To the Parents of Queer Children

PFLAG is the United States' first and largest organization uniting parents, families, and allies with people who are lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and queer (LGBTQ+). While it once stood for Parents and Families of Lesbians and Gays, the name is now just PFLAG, to be more inclusive, and to better reflect the broader community supporting LGBTQ+ individuals (friends, extended families, teachers, clergy, etc.)

PFLAG was founded by courageous parents who, one by one, resisted society's calls to criminalize, institutionalize or try to "cure" their children. That said, PFLAG's mission today is as much about outreach as it is about support - they make themselves available to parents who are struggling with their children's revelations about their gender or sexuality. They're open. They're not judgmental. They're kind and compassionate. But they insist that all LGBTQ+ people deserve love, care, acceptance, and support from the people around them.

I often think about those struggling parents at their first or second meetings. Maybe they've come from places that preached or threatened queers. Maybe they struggled with their own feelings at some point or another. Maybe they're just feeling a little in over their heads.

To them, I wish to say this: you made it.

And also: you have options.

You do not have to march on your knees in the pride parade. You do not have to invite their lovers to your funerals, accept the phone calls, or remember them on their birthdays.

If you are the parent of a queer child, you will not be punished for casting them out. No one will arrest you for the exorcisms or threats. No one will fault you for your shame. When the gunman makes his way into their homes, no one will call him a terrorist.

If you have a god, you may find a way to make peace with these decisions. You can tell yourself that your children will end up in the hell they deserve, or that it’s just a phase, or that you are willing to help them get better.

Whatever you tell yourself about this, do not call it good.

But you're here, dear parents. You made it through the door, which means you have already taken precious steps away from that which keeps you all from being free. You made it into the chair, which is probably a folding chair, and you are probably in a basement, or a classroom, or maybe, if you're lucky, someone's comfy, broken-in living room. There's probably cookies, at least.

You made it here.

I want you to know: many of our parents have chosen to practice the art of loving the way they once did violin, or fishing, or cursive. They took up the task of loving us , however tentative or scared they might have been. They risked mistakes, even failure.

If you choose this path, have patience.

You may hurt your children by accident. Sometimes, on purpose. We all have. What matters is what comes after: the repair. The apology. The commitment kept to never do it again.

Your children may not thank you for the effort. (You may remember that they also did not thank you for changing their diapers.)

Practice that love with the same care with which you once practiced holding a doll or a sack of flour in anticipation of their arrival. Protective. Caring.

(Remember the feel of a fontanel under your fingertips?)

We are still your babies.

If you should find yourself crying, screaming red and utterly confused, remember that this is normal. Remember their births, how they came crying, screaming red, betrayal on their faces.

Remember what you said: welcome to this knifepoint asphalt world, sweet seedling. I am your gardener. I’m here to help you grow.

Remember how they bloomed - the years of dirt and sparkle, the color and light. Search your memory for their joy, and keep it close. There is room for you in this new world they've entered.

Welcome. Sit. Join us. You're here, now. You made it.

Now, we can begin.