Dear IF YOU ASK ME-
I am writing to you for some advice on a pretty complicated situation I find myself willingly being drawn into. I am English, a gay man, and 55 years of age living in England at present. I have a friend aged 49 in Texas who has recently realized that he is gay, despite having been married and the father of an 11 year old adopted son. My friend’s ex wife, who has very strong negative views regarding gays, is still on the scene and has tried poisoning the boy’s mind about his dad. Luckily the relationship between father and son is still very strong, but the mother is mentally unstable and still has access and influence over the boy. We very much hope to be able to live together in the US as soon as we are able to and the boy is ready. We need some advice on how to prepare my friend’s son on the sexuality of both of his dads and the distinct possibility of another male entering the family home to “replace” his mother with whom he has a not very good relationship. I thought, as a first step, there might be a film suitable for my friend to watch with his son to start the process of familiarization with the changing circumstances, and to show the boy that there are more types of valid relationships than the stereotypical “family”. We both understand that this may well take some time, but the useful thing is that the boy does understand and accepts that some people are gay and live together as couples, but the idea of gay couples having children, and it happening to him, will need a huge measure of acceptance on his part. Any advice you may be able to offer us would be gratefully accepted, and I would stress that the welfare, security and happiness of my friend’s son is the most important aspect of our planning.

Yours Sincerely,

Chas J Pearce

Dear Chas-
Thank you for your well thought-out question; it is a very delicate situation indeed. I appreciate and respect the fact that you are taking the time to do research in order to make the boy’s transition as easy as possible. This alone tells me that you will be a wonderful role model for your “friend’s” son.

Although there aren’t many movies available for the topic you requested, there are some great resources. One is a very mainstream, popular TV show called Modern Family on ABC here in the United States. This show features a family with 2 dads and a baby and is light-hearted and funny. If the boy hasn’t already heard of this sitcom, it might be a nice way to “normalize” his new situation a bit.

As for movies, it’s been tough for me to find the perfect film that I would recommend, given the particular situation you are in. It might be fun to do a movie night and rent Birdcage, a comedy with Robin Williams in which he plays a gay man with a daughter (played by Calista Flockheart). I’m going with fairly mainstream recommendations rather than Indie films for two reasons: one, it has been difficult for me to find the right independent film that doesn’t display the “issues” that can go into same sex parenting, and two, I think it’s important given the boy’s age, that you go with a more mainstream approach. This might help to validate things in his mind.

I also think it’s important for you to do some research as well. There are some great films on same sex parenting that I would urge you to check out for your own sake. Jack is a film about a teenage boy whose father comes out as a gay man. You might want to watch this first and see if it would be a fit for the boy. “Jack” can be purchased on Amazon.com.

There is also another resource for teenagers with gay parents that you may later want to explore. There is an organization called Colage, which is a support and advocacy organization for daughters and sons of lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender (LGBT) parents. This would be a tremendous opportunity for the boy to meet other kids that have gone through similar emotions on the topic. I have been to a panel in which I’ve heard these children speak firsthand and they are incredibly articulate and have many great things to explain to parents that are LGBT. Colage also has a few films that you could check out; one of them is “In My Shoes”, which I found particularly interesting. It’s a documentary film by and about youth with LGBT parents.

My last bit of advice is to let the boy find his own feelings about the matter. Try to listen and be there for him when he needs to talk, but don’t push him into feeling a certain way about his new life. It’s tough at that age, and with his mother giving negative feedback, he needs to figure out his own opinion on the matter. I think you are absolutely on the right path by wanting to educate him through mediums that he most relates to- film and television.

Below are links and information to the above-mentioned resources, as well as a few more:

Modern Family
Birdcage
Jack
Colage
In My Shoes

Books
Families like mine: Children of gay parents tell it like it is
Out of the ordinary: Essays on growing up with gay, lesbian bisexual, and transgender parents

More Movies:
Daddy and Papa
It’s Elementary: Talking about gay issues in school

Best of Luck!

I.Y.A.M

On These Shoulders We Stand playing at Palm Canyon Theatre at the Palm Springs International Film Festival on January 8th and January 9th.

Not everything began with Stonewall. On These Shoulders We Stand is an illuminating historical account of early gay life and activism in Los Angeles.

By: Rosy Barren

In looking at my year, it’s been nothing but a lot of disappointment and unfortunately I chose to give in to those failures and let them define me. I have allowed my life to become an obsessive cycle revolving around having a baby.

