My ex-partner is the biological mother of our 14-year old
son, Julian. I gave birth to our 10-year
old daughter, Ivy. Each of our kids was
adopted by the respective “non-bio” mom.
We now share equal custody, despite the questions upon our separation
about whether the kids would also be separated, to be parented solely by their
respective “bio-mom.” For the record,
THAT question horrified me because it directly questioned the legitimacy of my
being a parent to my son.
As per the custody agreement, the kids were with my ex-partner
on Tuesday, election night in America, and Wednesday. Probably best, considering my post-election
mood. The day after the election was
peppered with spontaneous acts of crying. I was surprised at how strongly, how
viscerally, I was reacting to this election and it occurred to me that I was
fortunate to have kids for whom I would have to be strong. In that moment, I didn’t know how else to find
strength, except for them.
It wasn’t until Thursday, two days after the election, that
I was scheduled to see the kids. It was
always a relief to have them home and I called my son to let him know I was on
my way. My daughter was away at a
sleep-away field trip and she wouldn’t be home until Friday. I would come to be thankful that my daughter
wasn’t home that night.
Discussing the election with my son led to an upsetting conversation,
which I preferred to have in person, so I ended the phone conversation saying I
would be home soon. At home, Julian
immediately came upstairs to greet me. I
knew he had heard the croak in my voice when I had hung up the phone and he
wanted to make sure that all was well in the world. But all was not well in the world. Knowing that and seeing my son, I broke down. Again.
And at that point, I made the conscious choice not to hide my feelings
of devastation and desperation. Because
I know that change cannot happen without an emotional catalyst. I needed him to see and feel my despair,
imagining that he could not remain complacent in the face of despair.
I told him that I had woken up in the middle of the night in
a panic because I did not know where my green card was. Intellectually, I knew that I was safe and he
knew the same. But so many immigrants in
the country were not safe and we could not by complacent.
He was uncomfortable hearing about my struggle with a friend
who had voted for Trump. But I pressed
on because I could not have his complacency.
A vote for Trump was, after all, a vote against our family and, more
specifically, a vote against my relationship with him. Through tears, I told him that nothing in the
world could change the fact that I was his mother and that he was my son. Actually, he was probably the first to have
stated that obvious fact.
And in that one moment, I felt all of the fear, all of the
pain, and all of the heartache that I had ever felt while I was seeking to be
recognized as Julian’s parent. And in
that same moment, I lost all hope of regaining composure. Now trust me when I say I had no idea that I
harbored so much fear and heartache.
Because all of the difficulty that I had faced, had been overshadowed by
the absolute joy, and sometimes exhausting reality, of being a parent. I was just being a parent. But there had often been a little black cloud
of fear and heartache.
There was no minimizing what I was feeling in that moment
and Julian would accept nothing but an explanation. I shared with him that, because of my
immigration status, I could not adopt him until he was two years old; that, in
fact, I had no parental rights for those two years. For the duration of that time, my
mother-in-law had whispered into my partner’s ear that I could not be
trusted. She kept repeating the
fear-based assumption that, if something were to happen to her daughter, then I
would prevent her from seeing her grandson.
Of course, I assured everyone, that I would do no such thing. But the whispers continued, and after a year
of continued accusations, I expressed my fear that my mother-in-law would surely
exercise her rights to Julian should anything happen because I, in fact, had no
parental rights. My partner was angry
that I would suggest such a thing about her mother. I was saddened by the lack of support and I
retreated into the invisibility and powerlessness of a parent with no rights to
her child.
A number of years later, I watched my mother-in-law very
deliberately catalyze the break-up of her son’s marriage and take over the
parenting of my brother-in-law’s son.
Instead of having any feelings of vindication for the validation about
my very real worry that my mother-in-law had the capacity to break up my family,
I was only saddened by the reminder of my own tenuous claim to parenthood. And I was relieved that the adoption of my
son had finally been legalized. Worse than the suspicions and accusations from my mother-in-law, and worse than the lack of support from my partner about my worries over my lack of parenting rights, was my own parents’ refusal to recognize Julian as my son and, by extension, their grandson. Ivy was welcomed, joyously. Julian was treated like a not-so-liked acquaintance. I can’t tell you how many times I left my parents’ home in tears. I struggled for years before I finally distanced myself from my family. Because a rejection of my son was a rejection of me.
I shared with Julian what it meant to me to be his parent
and what it took for me to be his parent.
And that I could not stand for his mistreatment. After a particular story, his face softened
and his eyes widened, and he declared me to be a “savage mom.” I knew my savagery was for him alone, and I
knew then what my answer was about my feelings for him and how they were
different from my feelings for Ivy.
But first consider what it must have felt like for a woman
to be told that she had no right to vote.
Consider what it might feel like to be told that you have no right to marry
the person that you love. Consider what
it feels like to have no rights because of the color of your skin or because of
your religious beliefs.
Now, I have no story with which to conjure up a sense of fear
or a sense of powerlessness for a white, heterosexual male. That lack of story is how I can describe my
feelings for Ivy. I love Ivy with the
power and strength of white, male privilege.
It is systemic and there is no question that it exists.
My love for Julian is different. I love Julian with the power and strength of the
women who fought for the right to vote.
I love Julian with the power and strength of the GLBT community who
fought for the right to marry. I love
Julian with the power and strength of everybody who has fought for their right
to be considered equal and valuable.
Parenting my children is different, as well. With Ivy, I trust myself to have, what I feel
to be, a healthy parenting response to her ultimate independence from me. In fact, anyone who knows us knows that she
is well on her way to independence. My
only hope is that our relationship remains strong and mutually respectful and
supportive.
I don’t trust myself to have that same parenting response
with Julian. Because my instinctual
response is to savagely pull him close to me.
To stand savagely between him and any and all threats, both real and
imagined. Because I had to savagely
fight to be his parent. And this
election reminds me of that savage fight.
And, all at once, I am feeling all the fear and all the helplessness of
that fight. And, with this election, I
am reminded that this fight may never be over.
After our very hard conversation, Julian and I decided that,
despite the late hour, we should watch the next episode of our current Netflix
series. If only to distract ourselves
and to do something normal. Julian
abandoned his end of the couch and leaned on me. I was reminded of when I was pregnant with
Ivy. During my pregnancy, every day I
looked forward to 5 pm when Sesame Street came on. I would lie down on the couch, on my right
side, and Julian would lie on my left side while I, inexplicably, slept through
Elmo’s singing and Julian’s fidgeting. The
pressure of his little body on my side was incredibly comforting. Eleven years later, after all my pain and
powerlessness had been exposed, I was once again comforted by the pressure of
him leaning against me. I interpreted
his move to my end of the couch as his way of letting me know that my savagery
was appreciated. And, maybe, he was
comforted to know that our bond is unbreakable.
