On Huckabee and heteronormativity

I don't know about you, but I am a bit of a purist, particularly when it comes to words.  Sometime, when I have time, I'll provide for you all a glossary of GLBT terms and made-up words...such as "heteronormative", "homonormative", and "gender complexity", ad nauseum.

But where to find the time?  So here, for now, I'll just share one of my favorite pastimes with you:  arguing with strangers in the Comments section of the Gazette, my much beloved hometown newspaper. 

This time, the topic is Mike Huckabee, and some statements he made in an interview that were taken entirely out of context...by a hostile interviewer, and for the sake of argument, I suppose.

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spydra -- 3:32 PM on April 16, 2010

You know, a long time ago, I used to be the world's most horrible drunk. My mother detested the drunken me -- my demeanor, my mouth and particularly my *words*...which indeed, were reprehensible.

The night I first got drunk, my parents came home, found the evidence, and confronted me. "Spydra, you're drunk." "No I'm not," I said. "Yes you are," they said. And on and on...until they both lost their patience with me.

Looking back, I realize that what angered my parents -- more than the clear and convincing evidence, more than the sloppy silliness, more than the lie in the face -- was my *insistence* that false was true, insistence that drunk was sober, unreasonable insistence that what was, was not...keeping a straight face, and to the point of acting offended and hurt that they could even entertain such a notion. I denied and denied and denied...but didn't change the truth.

That is what I am reminded of now, and each time this topic is debated. Be gay if you want to be gay; but please don't argue that it's normal. And when I disagree with you, you can claim that I hate you, and claim that it's natural, and claim that it's healthy; you can deny and deny and deny all that you want, but it doesn't change the truth.

If only from the standpoint of ability to pro-create, homosexuality is a barren fact; slice and dice and mince words all that you want, procreation requires something from a man, and something from a woman -- REQUIRES it. And if that thing from the man and that thing from the woman needs any additional assistance -- turkey baster, test tube, petri dish -- then it's NOT NORMAL. And while it can be argued that it's not necessarily *wrong* it most certainly is not and will never be normal.

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carrotcakeman -- 3:50 PM on April 16, 2010


The 2000 US Census counted over 600,000 children of same gender parents. Social service agencies report there are now over NINE MILLION American children of same gender parents. What did these NINE MILLION American CHILDREN ever do to YOU that you feel this need to HURT them by attacking their parents, spyder?


"[S]tudies on children dating back 25 years conclude that children raised by gay and lesbian non-adoptive parents fare as well as those reared by heterosexual parents (Breways, Ponjaert, Van Hall, & Golombok, 1997; Chan, Raboy & Patterson, 1998; Golombok, Perry, Burston, Murray, Mooney-Sommer, Stevens, & Golding, 2003; Wainwright, Russell & Patterson, 2004)."


A 2008 report from The Evan B. Donaldson Adoption Agency, America's most respected experts on adoption.


http://www.adoptioninstitute.org/policy/2008_09_expand_resources.php
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spydra -- 8:11 PM on April 16, 2010

Please, don't even try to go down the adoption road with me. I was given up for adoption at birth, and was adopted at 11 months. My birth mother was white, and my birth father was black; my adoptive mother is white, and my adoptive father is black. They were childless then; five years after they adopted me, they got pregnant with my sister -- yes, their "real" biological daughter.

That was 40 years ago. We all love each other tremendously now...but *none* of us can say that we *weren't* confused and hurt and disturbed by it all at some points and at others -- especially now that my sister and I both have biological children of our own.

Even now, when I discuss the topic, I'll stumble over my words...referring to my birth mother as my "real" mom...and wondering what it is that I mean when I say that. My adoptive mom is the only mother I've ever known...and I love her so very, very much; I imagine that I love her *as though* she were my biological mother. I love my biological mother intensely as well, though I've never seen her face, and never will.

And so, I live loving two mothers, two fathers, and two sisters. But deep down inside, I know that one mother, one father and one sister actually aren't...and I can only imagine how confused and hurt and disturbed I'd have been had a gay couple adopted me and required me to call both of them my "mother" or both of them my "father." It simply wouldn't be true, or even possible; we all know it, and requiring a child to state otherwise is, in my mind, a form of brainwashing and child abuse in and of itself.

The same is true for "transgendered" folks; they claim they feel like a woman trapped in a man's body, or a man trapped in a woman's body; we all patiently go along while they cross-dress and take hormones to artificially stimulate the growth of facial hair or swelling of breast tissue -- to simulate that which they are not. And if they feel strongly enough about it, they willingly and knowingly go under a knife and irreversibly maim themselves to remove their penis or their breasts...and the rest of us are supposed to pretend that it's normal? Yeah, right.

Talk about confused. The truth is this: if man is born with a penis and has it removed and refashioned into a vagina, then that man still has no idea how it really feels to be a woman; he only knows how it feels to be a man who had his penis removed and refashioned into an artificial vagina.

