those people

I am so tired of racists, and I’m white, so I can only imagine how tired and angry and just totally fucking over it every non-white person in this country is of being forced to share space and make nice with their friendly neighborhood racist. I tell myself that we are in a new age of racism, but the truth is we are simply seeing a modernizing of old school racism. As my much-smarter-than-me husband recently put it, “The new style of lynching is no longer one of public participation but one of public complicity.”

Twenty-five years ago my racist uncle would have had the decency to keep his racist mouth shut in public….oh sure, he was still a racist, but he never would have had the stones to go on social media to show all the world just how much he was a worthless horrible disgusting human being.

But today – thanks in no small part to our race-baiting, Nazi-sympathizing, white nationalist-apologizing President – the gloves are off and every last garbage person in this country has emerged from his hate-cocoon with a tiki torch in one hand and twitter account in the other.

And the rest of us…well, we just throw up our hands and politely debate the civility of calling out racism because heaven forbid Chuck Schumer and Nancy Pelosi think less of us. Heaven forbid we don’t all just link hands and sing a chorus of Kumbaya. Heaven forbid we be perceived as “going low” and possibly (heaven forbid!) offend a racist therefore tarnishing our precious liberal halos.

Excuse me while I vomit.

A few days ago a 17 year old black boy was murdered by the police in Pittsburgh. As the parent of an African American boy it is not hard to imagine a scenario where it is my son in the cross-hairs of some trigger-happy racist cop. I think of that boy and then I think of my son and it stops my breath.

And the people who justify this murder? Or say it’s wrong, but then equivocate. Or post some bullshit meme about blue lives matter (which is just another example of white people appropriation, by the way). I am so done with you and I am so tired of being forced to share space with you and make nice with you because YOU ARE A RACIST.

Earlier this morning a woman came into the church where I work. She asked if she could use the telephone. She wanted to call her son to let him know that protesters who were marching to call attention to the death of an innocent 17 year old black child who had been murdered by the police were blocking a major roadway in the city. Normally, I don’t allow people to use the phone, but she seemed nice and genuine and I felt bad for her so I let her use my personal cell phone. As she dialed her son’s number, she launched into a tirade about “those people” and how they had no right to block the street and how she couldn’t understand why “those people” were mad at “us”.

I’ll admit, at first, I froze. I didn’t know what to do or what to say or how to react. I kept hearing her say “those people.” Her call went to voicemail and just as she was about to leave her son a message I snatched my phone out of her hands and said, “Those people are my son and you can leave now.”

I don’t care if I offended her. I don’t care if you refuse to invite me to your next Kumbaya circle jerk. I don’t care how low I go and I most definitely do not care if you take away my liberal halo because as far as I’m concerned Pelosi and Schumer and the rest of the can’t-we-all-just-agree-to-disagree squad can choke on it.

I want to scream.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

Get mad. Do something. Stop being so fucking polite. Stop making excuses for bad people. Stop. Just stop.


Sean Michael O’Donnell is 43 year old married gay man. He lives in Pittsburgh with his husband and three sons. Sean enjoys Law & Order reruns, Christmas movies in October, and Facebook stalking. He likes donuts and beer. Sometimes he goes to the gym.  He is the author of the best-selling book Which One of You is the Mother?

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my kids are the best, but so are their kids

I love my children. I would do anything for them. Read off the Things I Would do for My Children list and I would do it all: give them a kidney, walk through fire, take a bullet. Check, check, and check. I would even give them my last donut. I don’t think this makes me special. It just makes me a parent. As every parent reading this well knows, when you become a parent something inside of you changes. A switch is flipped and the world stops being about you.

I have three sons, and very soon I will have a daughter. My kids are the best. They are strong and funny and compassionate and brave. My kids are the best. But so are your kids. And so are kids from China and Russia and Afghanistan and Ethiopia and El Salvador and Brazil and North Korea and Sudan and Pakistan and Israel and Canada and Mexico. My kids are the best, but so are their kids.

I’d walk through fire for my kids. I’d take a bullet for my kids. It’s such a trite sentiment, but it’s also true. So is it really that hard to believe that some parents would walk hundreds of miles across the desert in 100 degree heat to cross the border even at the risk of being arrested just to give their kids a better and safer life?