In 2010 my goal is to focus on my life as a whole rather than one (very important) aspect of it. Tomorrow I begin my shots for IVF. I am filled with hope for a new start.

I have signed up for a writing class to help me to have a creative outlet for all that I hold inside. It was a wonderful holiday filled with family and friends and way too much food. Happy New Year…here’s to abundance.

Photography by Lynn Mutchler

By: Brandy Black

Christmas in the Northwest took on a new charm with a toddler. Grandpa dressed as Santa and waved from the front deck as we baked cookies in the kitchen. Sophia’s expression was priceless.

Hot Cocoa followed our baking bliss.

Presents and dance parties by the piano were enjoyed by all

Then off to the mountains to play in the snow

Happy New Year!

By: Jillian Lauren

I’m not very good with years. I’m not one of those people who says, Remember New Years ‘86 when we went to Lulu’s party and you got wasted and barfed Chinese food out of your nose? Or, remember in ‘04 when I wept for two days because Bush got re-elected? Or, remember in ‘90 when I didn’t graduate high school?

I remember things more in terms of food or songs. I remember events by the details, like the odd way someone held their hands or the way my mother’s sweater smelled after cooking latkes or the way that David Bowie looked onstage awash in blue light. I remember details well, but years lose their edges as soon as they pass. Off the top of my head, I couldn’t even tell you what year I met my husband.

I get a strange anxiety when looking at all of those end of the year lists and wrap up of the decade special features. But I know it’s important to mark time, to asses ourselves, to get a chance to start fresh. I was in Iran during the Persian New Year (a few years ago- I couldn’t tell you what year) and my group found ourselves on a beach in Bandar Kong, a town on the Persian Gulf where they construct traditional lenj Gulf boats by hand. As the sun went down, a few of the carpenters built a fire for us and taught us the traditional way of greeting the New Year, which involved taking a running leap over the fire while saying something that roughly translates to, “Take from me my yellow and give me your red.” Take my sickness away and give me health. Renewal, light.

The one commonality between all of the holidays that meet at the Solstice crossroads seems to be the ritual of bringing light into these dark days. And I can get with that. Also, I appreciate any opportunity to get crafty and to break out some vintage table linen.

In ‘08, I boycotted the holidays. I think about what Tariku’s room looked like this time last year. There were lists taped to every surface, open suitcases, every baby and adult medication known to mankind, piles of baby clothes in two different sizes, jars of baby food wrapped in baggies, cans of formula, hats, blankets, hiking shoes, “modest” clothes, water purification tablets, a first aid kit, boxes of donations from friends to take with us for the other kids at the care center etc etc etc. Blanketing our dining room table was incredibly important paperwork, which I examined and re-examined obsessively, trying to insure that no detail was out of place. Plus Scott was on tour and I was completely re-organizing the house to get ready for T’s arrival. I was a wreck.

Ten days later, we left for Africa. 2009 was a year when a couple of personal dreams I had for a long time were realized. And on a global scale I felt a glimmer of promise. Though I’ve subsequently been disappointed on that level, nothing can change the moment of sitting in the living room of the guest house in Addis Ababa and holding a sleeping Tariku in my arms while we watched Obama’s inauguration via satellite.

In 2010 I’m looking forward to the publication of my memoir, which is going to force me into a whole different level of honesty. It isn’t that I was particularly secretive before. I don’t think anyone was under the impression that I was a nun. But the level of vulnerability in the book is a different story. The thought of people reading it is scary, but it’s freeing at the same time. What are people going to say about me now that can hurt me? I’ve already said it all. So bring it on 2010.

Other good things: for Christmas I got exactly what I asked for. Scott really does read my blog after all. Hi, honey.

Happy holidays, all. And thanks for reading.