Listen, carrotcakeman, because this is a VERY OLD MAXIM, and one I know you've heard before: the truth hurts. Sometimes, it hurts worse than others -- but it doesn't do anything to alter the truth. Wishing something doesn't make it so...neither does money, or power, or a knife, or use of poor logic, or shouting, or accusing those who dare to disagree with you of hating you...or denying the truth over and over and over again.

In Holland there is the expression of "lange tenen" -- it means "long toes" and those suffering from the condition are constantly and easily hurt, because it's so easy for others to step on their abnormally long and constantly tender toes. I suspect you suffer from this condition...otherwise, how could you and why *would* you read my previous post and interpret that I feel a need to "HURT NINE MILLION American CHILDREN" or that I've somehow attacked any of their 18 MILLION real PARENTS or the 9 MILLION others who aren't but pretend to be?

I didn't even mention the word "adoption" in my previous post -- you did. I'm sure you weren't expecting an answer from a real life adoptee, and not just a speechless statistic you glean from some dubious study. Unlike you, I call 'em like I see 'em based upon my personal life experience; I don't need to rely on hyperbole and theorems and slapping people around with statistics in a futile attempt to argue the obvious.

My point in my previous post was that one can never win an argument with a drunkard, who will swear a lie is the truth. Similarly, there is no reasoning or arguing with those such as yourself, whose response is to quickly take offense and orchestrate a hissy-fit until the person who disagrees with you either gives in or goes away. This may come as a surprise to you...but just because you jump up and down and stamp your feet doesn't do a thing to change the mind of the person with whom you disagree; if anything, it only convinces that person MORE that you're not listening, entirely unreasonable, and that their disagreement with you has strong merit.

This is a lesson we all learned while waiting with our mothers in the checkout line at the supermarket and having a temper tantrum after being denied a piece of candy. Speaking for myself…I might stop arguing with you because enough is enough, and I have other, more important things to do than quarrel with a child…but I would never, *ever* – no matter how ridiculous you screamed and cried and thrashed your feet – no, this mother would never capitulate and reward your inanity by giving in and purchasing you that candy -- no matter how much I loved you.

A hole in the roof

My father was born in Savannah, Georgia…the youngest of 13 children. They lived on a farm, and were dirt poor. After his graduation from high school, my dad joined the military and was promptly stationed in Germany.

On St. Patrick’s Day, he and his friends decided to go to club hopping in Amsterdam. My mother was there, dressed entirely in green – a coincidence, since St. Patrick’s day isn’t celebrated in Holland. My dad says he fell in love with her the instant he laid his eyes upon her. After dancing the night away, he offered to take her home, and she accepted. Nevertheless, she had him take the extra-long way home, hoping to confuse him worried that this black soldier might show up on her doorstep and cause a commotion.

However, he had paid attention; and soon thereafter, he took the extra-long way back to her home, and did precisely what she’d feared. I imagine the stern faces of her family – my mother herself the second to the youngest of 10 very white, very Dutch children.

A commotion, indeed; but he was polite, and kind and respectful, and began to win over his future in-laws as he wooed my mother.

My dad boxed for sport, and one day his opponent broke his jaw. As he lay in a Stuttgart hospital with his jaw wired shut, he worried that the little Dutch girl he’d fallen in love with would think he’d stopped calling and forget all about him. But she didn’t; he awoke from a drug-induced sleep to see her face hovering over his…and the rest is history.

Mom and Dad, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g…first comes love, then comes marriage, then here they come with a baby carriage.

But the carriage never came. Stationed first in California, then at Peterson Field in Colorado Springs, my mother never became pregnant; after five years of marriage and still no baby, they decided to adopt. Baby Jane Doe no longer, I had a new mom, a new dad, a new name, and a new life.

I was the miracle of their lives for the next five years - which is when my mother finally became pregnant. I remember my mother calling me, rousing me from my sleep...and going to her, finding her in a pool of blood. This was before push-button wireless phones, and I trembled, following the instructions she panted out on how to call for emergency. After giving traumatic birth to my sister, the doctors told my mother she could never again have children.

How do you tell a young child that you’re not really her parents? I’ve no doubt they told me as gently as possible, and that they loved my sister and I just the same. But can you love your adopted child as much as your only biological child? And if so, can you convince the adopted child that it’s true?

The lies that we tell others aren’t nearly as bad as the lies that we tell ourselves.

I grew up, quiet and intelligent. At some point, I know we’d decided to keep the truth from my sister until she was older. And it wasn’t as though they treated us differently; they didn’t.

It was the little things that killed me inside…overhearing the laughter about my sister having my dad’s big ears, and my mother’s pointy chin. When I was about 13, we were all astonished upon discovering, through a strange fluke, that both my mother and my sister had a small hole in the roof of their mouths. My dad didn’t. I didn’t.

