two faggots gave you a home

The Supreme Court is about to decide if I can be fired from my job for being gay. Well, not me specifically, but people like me. A lot of people like me. Call me a cynic, but I don’t have high hopes for this one. I may be able to get married and have children, but there are still quite a few people in the land of the free/home of the brave who think I should just be happy with what I have and stop demanding special privileges.

Ah yes, the special privilege of being gay.

The special privilege of being gay means that I could not get legally married until 2015. The special privilege of being gay means that I live in a country where the current Vice President of the United States once advocated for the legal discrimination of LGBT persons calling their lifestyle a “choice”, and as the then-governor of Indiana he sought to give public money to institutions that would help gay people change their sexual behavior. And if that seems too 1996 for you then I have five words for you: Supreme Court Justice Brett Kavanaugh.

So. Much. Privilege.

And while all of the above does affect me, it is still somewhat removed from my everyday life. The final decision made by the Supreme Court will cement certain ideas for millions of Americans. If the highest court in the land decrees that LGBT persons are in fact second-class citizens then maybe a whole lot of people can stop pretending.

No wedding cakes. No wedding. No job. No marriage. No kids. And yet even those potential realities are so big picture because for me, right now, it comes down to this word: FAGGOT.

Faggot.

It is the go-to word of every schoolyard bully and closeted muscle jock in America. It is the gay N-word. We all know what it means and we all know what is being implied when someone says it, and if you’re unsure I can tell you what it does NOT mean…it does not mean “person who has the courage to be true to themselves despite the risk of being fired from their job or ostracized by society or murdered, all for the crime of loving who they love.”

Yeah, faggot does not mean that.

I was called faggot from the time I was 8 until…well, I’m still being called faggot. #NeverChangeAmerica Let me share a hilarious story with you…recently I confiscated my oldest son’s cell phone (see Nancy Drew) and one of the many disturbing things I discovered amidst the racism and the sexism was the casual manner in which his friends shared anti-gay memes and tossed around the word “faggot”.

Now, I want to be clear that my son was not using this word nor was he sharing these memes, but he was in receipt of them and he did play along with his friends, responding several times with an LOL followed by the I’m-laughing-so-hard-I’m-crying face emoji. Again, he was not using the word, but in his response he had given his approval of the word.

As you can imagine, I did not react well. But in my defense I suspect he would not have reacted well if he had discovered that his Papa and I were exchanging racist memes and calling people the N-word. I tried to explain why this word was a big deal, but there seemed to be an attitude of “it’s just a word and that’s not what they meant”.

Except, it’s not just a word.

“Two faggots gave you a home,” I said in voice that had I been on stage I would have won every major acting award that season. Of course what I wanted to say was, “I’ll put as many dicks in my mouth as I want and you don’t get to say a damn word about it as long as I’m paying for the shoes on your feet.” But that felt more like something I’d say in the film version of this story and in that moment I was imagining myself acting in a play.

I know my son loves me and I know my son loves his Papa and I know he would never want to hurt us. He’s a great kid, seriously, he is just the best and I love him more than I can adequately express, but the reality is to him and to his friends and to millions of Americans it’s just a word. No big deal.

Faggot. Faggot. Faggot.

If/When the Supreme Court decides that I and millions of Americans like me can be legally fired from our jobs for being gay or trans or whatever the court decides is not the “norm”, then those nine justices will be sending a very loud message to every schoolyard bully and Snapchat asshat out there that we are less than. That we are something to be laughed at. That we are nothing more than faggots.


Sean Michael O’Donnell is a 44 year old married gay man. He lives in Pittsburgh with his husband, three sons, and daughter. Sean enjoys Law & Order reruns, Christmas movies in October, and Facebook stalking. He likes donuts and beer. Sometimes he goes to the gym (not really).  He is the author of the best-selling book Which One of You is the Mother?

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have you lost weight?

A few days ago I wrote a lengthy blog post about my son’s cell phone, specifically the many disturbing things I found on my son’s cell phone. I continued to detail the endlessly developing story on social media, humorously recounting my confrontations with teenage drug dealers, young women with very low self-esteem, and my son’s misogynistic (and very stupid) friends. Over the next several days I received a flurry of texts and messages congratulating me on my bravado…other parents commended me for my no-holds barred parenting style, calling me “brave” and “strong” and while I really did appreciate their kind words I was a bit pissed off that not one person called me “thin”.

No one said, “I loved the way you confronted that pot dealer. Have you lost weight?”

Whatever. I see you. I see what really matters to you and I want you to know I am offended and also, no, I have not lost weight. In fact, I have gained like 400 pounds since I became a parent, thank you for noticing. My youngest son’s favorite pastime is to put his hand on the top of my belly as if it were a shelf and then laugh. Well the joke’s on him because I just grounded his ass for calling a classmate a “chicken nugget”.

