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.”

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.

#imwithher

Sometimes pictures are better than words.  I’m with her because…

I am a gay man married to my partner of almost twenty years. We have two adopted children. Our oldest son is Native American. We are currently foster parents to a 12 year old African-American boy. There is no place for us in Donald Trump’s America.

I’M WITH HER BECAUSE SHE IS WITH US.

too blessed to be stressed and other stupid things people say

Yesterday I stayed home from work. I didn’t have a fever or a stomach ache or even a hangover. The truth is I was exhausted and I was exhausted because all I do is worry. I’ve been a worrier all my life. In high school, so chronic was my worry that I kept a bottle of aspirin in my locker to help combat the daily headaches brought on by my excessive worrying.

As an adult I like to tell myself that I have learned how to manage my condition, but the truth is I’ve just become better at compartmentalizing it. Now when something bothers me I imagine a box high up on a shelf and I stuff all my worry into that box – out of sight, out of mind (not really!) I cram that box full of every petty annoyance, every concern, every case of “what-if” until finally it gets so full it explodes and I have to stay home from work.

I had not been feeling well for a few weeks—stomach aches, headaches, indigestion, trouble sleeping. The internet told me I had everything from an ulcer to Lupus to Lyme’s Disease to cancer. I looked in the mirror: how could I be falling apart when I was still so young and beautiful? What would everyone I had ever met do without me? Who would play me in the TV movie of my life, there was no question that Judith Light would play my husband, but what about me?

It was Judith Light my husband who suggested that I was perhaps/maybe/most likely not dying and that maybe I was just stressed out. I hate the phrase stressed out. It’s up there with depression, another overused self-diagnosis from which everyone claims to be suffering. Still, I considered his suggestion and, as much as I hated to admit it, I realized he might be on to something.

I made a mental list of all the things which had been causing me worry: my weight, my student loans, the “check engine” light that came on while driving home from work, my children, my children walking unsupervised for three blocks from the bus stop to home, the mother of the boy in my oldest son’s class who didn’t want her son to be friends with my son because he has two dads, what it must be like for my sons to have two dads, my youngest son’s refusal to eat anything without large amounts of ranch dressing, my oldest son’s piano lessons and play rehearsals, my youngest son’s soccer practice, the phone interview we had with the caseworker from Washington about adopting an eight year old boy, the fact that it’s been nine days since the interview and nothing, if we have enough money, how we spend our money, the lack of one-on-one time I have with my husband, the realization that silently watching TV for three hours a night does not constitute one-on-one time with my husband, Donald Trump winning the election, people who support Donald Trump speaking to and/or influencing my children, how I’ll react if Maggie dies on The Walking Dead…

The list goes on and on and, yes, I realize that 80% of what I worry about is ridiculous and the other 20% is stuff that everyone worries about all the time. My problem is not that I worry, my problem is I don’t process my worry. I stuff it all in that box high up on the shelf and the next thing I know Maggie is lying in a pool of blood and I’m sobbing on the living room floor next to a pile of dog vomit because my dog always vomits at the worst possible moments.

I have to learn to let go and let God (another stupid thing people say) which is about as hollow as #prayers, but if I peel away the very thick shell of cynicism that envelopes me, I get it. I can’t control everything, or really anything for that matter. Life happens and the best I can do is control how I react to it.

I may want to destroy the mother of the boy at my oldest son’s school who won’t let her son be friends with my son because he has two dads, but what would that accomplish? Sure I might feel great, but I’d probably end up in jail. And so what if my youngest son needs ranch dressing to eat his broccoli? In the end, he’s eating his broccoli.

Ultimately the world keeps on spinning and if Donald Trump is elected President of the United States…no, that’s a legitimate concern. We cannot let that happen, people. There isn’t a box large enough or a shelf high enough to contain that disaster.

Worry, worry, worry….


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?

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?