Jillian Lauren

By: Ann Brown

The line at Starbucks on Christmas morning was long. The talk was lively. And the topic was hysterectomies. At least, that’s what I talked about with the nice lady in front of me.
Maybe it was the Christmas spirit, or the bonhomie of a crowded Starbucks on a winter’s day, or the power of sisterhood but the conversation skirted the small talk and moved along quickly. It went something like this:
Me: (smiling benignly) Wow, long line.
She: I have to have a hysterectomy.
Awkward silence. I attempted to normalize the conversation once more.
Me: Wow, really long line.
She: If they take your cervix out, you can’t have orgasms during intercourse anymore.
I was at a loss for a response. Another stab at “wow, long line” just wasn’t gonna cut it after that intriguing fact.
But was it a fact? Here is where I am suddenly remorseful that I made fun of my sister a few blog posts back because she only recently learned where the hymen is located. Because although I am quite familiar with the general whereabouts of my cervix, and I can say, with more than a modicum of gratuitous pride, that I have dilated mine – twice – to the size where an actual person’s head squeezed through, I was surprised that a cervix is involved in an orgasm. I mean, isn’t the cervix waaay up there? Like, in Canada?
Wow. My first thought was to congratulate my new friend on the length of her husband’s weener.
“Good for you, honey!” I wanted to say.
But then I worried that I’d be casting aspersions on the length of my husband’s weener. And even though Robin wasn’t there, even though he was innocently waiting for me in the car listening to NPR, even though his weener is perfectly fine, what if when Cervix Woman walked out of Starbucks and saw me get into the car with Robin, she smirked or made a “oh, poor you, with the short penis” gesture at him? How would I explain that to Robin? It’s bad enough that he lives with the paranoia that I talk about him all the time in parenting group, now I am telling perfect strangers in line at Starbucks, ON CHRISTMAS DAY, the day Jesus was born, that I could go with or without a cervix because, uh (and I’d lean in closer here), well, my husband’s weener doesn’t reach there. What if she thought I was complaining, that I was trying to tell her that Robin is alarmingly unendowed, what if she goes home thinking that he and I just bump flat surfaces around down there for fifteen minutes or so and then call it a night?
Robin would totally not be down with that. He might even begin reading my blog, just to check. And that would definitely affect my writing mojo. (In my defense, I did show him the first few posts when I started out a few months ago, just to make sure he was cool with what I was writing but he perused about three sentences, said to me, “are there ever going to be any car chases or anything in this?” and when I told him no, he deleted “drstrangemom” from his Favorites.)
Still, there were questions to be asked about the cervix/orgasm issue.
Unfortunately, however, they will remain forever unanswered because at that very moment my new friend’s lattes (nonfat with two Splendas for her husband, cocoa for her; I heard her order) were ready and she high-tailed it outta there. Rushing home to her foot-long man, no doubt, to get the most use out of her cervix while she still had it. And maybe have him clean out her sinuses and wax her eyebrows while he was up there.
I climbed back into the car and handed Robin his grande double bold drip.
Double bold.
Yeah. You heard me.

Ann Brown

By: Jillian Lauren

I guess this blog is about to get more book-y, because I’ve been getting emails about things like the book jacket for the German translation of my memoir Some Girls (very saucy, those Germans). Staring down the barrel of my deadline is giving me hives. The tentative release date is May 2010.

The memoir is about, among other things, my teenage relationship with Prince Jefri Bolkiah, youngest brother of the Sultan of Brunei. When I knew the Prince, he was a dashing, decadent playboy. These days he’s an international fugitive.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Check out this email I discovered while doing some research for the memoir. Do you think I should respond? I mean, book advances aren’t what they used to be and I could use the money…

Best. Scam. Ever.

I believe i can call you friend. I am Prince Jefri Bolkiah of Brunei.I am the youngest of the Sultan’s three brothers. But its like a joke being called a prince. The Bruneian royal family have turned me into an outcast.My Brother the Sultan of Brunei masterminded and initiated much evil against me. He envied me as a person, he envied my life style, he was intimidated by my way of life, and thus plotted with his infidel advisers to get me arrested for nothing. He leveled all forms of corruption allegations against me. He accused me of taking US$40 billion of the royal treasury’s money. He labeled me a criminal and ordered for my arrest. My Brother the Sultan of Brunei did this to me his younger brother.Yes i agree that I spent Money, but I am bewildered by the accusation that i misspent $40 billion. It’s not that easy to hide, I keep asking the lawyers, Where did it go?…

I need you to assist me in these financial steps of securing my entitlements. You will benefit immensely from this finanacial exercise.I am an easy going gentleman, so please be rest assured that my business relationship with you
will be very sincere and this friendship will extend to our children.
Yours Sincerely,
Prince Jefri Bolkiah.
Email:prince_jefribolkiah02@live.com
READ ABOUT ME ON THIS LINK
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prince_Jefri_Bolkiah “

More about Jilian Lauren

By: Ann Brown

I’ve been thinking a lot about the Virgin Mary.

Probably because I discovered recently that, despite menopause, I am still not completely out of the woods, fertility-speaking.

No, I am not pregnant. But I am not taking any chances now, either. I am not even going to stand downwind of Robin after he’s watched anything on Showtime. And as for letting him see me writhe on the bed while trying to pull up my support tights? Fohgeddaboddit. A guy could get ideas. I am going to make myself as undesirable as possible until I am 100% barren. I am pretty much almost there, anyway. My personality alone can be a powerful anti-aphrodisiac if I use it correctly. Or so I am told.

