He Said Pussy. You Said Love.

Queer moms, a boy, and the fight to keep him tender

Photo by Giorgio Trovato on Unsplash

Gail Marlene Schwartz is a queer mom, a dual citizen, and pickleball champion of her household. She’s co-editor of the recently released essay anthology, Boyhood Reimagined: Stories of Queer Moms Raising Sons (Motina Books), and author of the award-winning novel, Falling Through the Night (Demeter Press). Gail lives in Ottawa with her partner Erin, their cat Miss Brisket (who is 87% friendly), and their sometimes roommate, Alexi, whom they co-parent with their beloved friend, Lucie.

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Pussy, Round 1

You remember when you heard your teenage son use the word.

He’s 13, and he’s playing Minecraft in the living room. You’re in the bedroom with your best friend Lucie—who is also your ex-wife and your son's other mom—reading. You’re visiting for the weekend, trying not to be irritated by your son's loudness. Alexi's voice has plunged in the last year, seemingly octaves, and with each Minecraft win, he barks and yawps, the sound clipping your body like a wayward baseball.

Every now and then, you and Lucie glance at each other and roll your eyes in stereo.

At one point, the energy in the living room changes. You squint, trying to perceive what’s happening. It appears that he’s not happy with his gaming partner. And that's when you hear it.

"Pussy!"

You’re on your feet with the doorknob in your hand in under a second. Not in this family. Your ears ring and the blood pushes into your cheeks. But your ex has quick reflexes; she grabs your arm, and you freeze.

"Let me handle this."

You stop and take a breath. All you want to do is tear into the living room and rip the console from his hands. You also know that the person holding your wrist often has better judgment. Slower reactions. Less tendency to fall off the emotional cliff.

Eventually, you collapse back on the bed, hoping Lucie finds a forceful way to let your son know his behavior was completely unacceptable.

What Is Love?

When you first met Lucie, you were a performer, and she was a librarian. She told you how she often couldn't understand her own feelings, let alone express them. You told her how you often couldn't control your tears, your swearing. Together, you talked about last relationships, past failures.

You fell in love. You agreed that communication would be your anchor. It wasn't easy. She was an introvert and often wordless. You were an extrovert and often overwhelmed. You were both afraid. But you loved each other. You talked. You read. You practiced. You learned.

You became different. Sometimes, you could sit and breathe before responding. You still felt intensely, but it didn't always overtake you. She became different. Sometimes, she cried or lost her temper. She was still introverted, but it didn't always shut her down.

The relationship changed you both.

What is Family?

You decided together that you wanted a child. You wanted to share your love. You wanted to nurture a tiny life together, as a team.

You worried. Your own childhood had been less than a smashing success.

You were determined to do it differently. When Alexi was born, you co-slept; your parents put you in a crib in a separate room on day one. You nursed your son; your parents bottle-fed you. You had family meeting; your parents blamed and punished. You allowed your son to separate at his own pace; your parents sent you away to camp for eight weeks starting in second grade.

Maybe the most dramatic difference was how you worked with Alexi's emotions. You and Lucie learned a new way: listening, validating his feelings, providing him with words so he developed emotional intelligence. Your own parents practiced shame-based discipline. Belting. Standing you in the corner. Tough words, tough phrases. "Selfish, spoiled brat."

You wanted your son to be a good man. You wanted him to act better than the others. You didn't want him to be a problem—for women or for anybody. Freedom felt key, embracing both his tenderness and his strength. You let him wear rainbow nail polish when he asked. You bought him the pink shirt he fell in love with. You held him when he cried, offering him words for his sadness. Mostly, he liked traditional "boy" things—which secretly drove you nuts—but you tried to embrace it all. How could you help your kid grow up to be a good person? Somehow, you knew the answer: love him for exactly who he was.

You did your best, and often, you failed. But you quickly saw that it was better than your parents had done. Perhaps that was enough.

What Is Queer Love?

When things got hard with Lucie, when connection felt beyond reach, the two of you went to Frida, the dykey therapist with the frosted hair who smelled like cigar smoke. You had date night at Aux Vivres. You kept talking. You could usually make each other laugh: farts, word play, fake accents. And when it was clear, after a few years, that the romance was finished, you split up, but you talked through the whole thing. You didn't betray. You didn't lie or hide. You kept showing up.

You decided you wanted to stay close.

So you did.

You met someone new a few years later. Your new partner, Erin, was jealous at first. But eventually, the two of them connected. You and Erin married. Now, the four of you gather every week on Zoom for family meeting. You spend Hanukkah and Thanksgiving and Christmas and New Years together. Lucie and Erin got together for the women's hockey game (Montreal vs. Ottawa) a few weeks ago. They say, "I love you," to each other.

Your family is a child, two parents, and a stepparent.

Pussy, Round 2

Later that night, after you come back from the gym, Alexi is asleep. You and Lucie settle in on the couch.

"Did you talk to him?" you ask. Your cheeks pinken when you hear Alexi saying the word in your head.

She smiles. "Yep. I asked him if he knew what it meant. He didn't."

My eyes widen. "You're kidding."

She shakes her head. "He played another game of Minecraft with his friends after we talked. And he told the boys. They didn't know either." She goes on to tell you how Alexi suggested to his friends that they not use the word anymore. They all quickly agreed, embarrassed.

I feel the air whistle out of my nose. I think about my rage, how I almost handled it, how Lucie handled me.

I think, Yes, that's love. That's our queer love.

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