A few weeks ago my oldest son made a crack about my weight and again, joke’s on him because I took down his pot dealer and confiscated his cell phone. My other son seems to have caught on because he’s been suspiciously quiet and the other day my daughter told me I looked “handsome”…granted this was after she got caught trying to access a blocked website on a school computer, but whatever, I’m just glad that at least one of my kids has learned that when it comes to Dad, flattery will get you everywhere.

It’s been a stressful few weeks. Aside from the cell phone business, we’ve been trying to sell our house, which means all I do is obsessively scrub the toilet and not sleep at night. My house may be clean, but I am a mess. The icing on the “my-son-might-be-a-pot-smoking-misogynist” cake is that I ran out of blood pressure medication. If I make it through the next few days without having a stroke I plan on celebrating with a donut and beer sundae.

All joking aside it really has been a very difficult couple of weeks, but it’s also been a very much-needed couple of weeks. My son’s phone, my kids getting into trouble at school, the stress of selling a house while raising four kids – these events have given me perspective. Or rather, other parents have given me perspective because what I’m starting to realize is that I am not alone in this.

It turns out other people’s children are also smoking pot and receiving inappropriate text messages from young women with very low self-esteem and calling other kids names and looking at blocked websites on school computers and basically just fucking up like every kid in the world does at least five times a day.

The truth is most of us really are doing the best we can, and if we are failing, at least we’re failing at trying. It’s a comforting thought. It means we’re not alone. So relax. Crack open a cold one and pour it on top of your donut sundae. We’ve earned it.


Sean Michael O’Donnell is a 44 year old married gay man. He lives in Pittsburgh with his husband, three sons, and daughter. Sean enjoys Law & Order reruns, Christmas movies in October, and Facebook stalking. He likes donuts and beer. Sometimes he goes to the gym (not really).  He is the author of the best-selling book Which One of You is the Mother?

our first last family vacation

Vacations are always bound to disappointment. We spend days and weeks imagining each and every moment, creating impossible standards which can never measure up to our ridiculous expectations let alone the cold light of day. Oh sure, there are moments so perfect you almost forget about the $100 you dropped on greasy hamburgers and stale French fries, but then one of your kids starts crying and reality sets in and suddenly you’re back in that overpriced hamburger joint shooting daggers at the waitress who forgot to bring you the diet coke you ordered ten minutes ago.

Full disclosure: I had a terrible time in New York. I was miserable. The only moment of joy I experienced was during a production of Once on This Island, and even though it was one of the most beautiful shows I have ever seen, I was mostly happy because no one around me was allowed to talk for 95 glorious minutes.

Gimme, gimme, gimme. More, more, more. Fortnite. xBox. Tablet. By the way, I want these additional 78 things for Christmas…

Okay, I’m exaggerating. It was more like one gimme and two mores and it wasn’t 78 things, it was 43. But I stand by the Fortnite stuff.

It’s probably not fair to lay blame at the feet of my kids, who are, after all, just kids. They were tired from the six hour car ride and the endless walking. They were excited because New York comes at you from every direction. It assaults all of your senses and when you’re eight or eleven or twelve or fourteen years old that can be a lot to handle. And I suppose when you cram a Broadway show, a trip to the circus, a visit to Macy’s to see Santa, an afternoon of ice skating at Bryant Park, a trip to the tree at Rockefeller Center, and thirty blocks of Christmas windows on Fifth Avenue all into a 48 hour window it’s understandable when no one has the energy to get that worked up by the Statue of Liberty.

But still, you planned this trip for weeks. You bought everything in advance. You rented a really awesome apartment on Airbnb. You even reserved a parking spot. No stone was left unturned…except for lunch on day two, but by this point you’re just tired of planning and making decisions so you turn it over to your husband to decide where to eat and that’s how you end up paying $100 for greasy hamburgers and stale French fries and that’s it, something snaps, and you just break and you imagine yourself jumping into a taxi alone and telling the driver to take you to the nearest airport so you can hop a flight to a country that doesn’t allow children or spouses or greasy hamburgers.

Of course it’s not about the greasy hamburgers or the beer you didn’t get to drink or the black-n-white cookie you never got or even the special ornament they didn’t have at the Christmas shop…it’s about your ridiculous expectations, which you have every right to, but also don’t have every right to, because expectations ruin everything and in this case the expectations were yours and yours alone.

I have to remind myself that my kids were just being kids and in twenty-two years my husband has never successfully chosen a restaurant. The truth is no amount of planning will ever make my kids not ask for more or suddenly give my husband the ability to choose. The chance of those things magically happening are about as likely as me not losing my shit and turning into a world-class bitch on a family vacation.

