“Coming Out” is a Daily Thing

“Coming Out” is a Daily Thing

Lily and me watching Dora

We all have fears about what we will be like as parents. We pray to whichever God will listen that we don’t fuck them up too badly. As hopeful lesbian parents, we face some challenges that most people wouldn’t give a second thought.

When I was a kid, I was warned about “the shame of having a mixed race baby, that whey wouldn’t belong to either racial group, they would be ostracized…” it smelled like bull shit then and smells like even more bull shit now. I’m a white woman married to an Asian woman. There is one thing I do know for certain. Our kids will never feel unloved, or any less than the fucking awesome human beings the will be. ‘Cause they’ll be ours, and we’re fucking awesome human beings.

***

There was one line in “Below Her Mouth” that rang true for both Lue and me. It said that there is never really one coming out story. We somehow find ourselves in the do-I-come-out-or-not predicament almost daily, in which we have to make a decision. Usually on the spot.

I recently came out to a local nurse while signing up to get a simple blood test done. She was verifying the information attached to my health care card.

Nurse: Who is your beneficiary?

Me: Lucien Lim.

Nurse: Relation?

Me: Spouse.

Yes, I could have answered “wife”, but I was undecided at that moment.

Nurse: Does he live at the same address?

I made my decision.

Me: She, and yes.

Nurse: OK.

Me:

You may be wondering, why did I hesitate? Why would I want to hide who I am? This is 2017, after all. The opinions of the masses have come a long way. As this is true, let me tell you a story about an experience I had just a few weeks ago.

***

I was fueling up on my way back to the trailer. I had taken Lue’s truck into the shop and ran a bunch of errands in Grande Prairie. It had been a long day and was dark by this time. There are usually a few loose items in the box, so in the event of an accident, we use a bed net to, at minimum, slow said objects from flying into someone’s windshield, or the back window of our truck. Plus, it’s the law.

I finished entering in numbers on the pin pad and began pumping fuel into the truck. Then I heard a booming voice from the other side of the pump.

Dude: Is that a bed net?

Me: Uh, yeah…

Dude: Does your work make you use it?

Me: This isn’t a work truck, my wife and I prefer to use it.

There was a moment’s pause. Then he started ranting in an increasingly hostile tone.

Dude: I’ve worked in the oil patch for 15 years…

Me:

Dude: and all these fucking rules they’re coming up with are fucking gay! They’re fucking stupid! They wanted me to use a bed net on my truck and I told them…..

There it is.

Seriously dude. I JUST told you I’m gay. All I could do was silently stand there uncomfortably, begging for the fuel tank to fill faster.

Of course, AFTERWARDS, I thought of a million different things that I could have said. Clever, intelligent, witty things. But in the end, he was a lot bigger than me and even though there were others around, fueling their own respective vehicles, I felt like I may as well have been alone in a dark foreboding ally.

Melodramatic, yeah I know, but that’s how I felt.

So when a stranger asks me about my “husband” yeah, sometimes I hesitate. It really depends on the day.

***

Recently, I read a story about a woman; a mother of two small children, a lesbian mother of two small children.

Read the full story HERE.

She would frequently be approached by strangers who ask her about her adorable little twins. They would ask her if their dad helped out much, if they look like him, etc. Inevitably feeling put under the spotlight, not wanting her children to experience being outwardly shamed by someone, she would start to panic.

This got me thinking. What am I going to do when  I’m out with my future kids and someone asks me about “the happy daddy”?

I like to think I would confidently and politely correct them. Maybe with something like “Well, these little bundles of joy are lucky enough to have two loving mommies.”

I don’t want to be an example of self-shaming. I want to be an example of what it looks like to be proud of who you are. In all its glorious shapes and sizes and colours. Who cares if they judge us? Fuck them! We’ll probably never see them again anyway, so who cares? Right?

What would you say?

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