I mean, if you would do anything for your kids, is it really that hard to believe that other parents would do the same? If (some days it seems like when) this country were to destabilize and collapse is it truly that difficult to imagine a scenario where you pack up your family and walk hundreds of miles through dangerous conditions to get to a safe place, even if that safe place meant you had to illegally cross the border into another country? Of course you would do it and, if you’re like me, you would take no prisoners along the way because that is what a parent does – we do anything for our kids.

Watching images of children in cages this week was difficult, but listening to the audio of crying children being taken from their parents was unbearable. There were a few times I had to turn the TV off, overcome with emotion and shame I would need a moment to collect myself. I cried too, but in those moments I found myself thinking of my kids, and not the kids in cages. I thought about my kids being taken from their birth parents and what that must have felt like for them at the ages of 2 and 4 and 5, and how it still must feel for them at the ages of 8 and 12 and 14. I imagined the terror and confusion in their little faces and even now, typing this sentence, I choke up.

This is empathy and as many of us discovered this week, not everyone has been blessed with it. No parent, no human being with empathy, could see photos of children in cages and not think, this is wrong. Full stop, no equivocating, this is wrong. And yet, for many it was right — just even — and for some it was wrong, but still they equivocated so it wasn’t really so much wrong as they just weren’t willing to fully commit to their awfulness.

People in this country like to complain about welfare and public assistance, but the reality for most of us is that we are never more than one paycheck away from needing that assistance. As our friends and family justify and support the placing of children in cages, perhaps it’s time for them to wake up and acknowledge that we are one Executive Order away from it being our children in those cages.

My kids are the best, but so are their kids.


Sean Michael O’Donnell is 43 year old married gay man. He lives in Pittsburgh with his husband and three sons. Sean enjoys Law & Order reruns, Christmas movies in October, and Facebook stalking. He likes donuts and beer. Sometimes he goes to the gym.  He is the author of the best-selling book Which One of You is the Mother?

will someone think of the children (probably not)

The United States government is placing children in cages. It’s shocking, but really it’s just another day in Donald Trump’s America. The right will defend it, the left will condemn it. The Attorney General will cite the Bible as precedent and then some well-meaning moron you went to high school with will post a meme suggesting that in the matter of the United Sates caging children we should all just agree to disagree. Our immigrant First Lady, a recipient of an Einstein Visa because who the fuck knows why, will weigh in condemning her husband’s policies and the media will anoint her Saint Melania of the Caged Children.

And the media, by gosh golly they are useless. I guarantee you if some D-list celebrity offs himself tomorrow it will be wall-to-wall grief coverage and the American people will emotionally masturbate to it until we’re all saying, “Children in cages? What children in cages? I don’t remember any children in cages.” But long after this country’s last great stateswoman Kim Kardashian overdoses on Ho-Hos in the Lincoln Bedroom, those kids will still be in cages.

The United States government is placing children in cages and you’re either defending it or you’re already in the process of forgetting about it.

Look, I’m no better than you. I like a good Kim Kardashian Ho-Ho overdose story as much as the next American, but as the (adoptive) parent of three children who were taken from their (birth) parents I can tell you if there is one thing that will mess with a kid’s head it is being taken away from their parents. Today my children are in a stable home where they are loved and feel safe, and still, the pain of being ripped away from their (birth) parents haunts them.

My kids were placed in a foster home, not a converted Wal-Mart. My kids were given a bedroom with walls, not a cell with bars. My kids received therapy from licensed professionals, not supervision from poorly-vetted government cogs. My kids had all these benefits and still the trauma of being separated from their parents remains to this day.

Imagine what the trauma will be like for these immigrant children who have been treated no better than caged animals…the ensuing years of depression, alcoholism, homelessness, drug dependency, suicide, inability to form lasting attachments…because those are all the things that children from the foster system, kids like my kids, experience throughout their lives, despite the benefits of having had loving parents and a real home and years of therapy.

Put simply, these immigrant kids are fucked.

