortable meeting in-person with the other queer families in our foster care agency. It makes me incredibly grateful for our new family that we adopted along with J.

 I have three children. One birth certificate lists me as "mother," another as "father," and the third should arrive in the coming weeks with me listed as "parent." A isn't even on E's. I often make a joke about this, but that is just to cover up the fact that it hurts. We were quoted $2000 from our lawyer to adopt E & C during J's adoption so we would both be listed on all of them as "parent," and not have to worry about the state recognizing our rights if something happen to one of us.  If we waited it would be $4000 to do it in a separate hearing.

No.  I'm not going to spend thousands of dollars for something that we shouldn't even have to do.  To prove the legitimacy of our family. To tarnish the exciting addition of J to our family with the acknowledgment of the state's bigotry. Let's save that for another day.

The pain and guilt of this has been weighing on me lately. For a moment, while we drove down a mountain with such majestic views that you can't help but feel small, I heard another mother talk about how their family began with lawyers and awkward classes.  How she dealt with the internalized homophobia that convinces you that you don't belong in these spaces, you aren't really a mother. How she also surrounds herself with family, both biological and chosen, as a cloak of protection from these hurts, both big and small. I wiped away a tear and drove back to the real world, where these things fade into the noise of everyday and the weight finds it's well-worn spot on my shoulders.

 

To my family, my protectors: Thank you

I'm beginning to feel the years,
But I'm going to be okay,
As long as you're beside me along the way.
Gonna make it through the night,
and into morning light.