Some Pride

We had a family wedding this fall, where we’d all be together for the first time since well before the pandemic started. In the time that has passed my children have grown into teens, I’ve divorced my husband, and I started dating a woman. That’s a whole lot of ch-ch-ch-ch-changes.

Please know there were several distant acquaintances who discovered all of these changes in one fell swoop at the wedding when they saw me and I hugged them and said “This is my girlfriend Max,” with a big smile. From their startled face-journey I could instantly tell that they did not know I was divorced, or gay, or that the handsome babe in a suit now shaking their hand was indeed a woman. So much to absorb in the phrase “this is my girlfriend max”, especially while I’m looking into their eyes and I’m smiling.

Next came “where are the kids?” and their shock when I gestured to the 6-foot-plus mature folks behind me… a lot changes in a few years. It was so freeing not to explain myself, giving no fucks and watching them try to catch up. My happiness speaks for itself.

What I didn’t want was to put my octogenarian grandparents through the same kind of shock. Two years ago they accepted the news of my divorce with concern, but ultimately they trusted that I was doing what was best. We’ve had plenty of good talks since about how my divorce has changed my life for the better, and they can see it. But they didn’t know I was queer, or dating a woman. I wasn’t in the closet, it’s just that I started dating my husband when I was 17, so there seemed no reason to explain to my friggin grandparents that I was actually queer and polyamorous.

But now there was a good reason. And even though they are 80-year-old immigrants who live in small towns, they are loving people. I knew in my heart that although they might not understand my choices, they would love me no matter what. (I know how lucky that makes me, and how wonderful that makes them.)

My mother and I discussed strategy, we agreed it would be best if she spoke with them first to prep them, give them a chance to ask ignorant questions or react.

My widowed grandfather, who has always been my biggest fan, listened to her news and said “that’s great!” And then went back to complaining about how he hates his new cellphone. I knew he had a hunch I had someone around, because when I told him about the houseboat trip the kids and I took he asked who drove that 40 foot boat and I said “me?” This was true because I did drive it for a little while (with Max’s gentle coaching) but his eyebrow went up and I knew he wondered who the muscle was. Anyway, he shook her hand at the wedding with so much vigor and pulled her into a giant squeezy hug saying “I’m so glad to finally meet you!” (in spite of just finding out she existed the week before.) (I truly love that man.)

My other grandparents are more old-world. Church-going folk who have always been scared of the big city and big changes. (They lived through a war as children, and immigrated away from all they knew as teens, I forgive them all of their resistance to change.) They’ve faced so much loss, yet have so much love. They’re also very fucking funny.

My mother sat on the couch with them as they sipped their tea and told them that I was in a relationship with a lovely woman. “Oh.”

When they finally spoke my grandmother asked my mother how she felt about that. My mother told her she couldn’t care less as long as I was happy. My grandparents politely agreed. They all sipped their tea. My mother, always the rebel in her clan, was ready for a fight. Ready to rebuff and rebuke on my behalf. Their quiet contemplation took her by surprise.

“You know…” my grandmother (meek and good and pious) began. “Julia Cheffield at the church? Her daughter married a woman you know. They have a baby!” Julia Cheffield was my grandmother’s favourite person at church. She was proper in all the right ways. My grandmother idolized her. Thank fuck for all of us Julia Cheffield was progressive and supported her gay daughter. A wonderful example for the other church ladies.

“I just have one question about when these women are having babies together…” my grandmother asked (my poor mother cringing in anticipation). “When they have a baby together, which one of them gets called the Daddy?”

My mother burst into laughter, composed herself, and explained that they would likely both be Mommy or Mom. My grandmother, who has never done a thing in her life that she wasn’t told to do, said “I didn’t think of that. I just kept thinking who would want to be called Daddy…” (yes I’m smirking as I type this.)

Of all the concerns about lesbianism and gays and parenting my grandmothers’ only question was about what the child would call her parents. I kind of love that.

Through the duration of this chat my grandfather was on the couch adjusting his hearing aid and making general old man sounds. Uninterested. My grandmother watched him for a moment as she sipped her tea. “It seems a lot of the girls are going that way these days huh?” she said, her eyes still on her husband of 63 years. “Well yeah,” my mom replied, “do you blame them?”

And so ensued what I can only describe as my heterosexual mother going to bat SO HARD for lesbianism. This I did not see coming. From her recollection it went something like “Could you imagine having a wife? Someone to take care of you? Someone who wanted to go for walks with you and take interest in your interests? Someone who didn’t just sit on the couch and watch tv? Someone who saw you doing the dishes and lent a hand instead of criticizing you???” to which my grandmother replied “Hmm…” She looked at my grandfather who was picking his ear, oblivious, she folded her hands in her lap and said “That sure does sound nice.”

Now these criticisms clearly speak to their specific brand of heterosexuality, their specific burdens, but they’re also my mothers’ attempts to explain what she appreciates about watching my relationship with Max, and what she wishes she had in her life. And it’s WILD to imagine the two of them sitting there nodding their heads in agreement, imagining different lives for themselves.

So that’s the story of how I came out to my grandparents at 41 years old.

When I visited last week I noticed a photo of Max and I, smiling, tacked up on my grandmothers’ bulletin board. Front and centre.

That’s pride.