When my husband and I first got married, we were asked to participate in an interview that would be published online alongside some of our marriage photos. Because of the risk of embarrassing my husband’s side of the family, we regrettably declined. Years later I feel compelled to reclaim that space, not only by sharing some of my favorite personal photos, but by filling in the gaps of our story that those pictures do not tell.
“I’m a homewrecker, I’m a slut!“
My husband had purchased tickets for us to attend the local leg of Sabrina Carpenter‘s first stadium tour. While he calmly took in the show, my thirteen-year-old niece and I fit right in with the rest of the crowd – screaming along to the cheeky lyrics until we were hoarse. Out of our eight nieces and nephews, three live right here in South Philly, only a few blocks away from our front door. Screaming is kind of what we do together, whether we are getting overly competitive in video games, enjoying precarious rides on the Wildwood Boardwalk, or in hysterics over something ridiculous. If we aren’t making noise, we either aren’t together, or we aren’t having any fun. I do not take any of the time we spend together for granted, because as effortless as it all feels now, I will never forget the long journey that prepared me for my favorite role in life yet, being an uncle.
“Homo!”
Splat! There I was, a tiny stick figure of a freshman, standing in the middle of the high school cafeteria with fruit cocktail slowly creeping down the back of my neck, as a table of boys behind me cackled like a pack of drunk hyenas. Their choice of ammunition amplifying their immature name-calling, as I quickly surveyed the room for a pair of sympathetic eyes. “I didn’t see anything,” claimed the lunch monitor, “and the camera wouldn’t have seen anything, either.” At the age of fourteen, I came out as gay to my friends and family, which brought with it the kind of bigotry that inspires public service announcements. But this was nothing new, just a continuation of the underlying hatred I experienced my entire life. For as long as I could understand language, the locals of Pennsylvania’s conservative-leaning Pocono Mountains made it very clear that my effeminate traits made me worthy of shame. As a little boy, long before I knew what being gay even meant, I knew that most people thought it was wrong. There’s a special place in hell for adults who would call a six-year-old a “fag”, but despite her best efforts, my mother could only do so much to protect me from the onslaught of ignorance I faced throughout my adolescence.
“Congratulations to the Class of 2007!”
Just like that, high school came and went, and with it, the handful of friendships that made me feel safe and loved as I was. By the age of twenty I was a depressed college dropout, waiting tables and smoking enough weed to lure Snoop Dogg from the West Coast, which led to frequent bickering with my parents. Living at home had clearly reached its expiration, and it was time to move out on my own. Normally, living on a sofa is not an appealing suggestion, but two friends had just moved to Philadelphia and offered up theirs in my time of need. If leaving behind the small-mindedness of my hometown meant couch surfing for a while, I was ready to catch a wave in the City of Brotherly Love.
“I fucking hate you! Somebody help, he’s hurting me!”
Two years after my pilgrimage to Philadelphia, I had graduated from the couch to my own room in a South Philly rowhome, one that shared a wall with a neighbor who routinely physically abused his girlfriend. Multiple calls to 911 resulted in pointless visits from the police, who were told by the woman being abused, “Don’t listen to the gay one, he’s lying.” The exact kind of hatred and violence I tried to escape had found me yet again, like a relentless heat-seeking missile. In a moment of desperation, I reached out to a man I had dated a few months earlier, one who was so loving and kind to his pet dog that I initially feared he might be a little crazy. We had casually dated for a while, living our rom-com fantasy complete with dinner dates, movie nights, and morning snuggles. But after realizing we were not ready for a serious relationship, we went our separate ways with heavy hearts. He promised if I ever needed anything that he would be there for me, and my current living situation made me ready to call in that favor. What started out as a temporary refuge slowly turned into my new home. As time passed, we fell more and more in love with one another – my nightmare had led me to a dream come true. For the first time in a long time, my hunger to live authentically and without fear had been satiated.
“Mmm, this is so good! Do you want to try some?”
From across a small table at a local diner, my partner’s newly introduced mother offered me some of her dinner, his enigmatic father sitting silently beside her with a gentle smile. The discomfort of opening up to proud, conservative Catholics filled me fear, but nothing about the people sitting across from me warranted such a reaction, and it would not be long before I was welcomed into their family. Sunday dinners, birthday parties, family vacations…I was invited to it all. I was face-to-face with people who, on paper, were a lot like the ones I left behind in the Poconos. Thankfully, their kind personalities were nothing like the small-minded attitudes that pushed me out of my hometown, regardless of their differing beliefs.
“But why do you need to get married?!”
Sharing the news of our upcoming marriage ceremony at City Hall with my partner’s parents was not going well, and I quickly realized why it was a topic he purposely avoided discussing with them. I was crushed. The love and kindness they had shown me over the past four years was suddenly replaced with suspicion over my motives, and anxiety of what the others might think. His sister did not take the news any better, refusing to join us for the ceremony and forbidding her children from being told what was about to happen. We did our best to push forward and celebrate our love with friends and family who did approve, and even though his parents came to the ceremony, it was obviously out of a sense of duty and not because they had a sudden change of heart.