I watch people on social media wringing their hands in despair, unable to grasp why their conservative friends and family defend this shameful policy. The left asks, “What if it was your children?” and of course the answer is, “But they aren’t my children. My children are white.”

Because beyond the morality and the legality, there is one truth: there is a law for white people and there are cages for brown people. Now before you stroke out, please hit the pause button on your outrage and consider how we would be handling this situation if this were Canadians crossing our precious border pouring into the wilds of Montana and upstate New York. I can guarantee you we would not be ripping apart families and warehousing kids inside a Wal-Mart prison.

Of course this is Donald Trump’s America, so who knows? Perhaps caging Canadian kids could be useful as we negotiate those pesky milk tariffs. But really, why stop at putting children in cages? This is America and in America we go big or go home! Let’s take it one (or ten) steps further. Those brown children may have information vital to our national security. What do you know about MS-13? How many caravans of illegals are preparing to cross the border? Why are telenovelas so damn popular? I’m confident that any reasonable three-year-old would break after a few hours of intense waterboarding.

People talk about how we’re crossing a line. We crossed a line with Sandy Hook. We crossed a line when we grabbed them by the pussy. We crossed a line in Charlottesville. But we’re no longer crossing lines. We’re caging children. We’ve gone over the line and we are falling into the void.


Sean Michael O’Donnell is 43 year old married gay man. He lives in Pittsburgh with his husband and three sons. Sean enjoys Law & Order reruns, Christmas movies in October, and Facebook stalking. He likes donuts and beer. Sometimes he goes to the gym.  He is the author of the best-selling book Which One of You is the Mother?

escaping the dog whistle

I grew up in a small town. We had one stoplight, one tiny grocery store, one very small public library. There was a church on every corner. We never locked our doors at night. In more prosperous times this small little town would have been described as picturesque, but looking back its decline had begun long before my childhood memories. Today it is like every small town in America, desperately hanging on as it tries to reinvent itself for a future it cannot escape yet unwilling to let go of a past that will never come back.

I sometimes feel like I have spent the better part of my life trying to escape that town and everything it stood for (or maybe, against). Even on those days when I found myself seduced by its many charms—the mighty river that cut its way through the town, the endless train tracks and their promise of adventure, the great park with its ball fields and swimming pool and storybook playground—even on those days when I was besotted with every street and house, I was plotting my escape to somewhere not there.

The day I left for college I never looked back. There was the occasional visit home, a few months in my first apartment after I left college followed by the subsequent moves to towns nearby where the only thing really different was the name. The real break-up didn’t happen until 2004 when I moved to a new city in a different state. Hundreds of miles from home and it felt as if my real life could finally begin.

I have since returned to my home state and although I now live just 25 miles from my childhood hometown, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve visited in the past ten years.

I suppose what keeps me away now is the very thing that sent me away then. I needed more. I knew there was a world full of people who were nothing like me. They ate foods I had never heard of and celebrated holidays I could not pronounce. They practiced mysterious religions or no religion at all. They were men who loved other men and women who used to be men. They were black and brown and they came from a world I did not understand because until that moment I left for college everyone and everything had been white.

In my former life, everyone ate steak and celebrated Christmas and worshipped white blonde Jesus and even when they felt otherwise inclined they sacrificed love for acceptance.

It’s what they knew and it’s who they were and there was nothing wrong with that I just knew I was different. I was other.

Today when I pass through these towns of yesterday many of the faces are the same. My teachers and classmates and friends still call this place home. They don’t need me to say it, but they are good people and I believe the majority of them do not embrace the narrow-minded values that sent me fleeing almost 25 years ago. The truth is people I have not seen in two decades regularly reach out to celebrate my non-traditional family. They embrace me and my husband and my gay son and my black son and my possibly-future-criminal mastermind son.

They may still live in a world where (most) everyone and everything is white, but they recognize that there exists a world where two gay men can have a black son.

Of course not everyone has progressed. In some parts of my childhood it will forever be 1857. In some parts of my childhood I am a disgusting pervert and my boy better know his place in the master’s house. Unfortunately this 19th century mentality has found new strength in a 21st century world. Our president has dog whistled a host of phobias and racism onto the main stage of 2017. He delights in sowing unrest and playing to our basest fear—the fear of other.