And at that moment...and for many, many years afterward...the only thing I ever really wanted was a hole in the roof of my mouth.

The Ballad of Baby Jane Doe

My name was Jane, on the day I was born - Baby Jane Doe, to be exact - born on the 22^nd day of that month in that year. I know I’ve joked about it before, but it’s true.

When I was born in the latter part of the 1960’s, good boys and girls dated only within their race, and saved themselves for marriage; unwed motherhood was like a scarlet letter, and abortion was a crime reserved for the rich and the desperate.

I picture the mother I’ll never know: a hippie-chick flower child, with hazel-green eyes and marijuana-opened mind…tuned in and turned on, unlike some people, thank you very much! “Living my life on my own terms for a change – so refreshing after all those years spent suffering under the unreasonable edicts of the parental proletariat! Really, mom and pop are such squares; what do they know of our modern world – indeed, what ever could they know!? Think of how long they duped us – never so much as blinkinganeye as they lied to us, year after year, about that fascist Santa Claus!! Ha ha ha! What else were they lying to us about, hmmm? Negroes, probably, and how perfectly awful they are. I’ve found them to be not nearly so frightening as they’d led me to believe; indeed, they’re not frightening at all… rather groovy, actually…”

One such groovy lad had her particularly enchanted. On summer evenings, in the moments that followed the spending of their passion, she’d gaze in awe upon his dark, drowsy beauty and nearly begin to cry. She believed that he and she might become a civil rights power couple, and in the end, make her bigoted mother proud.

But boys often lie and leave…and mothers are so often hard to please…

There is no magic rewind button or be-gone-baby spell to make a pregnancy vanish – and so, a woman faces one eternal truth upon finding herself with child: that child will emerge from her womb either dead or alive. Either way, the road to getting unpregnant isn’t nearly as pleasant as the path to getting pregnant may have been.

I imagine my mother’s face – increasingly pinched and drawn as she missed one period, then another; suddenly unable to make contact with her baby’s daddy; and the shocked, pained expressions that swept across her parents’ faces upon learning that their daughter was pregnant with some Negro’s bastard – right around Christmas time.

How perfectly dreadful! People talk, after all – even in progressive college towns – and next steps needed to be determined quickly to prevent the entire family from becoming the local laughingstock. Out of necessity, a life-long lie was spawned for the safekeeping of the family secret. I can hear my grandmother practicing her lines in the mirror, rehearsing before her Wednesday night bowling league recital. “Oh, yes, she’s off studying at Lyons this semester, and having a simply marvelous time!”

Meanwhile, my mother languished at a home for wayward girls, waiting out the remainder of her pregnancy in anonymous exile, reading teach-yourself-French books and playing solitaire. As her due date approached, she would sleep fitfully…dreaming vividly of the brown baby that moved within her womb, and having nightmares of running after the lover who’d forsaken her.

After laboring to bring me into this world, my mother cradled me in her arms. For a few fleeting moments, she studied my face for traces of him and traces of her…laughing at the shock of black unruly hair on my head. My newborn fingers unfurled and took hold of her finger, and her eyes stung hot with sudden tears. For an awful moment that she’d forever remember, my mother doubted the choices she’d made for us.

But it was too late; the deed was done.

Glimpsing a dangerous bond in the very process of forming, the nice lady from the orphanage came walking up briskly from across the room; and in one fluid, practiced motion, lifted my swaddled form up and out of my mother’s arms and reach. “Wait!” my mother sobbed, but for naught. The nice lady never slowed down or missed a beat…and as she walked away holding me, sang out with a false note of cheer, “Don’t worry, dear…everything will be just fine…!”

And just like that, my mother was my mother no more…and I, instantly orphaned.

The once-wayward girl found her way back home again, to the open arms of her parents. Only once did anyone ever speak again of the situation.

My grandmother came walking up to see my mother quietly weeping. “Why, dear, whatever is the matter?”

“Oh, I guess I’m just a little blue, mom,” said my mother, weakly.

Mother looked daughter squarely in the face. “Now you listen here, girl, and you listen good! It will hurt for a while, baby, but not forever! Best to forget all about that Negro boy and his child, just like he forgot all about you; put them both far from your mind, like an uneasy dream. If you don’t, no decent White boy will ever want you.”

And for one rare, wounded moment, they embraced.

But my mother never stopped wondering, whatever happened to Baby Jane?

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The above is almost entirely fiction – a make-believe story that’s easier on my soul than the other two possibilities; that my illegitimate creation was the result of either my mother’s easy behavior or forcible rape.

My original birth certificate lists me as Baby Jane Doe, my mother as “Caucasian Female”, and my father as “Negro Male.” I was brought from Alamosa to the El Paso County Orphanage that was filled, presumably, with other babies named either John or Jane Doe. Jane Doe I’d remain until my adoption 11 months later…

…actually, deep down inside, Jane Doe I’d remain for the rest of my life.