“Absolutely not, we won’t do it.”
Hanging up his phone, my husband turned to me, red-faced and clearly upset. With the ceremony behind us, we had hoped that life would just go back to normal, but this conversation made any relief we initially felt, short-lived. His mother had called on his sister’s behalf, requesting that we take our wedding rings off whenever we were around her children. How was I living in a city where you could spit and hit a drag queen, yet I was still being asked to go back into the closet? I felt like such a fool for loving and respecting people who I did not feel loved and respected me in return. Close friends of ours sympathized with me, and a few suggested that we just cut ties with his family entirely until they come around, if they ever did. In the heat of the moment, this seemed like the only logical option, and without my husband’s knowledge, I sent a message to my sister-in-law explaining that if her children were not allowed to know the truth of our relationship, then I did not want to be a part of her family’s life until they did. Caught in the middle of a fight between his sister and me, my husband’s spirits were utterly broken. He did his best to remain optimistic and split his time between my in-laws and me, but the balancing act grew old quickly, especially after years of us all being one family unit. The smiling face I fell in love with over the past four years was transformed into a somber one I did not recognize, and regardless of the weather, every day felt gray, gloomy, and hopeless.
“Mister, this isn’t working.”
As the Winter slowly passed, the struggle over our marriage that turned my sister-in-law and me against one another, followed suit. Things did not change overnight, but after trying things my way, my husband and I reached the conclusion that isolating myself from his family was not healthy for either of us. We sorely missed spending time together with his sister’s children, they were a source of light we both desperately needed. Avoiding them due to a disagreement they were not involved with felt outright wrong – I just couldn’t do it anymore. We began to attend family functions as a couple again, leaving our rings on while respecting my sister-in-law’s wishes to explain our relationship to her children in her own time.
“Let’s at least go for the day and see how we feel.”
The approach of Summertime meant weekly trips to the beach, and while civility had been achieved in Philadelphia, I was concerned that cramming ourselves into the small condo at the shore would present some new challenges. But with a new baby in the family, there was more reason than ever to put aside our differences and work toward making new memories. The children, blissfully unaware of any past disagreement, were the perfect people to help bring us together and heal old wounds. While they did not know to call me “uncle”, the time we spent together that season wasn’t any less special. We continued some of our favorite traditions, like hitting up the twenty-five cent crane games, and before we knew it were creating new ones. Our weekends down the shore have been going strong ever since, and each Summer we love falling back into our family routines. We spend days on the beach together, go out to eat at fun restaurants, play games way past everyone’s bedtimes, and get lost in conversations that only the most creative of young minds can conjure. Regardless of the distance from one another that my sister-in-law and I may have initially preferred, spending time at the shore as a family meant there was nowhere to hide. Any negative assumptions we had about one another were given no air to breathe, as proximity forced us to know and treat each other as humans, as individuals with flaws and fears, instead of one-note stereotypes pulled from clickbait headlines.
“you mean so much to me thank you for being your life”
Drawings, paintings, and (mostly coherent) writings from our nieces and nephews decorate our home, serving as a constant reminder of their love. I cannot imagine a scenario where I cut ties with my in-law’s and ended up as happy and fulfilled as I am now. Complacency does not breed character, and finding ways to stick up for myself and my marriage (in healthy and productive ways) has served me more than running from my problems ever could. Did my in-laws act out of fear and let stereotypes dictate their response to my marriage? It would appear so, but it does not take more than a millisecond of reflection to recall times when I have reacted the same way to others. Life is messy and scary and weird, and I am in the position I am today because of the grace others have shown me in times when I was quick to judge. Our butting of heads proved to be a healthy bit of conflict. It required me to work through my fears and finally stop running from people and situations that are not totally comfortable.
“I love you.”
Having made it to the other side of this, I carry with me renewed confidence and strength as a queer person, not because I have won over the “straights”, but because I proved the naysayers wrong by cultivating love and family with those they were quick to judge and deem unworthy. For as hurtful as their past words were, the actions of my in-laws have more than proven to me the loving people they really are. They are quick to go out of their way to help me with virtually anything, they are the first to check in on me when I am not feeling well, they indulge me in silly video game and movie nights, plan fun family daytrips, and always take a genuine interest in me and my pursuits anytime we get together. And no, pessimists, it is not out of guilt, it is because they genuinely care – you’ll just have to take my word on that. And as for the kids? Well, they still don’t refer to me as their uncle, and I am not sure if a conversation about our marriage ever actually happened, but at this point, I don’t even care. Being called their uncle wouldn’t make me feel any more like one anyway. The time we spend together laughing, playing games, chatting about life, and supporting one another, that’s what defines us as family, not a word.