To paraphrase a great president from back when presidents were still great, “There is nothing to fear, but everyone who isn’t a straight white Christian.”

Muslims are terrorists. Mexicans are rapists. Women are objects. African Americans being murdered by law enforcement are just as culpable as tiki torch-carrying white supremacists in khakis, who by the way are “very fine people”.

For decades our president has been waging a war against black Americans, starting with housing discrimination in the 1970s to his ferocious condemnation of the (innocent) Central Park Five in the 1980s to his being one of the architects of the birther movement during the Obama years to his handling of Charlottesville this past August to his calculated conflation that African American athletes peaceably protesting racial injustice is an affront to our flag and veterans.

And as our racist president single-handedly destroys our democracy, as he continues to wipe his ass with the freedoms enshrined in our Constitution, people in small towns across the country, like the town I grew up in, wrap themselves in the flag and follow him blindly into the abyss. These people are not stupid or hateful, but they are afraid, and Trump is selling fear like a snake oil salesman at a medicine show.

Whatever ails you, it’s not your fault, and he has the cure. Ban the Muslims. Deport the Mexicans. Make sure the black man stays at the back of the bus. Make America great again.

We have to be better. We have to not be afraid. We have to leave our small towns and step outside of our whiteness and understand that sometimes what is happening is bigger than us.

We have to rise up and resist and do the hard work. We have to take a knee so that a young black man like my son isn’t gunned down by the police.

I am not a red, white and blue bleeding, flag fetishizing kind of patriot. Don’t get me wrong, I love this country and I’m grateful for every opportunity it has given me—including the opportunity to write these words—but I’m more of a low-key America Rocks! kind of guy so no one was more surprised when this past Sunday while watching a clip of football players kneeling during the National Anthem I began to cry. As I watched these athletes stand up (by kneeling down) for our most basic freedoms I was proud to be an American.

This was patriotism.

It wasn’t about a flag or a song. It was about coming together to do the right thing.


Sean Michael O’Donnell is 42 year old married gay man. He lives in Pittsburgh with his husband and three sons. Sean enjoys Law & Order reruns, Christmas movies in October, and Facebook stalking. He likes donuts and beer. Sometimes he goes to the gym.  He is the author of the best-selling book Which One of You is the Mother?

daydream believer

Tomorrow I turn 42 years old. I will celebrate this day with my husband and my three kids. We will eat cake and laugh and there will be presents and it will be just like every other birthday…except it won’t because behind all the cake and laughter and presents I will be holding my breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for someone to take it all away. The marriage, the security, the kids.

After all, this is Donald Trump’s America and anything is possible.

People caution me to “wait and see” or they tell me I’m overreacting. “Donald likes the gays,” they say. They post a link to some article from US Weekly with photos of Donald at some swanky Hollywood gay wedding. They remind me of that time on the campaign trail when he mentioned the letters LGBT. They click their tongues and they look down their noses and they dismiss my fears in a way that only someone speaking from a place of safe privilege can.

I am a drama queen.

I should just be quiet. I should just give him a chance. I should just be happy with what I have because aren’t a few crumbs from the master’s table better than no crumbs at all?

Lately I find myself prone to daydreaming. It happens everywhere. At my desk. On the bus. At the dinner table. I can’t control it. One minute I’m present and the next minute I’m lost in some fantasy world. I suppose it’s a coping mechanism, an outlet for all my newfound fears and anxieties.

Sometimes I am a ruthless assassin. I chop and kick my way through a sea of racists and xenophobes like an extra on the set of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. I Matrix-walk across the ceiling, dropping down on to an unsuspecting white supremacist moments before snapping his neo-Nazi neck. I am a gay Jack Bauer engaging in hand-to-hand combat with every traitorous Democrat who mentioned Hillary’s emails and fed into the media narrative that she was a weak candidate.

In another fantasy I am the leader of a resistance. A million (wo)man army. We meet in subway tunnels and we dress in grey and it’s always raining. Our mission is simple: we have each been tasked with taking out one Trump voter. We don’t kill anyone…instead we just give them a pill that puts them into a semi-permanent state of sleep where they will remain until such time as doctors have figured out a way to cut the asshole out of their brains. Once cured of their inhumanity, they will be awakened and given the opportunity to join our new country where everyone is welcome and celebrated, even gay black Muslim women from Mexico.

