what a family is REALLY about
David on Jun 26th 2007
We are pleased to bring you this guest blog by Jim Johnson. Jim blogs at Straight, Not Narrow, where he advocates for GLBT equality in politics and the church.
If I hear one more right-wing zealot prattle on about “preserving the traditional family” I’m going to puke. Back in October, 2004, I learned once and for all what the word family meant, and it didn’t resemble the “traditional” model that some people believe is the anchor of our society.
My wife Bette passed away suddenly on October 11, 2004. It was at that time, the lowest point of my life, that two gay men showed me what being family was truly about.
One of those gay men was my half-brother Michael. Our mother had worked very hard to keep us apart growing up, and it was not until her death in 1992 that we began to establish a loving adult relationship and started learning how to be brothers.
When I told Michael and his partner, Mike, about Bette’s passing, they insisted on coming down from western New York to my home in Maryland to help me through that rough time. Not only did they make the seven-hour drive and arrive the next afternoon, they insisted on driving with me to Illinois, where Bette’s memorial service would be held. Yes, we drove because I didn’t trust anyone with her remains, and they understood that.
With no warning, these two wonderful men took an entire week out of their lives just to comfort me, to be strong for me when I was weak. My brother, despite some serious health problems of his own, never voiced any objection or complaint unless we passed a Waffle House without stopping. Mike, without warning, burned a week of vacation at his job as an accounting manager.
They had reached the mutual decision to do this on the drive down from New York, regardless of any objections I raised, and I initially raised some. I had never been in the position of asking people for very much and was uncomfortable receiving such generosity from Michael and Mike. Fortunately, I was able to quickly move beyond that and receive their gesture for what is was—love.
The guys did a wonderful job keeping my spirits up. When I cried while a special song played on the radio, they let me work through it without weighing me down with empty platitudes. When I emerged from the funeral home with my wife’s remains, my brother just stood outside the car and held me, offering me comfort while I broke down. In the evenings when we stayed in a motel overnight on our journey, they let me have time by myself, demonstrating their concern but showing me respect by giving me space. During our stay in Illinois, they interacted wonderfully with a gaggle of in-laws they were meeting for the first time under obviously difficult circumstances.
All of this, they did out of love. It was the first time my brother had been in a position to be strong for me, and he responded to the challenge. Mike, amazingly enough, stepped up and was an absolute rock, a great source of strength and comfort. My brother’s hearing is seriously damaged, making the carrying on of a lengthy conversation difficult. Mike stepped into the gap and was just like a second brother. I told him on the way home that, like it or not, I considered him a member of our family although he is unable to gain that recognition legally. The legal aspect, although an important right that LGBT people are denied in 49 states, is not what makes families.
Love makes families.
From that point forward, I’ve called Mike my brother-in-law, although I think of him more like a brother. It meant the world to me that the two of them were the first ones to meet my new wife Brenda when we were dating, and then stay at our house on the weekend when we got married.
After all, celebrations like weddings are also important family gatherings.
So Dr. Dobson, Pat Robertson, Don Wildmon, Tony Perkins, and all others of that ilk, you can spew all you want about “traditional families.” I think we can do BETTER than that.
I know I have.
First, I’m so very sorry about your wife. Even though some time has passed, I know from experience that the feeling of loss remains.
My now grown sons’ dad became ill in 1983 and died in 1988. During those years, it was my gay AA friends in San Francisco, more than any others, who walked me through it. Cancer is not AIDS, but we shared the despair back then.
They were there constantly for me and my two boys. At the end, two slept on my kitchen floor while we waited for the final phone call from the hospital.
They were there for my youngest child when he came out (I laready had it figured out and was waiting for him to tell me) at about 14.
I lost my oldest daughter recently - once again, cancer. My PFLAG friends were with me through all.
Dobson wouldn’t know a family value if he tripped over one on the sidewalk.