When my son was in Kindergarten he came home one day and said to me, “we learned all about menopause today!” I kinda believed him because he went to this groovy alternative Waldorf school and maybe I hadn’t really researched the curriculum well enough, having based my decision to send him there solely on the fact that my friend Mary Ford sent her kids there and I wanted Mary to like me.

So, being the highly trained parenting instructor that I am, I knew to give a neutral response. Feigning only a casual interest I screamed, “Say, what the FUCK?”

He nodded. “Yes! Menopause. My teacher told me. It’s a very very beautiful story.”

I made mental note to actually read the brochure of the next school to which I was going to send my child.

Again, relying on my years of parenting educator training, I said, “Hunh.” God, I am hopeless when it comes to parenting my own kids.

My son continued. “Well, when it’s time for menopause and very very winter, you eat and eat.”

Okaaay. So far, he’s right on. Maybe this Waldorf education isn’t such a sham.

“And then you crawl into a cocoon. Then you are a butterfly.”

I was stunned. And intrigued. And more than a little concerned because I was still at the “and then you eat and eat” stage and I am highly claustrophobic. There aren’t enough legal refills of my Xanax to get me to crawl into a cocoon. I freaked in my “open” MRI and made them stop it halfway through.

Oh. Wait.

“Do you mean ‘metamorphosis’?” I asked my kid.

He paused. “Yes!” he said. “I keep getting those two words mixed up.”

Damn. I liked the first version better. Especially the eating and eating part. So I am going to eschew science and go with the cocoon theory of menopause. Who knows, the kid could be wrong. I mean, this is a child who used to mix up the words “nun” and “mummy” and once told his class that God is married to paper-wrapped dead people.

Yeah, definitely, I am going with his first theory. And I intend to be a gorgeous butterfly at the end of menopause.

Now, pass the cookies over here. I’ve got work to do.

By: Tosha Woronov

I am not the sort of woman who has a problem with football, or who doesn’t “get” it. Born and raised in Colorado, I grew up with the Broncos. As much as I hated Sundays – homework, the end of the weekend, the end of fun – the sounds of the game coming from the 2 or 3 televisions in the house offered solace. While writing a book report I could, without looking up, follow the game by the occasional whoo-hoos! or damnits! coming from my parents.

And then I met Peter, who brought a whole new level -or, division -of football to my world. It wasn’t just the Broncos anymore, it was the Giants. And it wasn’t just Sunday, but, because of Syracuse, it was any day or night of the week. (Ok, I have to admit, during this phase, I played the irritated girlfriend and later wife, annoyed that I was supposed to suddenly care about the, gulp, Big East on a, c’mon!, Wednesday!)

When Leo was born, wishing that he would love sports (even though his parents do) was not at the top of my list. I hoped more that he would be healthy, happy, smart, somewhat calm, sociable, silly, maybe artistic. We are lucky, because Leo is all of those things and more (wickedly funny, sweeter than sweet, cautious, brave, insightful, intuitive, sensitive, nuts).

But suddenly, this year – oh my. He is a football fan! He has been taught to consider the NY Giants (daddy) and the Denver Broncos (mommy), and he does, definitely. But because he loves the game in general, he watches all of them, picking a team to root for each time. He cheers wildly for the Green Bay Packers (huh?) and the Baltimore Ravens (wha?). I had to remind him once, while wiping his tears, that it was ok that the Lions lost, because he is not from Detroit. He cried for the Bengals and the unexpected death of 26 year-old wide receiver Chris Henry (wondering aloud yesterday during the game when Henry would be back to play). I allowed us to sit in the bar of an Italian restaurant the other night so he, along with about 12 other men, could watch the undefeated New Orleans Saints be defeated by the Cowboys. (Excited by the whole perfect record thing, how crushed he was by their fall from grace.) He knows every team’s record, which can be a little scary. Over Thanksgiving, he wowed his grandfather – and kept him company – catching every minute of every game, both pro and college. He checks the NFL television schedule on my iPhone and knows that SEA means the Seattle Seahawks, CHI means the Bears, and NE the Patriots. He is bummed when a much-anticipated game is not carried on one of our cable channels. If he knew to ask for it, the only thing on his Santa list would be DirectTV. I must remind you that he is tiny, barely five years old. I’m not sure what is more fun to watch: his concentration (”Mom! They sacked the quarterback!” “Dad! It’s second and five!”) or his enthusiasm (”Let’s go Giants, let’s go!” clap-clap-clap! – repeat 300 times).