But of all my dreams my favorite is the one where I am Kellyanne Conway. I’ve hired a stylist and I’ve built a time machine so I can go back in time to Inauguration Day and wear something appropriate. I’ve cut my hair into a stylish bob and dyed it jet black. I’ve learned how to apply make-up correctly. Everyone wants to dress me and Jennifer Lawrence is my best friend. The country loves me and the President is in love with me. He respects me so much he even asks before grabbing my pussy. Donald is obsessed with me. He hangs on my every word. He no longer listens to that fat neo-Nazi and ever since he banished Melania back to Croatia and lost Ivanka in that poker game to Putin, the only advice he seeks is my advice.

One day, after an especially aggressive kitty grab, he turns to me and says, “KC” — he calls me KC — “KC, I’m not very smart and if I’m being honest I have a shockingly small penis. Also, I’m in way over my head. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to be president. Tell me what to do.”

At last! I seize my moment. I lean in, I push back the hair thing on his head, I rest my perfectly manicured hand on the side of his puffy face and I whisper, “Be kind, Donald. Just be kind.”

(un)planned parenthood

In 2011 life was complicated and I found myself in need of someone to talk to…someone on a professional level. As I was uninsured at this time in my complicated life my professional talking options proved to be limited. I did some research and eventually I found myself on the phone with Planned Parenthood. To my surprise, Planned Parenthood offered counseling services.

There was a Planned Parenthood a block from my office. I made an appointment and for twenty dollars a week I was able to talk with a rather good therapist. I went to see this rather good therapist off and on for the next eight months until life felt less complicated. Looking back it was the best money I ever spent and, at the risk of being melodramatic, it saved my life or at the very least helped to give me the life I have now and for that I am thankful.

The point is I am a big fan of Planned Parenthood.

Now every few years congress threatens to defund this very good organization because, as they would have you believe, behind every Planned Parenthood are alleys littered with the aborted fetuses of immoral, irresponsible loose women who have nothing better to do with their time than go to Planned Parenthood for their annual abortion. Every few years congress reminds us that the baby killers at Planned Parenthood are on the front lines of the pre-born Holocaust.

Or something along the lines of that nonsensical dystopian rubbish.

Of course it doesn’t matter that Planned Parenthood offers dozens of other services, ranging from general health maintenance to HIV testing to birth control to cancer screenings to counseling…nor does it matter that just three percent of their provided services are abortion related…nor does it matter that zero dollars of federal money is used on those three percent of abortion related services…nor does it matter that abortion is legal. None of that matters because they are facts and we no longer traffic in facts in President Trump’s America.

So I’m not going to argue pro-this or pro-that because that would be as pointless as expecting Americans to not be so stupid as to elect a misogynistic, racist, xenophobic, anti-LGBT, anti-Muslim, wall-building, tax-dodging, crotch-grabbing demagogue.

What I am going to ask is if your commitment to the pre-born is so great that it would have you deny millions of Americans access to affordable, safe and legal health services then what about after the child is born? Does your passion for the fetus translate to life outside the womb? What have you done to assist a child born into poverty or drug addiction or domestic violence or to a child who is simply just not wanted?

In the same breath that you denounce Planned Parenthood do you also condemn social services like welfare and programs like WIC and SNAP – services and programs that often keep alive the very children you claim to want to save, children who through no fault of their own were born into poverty or drug addiction or domestic violence?  Do you then vote for politicians and parties whose platforms promise to cut these programs that are the very lifeline of every unwanted child?

You hate abortion. You’re “conservative” or “religious” or it just goes against the core of who you are. Okay. Fine. I get it. As a parent of three adopted children who came from not the best circumstances it’s very easy to imagine a “what if” scenario that includes a world without my kids, but we aren’t talking about me. I have no trouble walking the walk.

But you.

