“Yes. Don’t be mad, Mom. But I did, I got in trouble for it. They told me to stop. But then I did it again.”
How had I not gotten a phone call about this? I could never show my face at the school again. And those kids! Were they going home in tears, telling their parents about this little white boy who kept calling them the N-word?
As my son and I reached the school, I crouched down to his level and grabbed both of his hands. “Look at me. Look at me and listen to me very carefully. You are not allowed to use that word. Ever. That word has a really sad story behind it that I will explain to you after school, and that word hurts people.” My eyes started to fill with tears. “There is already so much hurt in this world, buddy. We should never do anything to add more hurt. We should only add kindness. Okay?”
“But, Mom . . .”
“No, Luka. No buts right now. Just promise me you will not use that word!”
“But, Mom, it’s not a big deal! You’re making it a big deal!”
Deep breath. Deep breath. Deep breath. NOT A BIG DEAL?!? Had the sweat pouring out of every humiliated and horrified pore of my body not given him a hint that, yes, this was a big freaking deal?
And then Luka, this child I had treasured and studied and adored since the moment he was born, looked at me with the sweetest, most innocent face. “But, Mom, it’s just a body part—nipple.”
Nipple. The N-word was “nipple.” He was calling kids a nipple.
My heart started beating again, my breathing returned to normal, and I no longer felt the need to move halfway across the world, where no one knew me. Turns out, I wasn’t raising a racist. I was raising a weirdo. What I assumed would be a mountain turned out to be just . . . a nipple.
Luka’s sharp wit and deep thinking has always made him both a joy and a pain in the butt to raise. I love him to pieces and have learned that often the children who challenge us the most also teach us the most. Because the more curveballs we’re thrown, the more capable we become at handling anything that comes our way.
One particular afternoon when he was almost eleven years old, a day no different from any other, I was sitting in the living room working on my computer when Luka walked in and announced, “We need to talk.” He looked serious, even a bit nervous. I figured something had happened at school that day. Maybe he got picked on or got in trouble for talking too much.
He continued, “You need to put your computer away and really listen because this is important.”
I started to get a little worried. My boy usually expressed his thoughts quickly and spontaneously, even the ones that mattered the most to him. This was different. This was big.
“Mom, I realized something and I thought you should be the first to know. And after we talk, I’d like to call Daddy and tell him.”
He sat down next to me on the couch, seeming older and more mature than ever.
“Okay, buddy. What is it?”
Luka took a deep breath and said, “I am ready to come out of the closet.” Another deep breath. “I am straight.”
I sat there frozen for a second, staring at him. My first instinct was to laugh at how cute this was, but my stronger instinct was to pause and reflect on what had just taken place in our living room. This wasn’t a joke to my son. My boy was being completely genuine and he needed me to take him seriously.
In Luka’s mind, his important announcement made complete sense. He knew that when people are gay, they often “come out of the closet,” and they usually disclose their identity first to the people closest to them. He figured that “rule” applied to everyone, because we are all human and should play by the same rules, straight or gay. When you’ve figured out that part of yourself and are ready, you share it. You come out.
I gave him a big hug and told him how honored I was that he told me first. And then I looked at him with tears in my eyes and told him that I would love him straight or gay, because that’s not what makes someone lovable or not. What makes someone lovable is their heart and their actions. And then I thanked him for opening my eyes to the type of world I want to live in.
I want to live in a world where gay children don’t have to feel like outsiders, don’t have to play by different rules, and don’t have to prepare a big coming-out speech or be terrified of whether or not their mom or dad will love and embrace them for who they are. I want to live in a world where everyone comes out. Everyone. Gay and straight. A world where parents wouldn’t assume anything. We wouldn’t suspect or gossip. We would wait. We would listen. We would believe our kids when they tell us who they are. And then we’d let them know that they are wonderful and they are loved just the way they are. I want that for others because it’s also what I want for myself—to be accepted for who I am. Isn’t that what we all want?
And I also want to live in a world where people don’t use words to hurt people, don’t use words as weapons in general. A world in which parents realize how important it is to teach acceptance and kindness—more important than making sure our children wear matching socks or that they finish that last bite of asparagus or get perfect grades. And it starts with us. It starts in our homes. Are we modeling for our children how we should treat people, both in person and on the internet? Do they hear us gossip and mock people? Are we teaching our children that being different isn’t a bad thing? Are we showing our children that disagreeing with someone doesn’t give us the right to be unkind? Are we putting too much pressure on our children? Do our children know that they are really, really loved even when they mess up? Are we teaching our kids to stand up for people? Are they seeing us stand up for people? Are we providing a peaceful home so that our children feel they have a safe place to fall? Are we creating an environment in which they know they can come to us with the uncomfortable stuff and the embarrassing stuff and the scary stuff and the stuffiest of stuffs, and we won’t shut them down? That we will listen?
Words are more powerful than we think they are. And the master class in equality Luka gave me that afternoon was far from the last major life lesson he’d teach me.
A few years back, I had one of those lucky days where I’d been awake for only two hours, yet had already accomplished 763 days’ worth of work but somehow had nothing to show for it. In other words . . . motherhood. The morning was stressful. Everybody was running late, one of the dogs peed in the kitchen, the other threw up on the carpet, the littlest kid was cranky from teething, the oldest one couldn’t find his shoes, and the middle one was taking forever to eat her breakfast because apparently my hysteria wasn’t a good enough indication that I needed everyone to hurry up, get their crap together, and get in the freakin’ car. The fact that I wasn’t ready either was obviously beside the point. My stress needed a target and my kids fit the bill.
Once everyone was finally in the car, I gave a long, loud lecture to my older kids about being ready on time and responsible for their own belongings. I thought it was a pretty solid lecture. I’d give it at least a B+. Lots of anecdotes, peppered with some profound thoughts—maybe even some quotable stuff—and delivered with great passion (and by “passion,” I mean anger, but “passion” makes me sound like a lovelier person so I’m going with that).