Like his daddy, he doesn’t just watch. The kid can throw a spiral 20 yards and will slam his little body on the ground to catch a pass. He even taught me to throw a football – the right way – the way I always wished I could. I never thought I’d hear my child say “Good job mom! That was a bullet!” My favorite thing to do each night is watch my husband and my son throw the football back and forth in the living room, Leo diving wildly into the end zone (the couch). I am happy that I am a mom who allows footballs to be thrown in the house (no punts though. I immediately put the stop to punting).

It’s funny to me, now that he has become this fan, that I never thought to want it for him in the first place. It’s who he is, and we are having a blast. And isn’t that what football is all about?

By: Brandy Black

I was washing the dishes today because we don’t have a dishwasher, which I have to say I very much resent. It’s not from lack of effort on our part. When I was pregnant I had 3 people come to the house and tell me that they couldn’t install a dishwasher in our kitchen unless we tore out the counter tops and brought them up 2 inches higher. I didn’t believe the first guy, I got even angrier with the second, and by the time the third one said “We just can’t do it, even with the smallest dishwasher on the market”, I cried. Susan still doesn’t believe it and will occasionally say, “I really gotta call someone about that”.

Now that I’m resigned to having dry hands for the rest of my life, I take turns doing the dishes with Susan. Tonight, I got a chuckle as I rinsed our blue dinner plate while thinking about the therapist that Susan and I went to this summer. I can’t quite remember the context of the topic but she told us that doing dishes is a mother’s only time to herself and we should give each other this time. Is she fucking crazy? Perhaps we should invite her over for some “alone time” in our dimly lit kitchen, as we’re clearly not appreciating our dirty dishes.

Ironically, tonight I caught myself enjoying my alone time- me and my blue plate kicking back thinking.

Love
I was daydreaming about how much a relationship changes from inception. Wow almost 13 years ago Susan and I started dating. We were IN LOVE. We’d make out in the rain in my car for hours. There was no good reason why we didn’t find our way into my apartment, I guess we couldn’t wait that long. We were possessive and jealous for all the right reasons. If I may say so, we were cute.

Marriage
5 years later we got engaged and that brought another layer of romance to the relationship. I remember the night I realized that I would have to worry about her for the rest of my life. Worry in the way that made my stomach ache and flutter. Worry that she is happy and healthy and will drive herself home safely to me every night. This was a love that I hadn’t experienced before. This love hurt.

Then our first purchase of a home together- this came simultaneous with our wedding. All very sweet and romantic in the beginning until I started to realize that I was about to spend the rest of my life with this person and with that comes a lifetime full of habits to which I was not accustomed. Some of these habits I will later adopt, others I will forever hate. This realization spun me into a depression- I have just lost all sense of self and may never get it back. I began to analyze and nit-pick until something that, objectively speaking, was very minor, was now put under a microscope and might be- in my mind- the cause for divorce. This dissipated when I labeled it as fear of the unknown journey that we as a pair were embarking on. Once this realization was made, I jumped willingly into being an ideal wife. My priorities slowly shifted to striving to throw an entertaining dinner party and attempting to master a good dish (still haven’t done that). The late nights out at bars with single friends became Tivo and cuddling at home.

Children
Then kids come, or in our case the 2 plus year attempt at having a kid. This brought misunderstandings, hurt feelings, lots of TV at night and much less cuddling. We were weak; neither of us could take care of each other and the love changed to survival. Once our daughter finally came, we were ready for love again. The beginning weeks with Sophia were as good as it gets. Romantic fires, giddy conversations from lack of sleep, a re-kindled spark and a complete family, dog included. But then the novelty wore off and we were left with “getting through the day”. Our one goal in common was to keep that baby alive. This was an ominous task that haunted me at night. Conversations were about poop and diapers and feeding times and romance was off our radar. This stage lasted a very long time.

Doing the Dishes
Now I have entered what I like to call the “Doin’ the Dishes” stage – I have become content with life as I know it. The baby is safe, healthy and happy. The dates come more frequently and the conversations are interesting again. Life is complete and all that has brought me to this stage is bundled up in a beautiful loving package that Susan and I can share together once more. The cycle has started over, but with history and years of understanding and love. Layers that, when peeled back, expose the deepest parts of me that no one else could touch.

So maybe this was what our therapist was really getting at all along, ya think? Nah, I think she just likes doing the dishes.