Do you foster? Do you adopt? Have you ever even considered becoming a parent to a child who looks nothing like you? If social media and the internet are any indication then the answer is no. You are content with telling other people what they should and should not be doing. You fight for the pre-born but you have no interest in the forgotten seven year old or the abandoned five year old or the black kid because, after all, you’re white and you already have 2.2 kids who look just like you.

If you really care for that child you will stop being ignorant and a hypocrite. If you really care for that child you will give him a home even when he doesn’t look like you. And if you really care for that child you will vote for and support politicians who will guarantee him access to affordable, safe and legal health services.

I feel for Planned Parenthood whose biggest crime is trying to provide affordable, safe and legal health services in a country full of ignorant hypocrites. When you cut off access to health care people die and those people were once children and those children were once fetuses and those fetuses did not cease to matter simply because you did your part to make sure they got born.

who we are

I walked to work today. I usually take the subway, but today I walked. I needed time to think – or, not think – to clear my head, to process the events of the past 24 hours. But instead of thinking (or not thinking) I found myself watching faces. I live in the city so, unlike people living in the majority of the country, the faces I see every day are different than my own face. The faces I see are the faces of African Americans, Hispanic Americans, Asian Americans, Native Americans, Muslim Americans, Jewish Americans, Gay Americans, Transgender Americans.

These are the faces that make America great every single day.

I celebrate them. I cherish them. I count myself lucky to be among them.

So as I walked the mile from the parking garage to my office on this, the morning after our country elected a misogynistic, racist, xenophobic, anti-LGBT, anti-Muslim, wall-building, tax-dodging, crotch-grabbing demagogue, I studied the faces of my fellow Americans and, for perhaps the first time, every face looked the same. By the stadium, across the bridge, waiting in line at Starbucks, on the steps of the church – everywhere – I saw written across these faces the same thing: shock, sadness, embarrassment.

I had spent the previous evening watching the election results and, with each state that turned red, I turned to my husband and asked, “Who are we?”

Now, confronted by the faces of my fellow Americans, I saw exactly who we were.

In their faces I saw the faces of all the women I knew and how it must have felt to wake up to learn that the glass ceiling had not been shattered, but reinforced.

I saw the faces of my female friends who had exercised the deeply personal right to choose and what it must be like for them to now have that right in doubt.

I saw the faces of my friends and their Hispanic children and I tried to imagine the sense of fear and uncertainty those kids would face in this new America with its walls and borders and hatred of brown people.

I saw the faces of the many incredible gay men and women who fought so hard for equality and who were now faced with losing that equality at the hands of family and friends who had turned their backs on them in the name of change or protest.

I saw the faces of my transgender friends who still have to fight to use a public restroom.

I saw the faces of the brave parents who fight every day for their special needs children and how much harder that fought just became for them.

I saw the face of my African American foster son and what it must be like for him in a world where all lives matter and blue lives matter, but only sometimes do black lives matter.

I saw the faces of my adopted children and I understood that in a world run by Mike Pence they would not be my children.

I saw the face of my husband, a man I have loved for almost twenty years of my life, and I thought how easily everything we had could be taken away.

And then at last I saw my own face and I felt my anger, my disappointment, my sadness.

when chris met hillary

My son has a thing for grandmas. If you dropped him into the middle of a retirement community he would come home a week later with a pocketful of butterscotch discs and enough loose change to pay for college. Once at a yard sale he flashed a smile at a group of older women and walked away with twenty dollars worth of free merchandise and a five dollar bill. So it was no surprise when he took a liking to Hillary Clinton, a woman who ticks all the grandmother boxes and yet still manages to rock a pantsuit.

Over the weekend I took my son to see Hillary Clinton speak in Pittsburgh. We waited in line for almost nine hours and not once did my son complain, which is more than I could say for myself. When at last Hillary finally took to the stage (three hours late!) my son leapt to his feet and began to clap with an energy usually reserved for Minecraft and movie theater popcorn. I’m not sure if in that moment he was star struck, love struck or just simply delirious from having waited in line for nine hours with no food or water, but once he started to clap he did not stop. For thirty-five minutes he clapped, screamed “Hillary!” and listened with a quiet intensity usually reserved for watching YouTube videos of people playing Minecraft.

