It's painful to be exiled because of who you are.
My conversation with a mom in the LGBTQ+ community
This month I’m focusing on the topic of belonging: what does it mean to feel like you’re part of something bigger than you? To be a member of a community or group and to be celebrated for who you are without feeling the need to conform or fit in? Each essay in April will feature a story that ties in with this theme of belonging and inclusion. I hope you enjoy them!
It’s an unseasonably warm spring afternoon in April. As part of the local Human Library, I gather with a handful of other Books, with titles more provocative than mine: Rape, Transgender Man, Psychiatric Patient, HIV+, Dominatrix.
My title is Reluctant Mom.
Every time I attend a Human Library event, I expect to get zero to maybe two readers. It’s because I ask myself, What would I want to choose if I were a reader? Definitely something unconventional. But moms are so…ordinary.
But are we?
I smile, wave, offer a few bright hellos to the other Books—some I recognize, some whose stories I know, others only familiar faces. Heading to the table in the farthest corner of the pavilion at Lakeside Gardens, I plop down my tote bag that includes a lunch cooler and a thick library book, then I take a seat and open it.
The reason I do this is twofold: one, I am a severe introvert, and two, I don’t want to feel more awkward than I already do. You see, I was raised in a conservative Catholic home, so even being present at these events, let alone participating in them, is a seismic departure from the culture in which I was immersed for many years.
Yet I’ve chosen to be with those who consider themselves outliers and pariahs, because I feel that way, too. In fact, I’ve never felt I truly fit in with any one segment of people, never belonged anywhere—not in a clique or club or organization or school or church or even within my family. There’s a sense that maybe I’m “too sensitive,” that my ability to intuit a particular mood or emotion in a gathering like this sets me apart—and not in a good way.
Am I a pilgrim, a wayfarer? Maybe we all are.
Dustin taps me on the shoulder, and I glance up from my book, startled. “You’re up,” he says. “Someone wants to read your book.”
Surprised but excited, I spring to my feet and walk to the set of folding chairs propped under a mature maple, now in full bloom. The canopy of shade will be a welcome reprieve from the intensity of midday sun.
Another book—a new one under the title of Psychiatric Patient—sits across from me. “Hi, I’m Liv.”
I offer a warm smile. “Nice to meet you, Liv. I’m Jeannie, the Reluctant Mom.” I laugh nervously, as I always do when I say this, because it sounds ridiculous to me when it is spoken. Or maybe I still feel guilty admitting to total strangers that I never really wanted to be a mom, never saw myself as a mom, yet here I am raising five kids. And I love them each fiercely.
I begin with my introduction, which is an overview of my story that includes my Catholic upbringing, my counter-cultural decision to eschew contraception, my experience with infertility, super fertility, and raising a medically complex daughter who was diagnosed with a rare craniofacial condition at birth called Apert syndrome.
Liv nods but doesn’t say anything, so I ask, “What compelled you to read my book?”
At first, there is no response, only a gap of silence that lingers a bit longer than I’m comfortable with. Then, Liv says, “Well, I’m a mom, too. I have a three-year-old son, and I wanted to hear what it is like for you, you know, to not be sure you want to be a mom…yet you are one.”
Liv sports hair with purple streaks and a PRIDE lapel on a button-down shirt, yet wears a smile so infectious that I am instantly at ease. I’m not sure if Liv wants to be referred to as he, she, or they—or some combination of these—and I don’t ask, because I’m not sure how to.
The conversation begins with my honest sharing about the religious influence of my decision not to use contraception, but Liv does not seem fazed at all. I avoid eye contact, because I am ashamed and afraid: ashamed that I am here, speaking about something that is a moot point for 99% of the population, and afraid of rejection, judgment, or condemnation.
When I look up, Liv’s eyes sparkle with depth and kindness and acceptance. “I get it. I grew up in the church, too. In fact, I still love Jesus very much, but I can’t find a church home that will do more than just tolerate me. I don’t want to be tolerated,” Liv says, with emphasis on the word, “I want to be accepted for who I am. But when people find out I’m part of the LGBTQ community, they don’t know what to say or how to act.”
The fear encasing my heart in a block of ice instantly thaws. It’s because I recognize myself and my story in what Liv is saying, and I profoundly respect what Liv has experienced—and deeply grieve the rejection Liv feels from the Christian community.
There is something we communicate in this moment through our eyes, through a commonality we share as parents. Liv identified as a mom, too, so maybe I can speak to that. Maybe I already have. Or maybe it’s irrelevant, anyway, because this conversation carries more power than what I can hold by myself. I realize it’s because there is a God present among us who is bigger than the two of us, bigger than our discussion or our wounds or our beliefs or our lifestyle.
So I tell Liv, “I’m sorry. It’s so painful to feel exiled because of who you are.”
Dustin ambles to where we sit. “Time’s up,” he says, then walks away.
Liv stands, and so do I. I sense Liv doesn’t want to part, and I am not ready for this encounter to end, either. There is something we established between the two of us today that resembles kinship, and my heart overflows with gratitude. “It’s been a privilege talking to you today, Liv,” I say, and Liv nods.
Then, the unexpected happens. “May I give you a hug?” Liv asks.
“I love hugs,” I say, and we both open our arms wide. It’s not a polite pat on the back, or a half-hug and handshake. This is an embrace shared between not strangers or acquaintances, but comrades. And I think maybe we are, and always have been, walking alongside each other.
I’ve found a fellow pilgrim who just wants to be seen and loved and known, which is no different than what I want, too. And it’s no different than what any human wants, or needs—to be reminded that we are each worthy to be cherished and that we each have a place in this wide and weary world.
Your financial contribution helps supplement our family’s expenses and offset the costs of ongoing medical care for our daughter Sarah that requires 20 hours of unpaid caregiving on my part. I want you to know how much your support means and how it helps our family.
This was such a moving piece, Jeannie. The line that made my heart beat faster was: "I don’t want to be tolerated." That word—tolerated—gah! I've felt it in subtle glances, in long awkward silences, in being invited but not quite included at all the social events hosted by folks from "my Indian community." As someone who's an atheist and a reluctant mom—two identities that often feel misfit in almost all circles—I felt so seen by this story.
I didn’t plan to be a mother. And yet, like you, I love my child with a ferocity that surprises even me. What we expected for ourselves and what we’ve come to cherish is the kind of tension that nobody talks about. So, thank you for giving it language. And for reminding us that kinship can be found in the most unexpected pairings.
I thoroughly enjoyed the diversity of this short story.