Here was someone he had seen on TV. Here was someone he had heard his two dads speak passionately about at the dinner table. Here was someone who in 1997 with Republican Whip Tom DeLay co-authored the Adoption and Safe Families Act, bipartisan legislation which 16 years later would help to make his own adoption possible. Here was someone whose commitment and dedication to ALL families meant that his family existed and was safe and respected.

Over the next several days my son would talk about this experience with anyone who would listen, and even a few who would not. He would tell them he had “met Hillary” and that she was going to make sure women received equal pay and that gay people and people of all colors and religious beliefs were respected and that pre-school teachers were given the tools necessary to educate our children because great education begins at the pre-school level, and, because he’s a tech geek his favorite promise, that everyone in the country would have access to high-speed broadband internet.

After the rally I took my son out for hamburgers and milkshakes. It had been a long day and we were both tired and hungry. As we ate our burgers I reminded my son that when (okay, if) Hillary Clinton was elected President she would be the first female president and just as Barack Obama had been the first African-American president, this was incredibly significant. For more than 230 years our racially, ethnically, religiously diverse country with its varied citizenry of people of all ages, sexual orientations, and gender identities had been presided over by middle-aged white men as if the United States of America had been made up of nothing more than middle-aged white men.

A lot of ink has been spilled about what a Hillary Clinton presidency means for young women and girls, but it really is so much more far-reaching than that. As with the election of Barack Obama, a Hillary Clinton presidency would signify a moving forward for our country to a time that could one day see a Hispanic president or a Muslim president or a gay president, maybe even a gay Hispanic Muslim president because it would be kind of fun to watch Pat Robertson momentarily choke on his own bile.

Hillary Clinton’s campaign slogan is “Stronger Together” and like all campaign slogans it is a tad trite and overly simplistic, but its genius lies in its simplicity. My son asked me what it meant, “Stronger Together,” and I replied, “A million is greater than one.” Black, white, Hispanic, Christian, Muslim, disabled, lesbian, gay, transgender, male or female – we are in this together because our differences make us stronger, not weaker.

I can think of no greater lesson to teach to my biracial son, the descendant of Native Americans, a child of the foster care system, a boy being raised by two dads.


Sean Michael O’Donnell is 41 year old married gay man. He lives in Pittsburgh with his husband and two sons. Sean enjoys Law & Order reruns, Christmas movies in October, and Facebook stalking. He likes donuts and beer. Sometimes he goes to the gym.  He is the author of the blog seansbiggayblog where he attempt to chronicle his experiences as a parent.  The contents of his blog (and life) are 75% truth, 18% satire, 6% hyperbole and 1% drama. He is also the author of Which One of You is the Mother?

in defense of my family

I have a photo on my desk of my children. They are standing in front of a paint splattered door and in the photo my oldest son is looking out from behind his glasses appearing effortlessly handsome as he towers over his much shorter brother, my youngest son, who looks ready to cause trouble as soon as my husband finishes taking the photo. My husband and my two sons. Together these three are everything. My life. My purpose. My reason.

I cannot imagine a world without them. I cannot conceive of a world where the four of us were not brought together for some greater purpose, where we did not find one another because we were always meant to be a family, and yet, how different our lives could be in another time and place because as inconceivable as it is for me to imagine a world without them, I am keenly aware that such a world exists in the hearts and minds of millions of Americans.

These people believe that I should not be afforded the same rights and privileges of “normal” people, that I should not be married, that I should most definitely not have children. They hide behind their religion, using it and their perverted notions of God to justify their bigotry. And when their base religious manipulations fail them, they turn to the political arena in the hopes of legislating their morality on the masses.

Over the past few years as marriage equality became the law of the land and as all fifty states finally recognized the rights of same-sex couples to adopt, it seemed that such nonsense had gone the way of the dodo. But in 2016 with the threat of a Donald Trump/Mike Pence administration looming over our country, the rights and privileges of gay Americans and the very existence of non-traditional families are at stake.

The RNC platform, under the auspices of Trump and the notoriously anti-gay Pence, include these decidedly anti-LGBT nuggets:

  1. We believe that “marriage is a union between one man and one woman. Traditional marriage and family, based on marriage between one man and one woman, is the foundation for a free society.”
  2. We pledge to “support adoption organizations that refuse to serve gay couples” with the belief that “children raised in a traditional two-parent household tend to be physically and emotionally healthier, less likely to use drugs and alcohol, engage in crime, or become pregnant outside of marriage.”
  3. We support (the widely discredited practice of) conversion therapy, guaranteeing “the right of parents to determine the proper treatment or therapy for their minor (gay) children.”

This is the platform for a major political party in the year 2016 and it scares the hell out of me because as impossible as it seems that we as a country would willingly go backward, that we would allow marriages to be dissolved, that we would allow children to be taken away from loving homes, that we would operate under the absurd notion that one could pray the gay away, the fact is an uninformed, undereducated, and angry electorate makes this not just possible, but probable.

The reality is that on November 8 people will vote for this hateful nonsense because either a) they support it or b) because they are more concerned with tax breaks and welfare reform and defense spending than the basic rights of their friends and family.

Look, I get it, people can have fundamental disagreements about government, but the right of my family to exist is not a fundamental disagreement. If you cannot bring yourself to cross party lines and vote for another candidate then you need to right now at this very moment demand more from your party and its leaders. You need to stand up and say, “I will not accept this. I will not tolerate this. This is not what I believe. This is not who I am.”


Sean Michael O’Donnell is 41 year old married gay man. He lives in Pittsburgh with his husband and two sons. Sean enjoys Law & Order reruns, Christmas movies in October, and Facebook stalking. He likes donuts and beer. Sometimes he goes to the gym.  He is the author of the blog seansbiggayblog where he attempt to chronicle his experiences as a parent.  The contents of his blog (and life) are 75% truth, 18% satire, 6% hyperbole and 1% drama. He is also the author of Which One of You is the Mother?

 

advanced topics in parenting

Last Tuesday Chris stayed home from school sick with the flu. He and I spent the day on the couch under a mountain of blankets eating leftover Easter candy and watching cartoons. Shortly after eleven I switched over the station from Nickelodeon to ABC because Hillary Clinton was scheduled to be a guest on The View.

Chris had recently began expressing an interest in the upcoming presidential election and I thought this would be a good opportunity for him to hear a candidate speak…and also because I want him to grow up to be a socially liberal Democrat and if other parents have no problem bringing their ten year old to a Trump rally than I see nothing wrong with me allowing my ten year old to watch Hillary Clinton, who is, after all, fabulous and not a dangerous lunatic.

La Clinton was flawless. And I’m not just talking about her tailored pants suit. She nailed every question, charming even that bastion of religious conservatism Candace Cameron-Bure. God, I love that woman – HRC, not CCB.

So what if I’m as biased as a Bernie Bro? I mean does it really matter if I spent a majority of the interview explaining to Chris how perfectly on-point the former First Lady’s hair was and why that detail alone was reason enough to vote for her? No, because the point is we were bonding and my son was learning an important civics lesson.

It was magical…until someone on the panel asked a question about abortion.

“What’s abortion?” Chris asked.

Look, I don’t care if you’re pro-life or pro-choice or pro-sports explaining abortion to a child is difficult. I did my best to answer the question in as unbiased, direct and medical a way as possible, but still it was uncomfortable.

Of course so much of being a parent is about dealing with things which are uncomfortable.

This morning over breakfast I had to explain the finer points of Stranger Danger which led to a lengthy discussion on the difference between a good touch and a bad touch and this coming on the heels of yesterday’s car ride home where I had to explain to Chris the reasons why siblings couldn’t marry each other, but in as non-graphic a way as possible because simply saying “Because they can’t!” proved to be an unacceptable answer.

Perhaps I’m too honest with the kids. Maybe “Because they can’t!” should be the last word. I don’t know. I do know the world is difficult and sometimes it can be unpleasant and we do our children no favors if we try and shield them from those realities.

Still, when Elijah asks me where babies come from I’m going to learn from my mistakes and rather than try and explain the birthing process I’ll simply direct him to watch an especially graphic episode of Call the Midwife and rest comfortable in the knowledge that my work is done here.


Sean Michael O’Donnell is the author of Which One Of you is the Mother? It is available on Amazon here.