After finally getting home late last night I told (screamed?) the kids to go to bed and I said to my husband, “Vacations are for other families.” And maybe that’s true, or maybe that was the voice of my disappointed expectations speaking. I don’t know. I do know that in my wide-eyed, manic zeal to create the perfect holiday family vacation I doomed us.

Perhaps, instead of a trip to New York City, I should have just used the money to buy my kids the PS4 and the Nintendo Switch they won’t shut up about…because that’s what they really want and there’s nothing wrong with that because if we’re being honest I think most kids would rather play Fortnite on a new PS4 than see the Christmas windows at Bergdorf’s.

And so if this does turn out to be our first last family vacation, at least for the foreseeable future, it will be because of me and not because of my kids or my husband. Maybe instead of trying to plan the perfect vacation what I really need is a vacation from vacations. It could be just the cure for my expectations.


Sean Michael O’Donnell is 43 year old married gay man. He lives in Pittsburgh with his husband and four children. Sean enjoys Law & Order reruns, Christmas movies in October, and Facebook stalking. He likes donuts and beer. Sometimes he goes to the gym (okay, not really).  He is the author of the best-selling book Which One of You is the Mother?

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.

the lady of the house is a dude

Mrs. O’Donnell is my mother. Mrs. O’Donnell was my grandmother. I am not Mrs. O’Donnell.

It was an innocent mistake. A harmless assumption. An oversight. Earlier in the day I had emailed the principal at my son’s school. I had some concerns about the structure (or, lack thereof) of his classroom. I wrote a lengthy message detailing my concerns and in the body of the email I referenced my husband. I closed by signing my full name and then I hit send. A few hours later I received a response back from the principal, it began: “Dear MRS. O’Donnell…”

Oh no she didn’t, I thought.

At first I was angry and then I was amused and then I stopped laughing and I was angry again. I knew this gaffe had not been intentional and, based on the many spelling errors in the message, I knew her response had been written in haste.

So I assessed the situation. I recognized that we were a new kind of family. I understood that most of the families at my son’s school were probably of the “traditional” mom-and-dad variety and even though we had maintained an active presence at the school for the past two years I could accept that the reference to “my husband” might lead to certain assumptions and besides, wasn’t Sean also sometimes a girl’s name?

Stop.

I was rationalizing. I was making excuses. I was apologizing for myself and my family.

I have no doubt that the principal had made an honest mistake and while I wasn’t willing to give her a complete pass, did I really feel the need to justify myself to myself?

It’s true that my family does not conform to the mold of a traditional family, but then what is a traditional family? Three years into this parenting gig and it’s a question I keep coming back to: what is a traditional family? It’s an idea that no longer exists. It’s an antiquated photo that hangs over the mantle in a house belonging to people who pretend to like each other. It’s a throwback. A term which I suspect brings comfort to many of the people who want to “make America white straight Christian great again”.

But here’s the thing: there is no traditional family. There is just family. And no matter how you choose to define that dynamic we really are just a group of people thrown together – many through biology, some by circumstance, others by fate.

As my ten year old so eloquently wrote, “Family means people who love you and take care of you.”

So call me Mrs. O’Donnell. Put me in a house dress and pearls. Make me the Life magazine housewife of your 1950’s wet dream. I can be the person you need me to be.

But the next time we meet, remember that I am not Mrs. O’Donnell. I am just some guy married to some other guy raising two kids in a changing world…and it’s time for you to catch up.

the planet of the apes

When I was growing up I loved The Planet of the Apes movies. I spent many a weekend during my extra-chubby adolescence watching ape movie marathons on one of the now defunct upper channels which could only be accessed through a precariously balanced antenna. I was obsessed, planning my non-existent social life around this dystopian world dominated by talking apes and ruggedly handsome men in loincloths.

There was Charlton Heston in the original film, collapsing at the base of the Statue of Liberty under the horrifying realization that “it was earth all along”. Later in the quintology there was Escape from the Planet of the Apes, an ode to the swinging 70s complete with time-traveling apes, feminist undertones, and a carnival barking Ricardo Montalban. For the fourth film the series went dark as Conquest of the Planet of the Apes offered us a totalitarian view of the future and an endless backdrop of bad concrete architecture.  The franchise ran out of steam by its mostly unwatchable last film, Battle for the Planet of the Apes, an all but forgettable entry save for a cameo by the late great John Houston, an Academy award winning actor who was clearly slumming it for the paycheck.

But the movie that stuck (and sticks) with me most was the second entry in the series, Beneath the Planet of the Apes. A cautionary tale of a post-nuclear war civilization, it featured an underground city populated by mutated humans with psychic powers. The mutants worship a nuclear warhead and, in the best scene in the film franchise, they peel away their seemingly normal faces to reveal the hideous radiation scarred skin beneath. As the music swells, the mutants turn to the bomb and, in what can only be described as an unbridled display of orgiastic religious fervor, they begin to chant, “I reveal my innermost self”.

(I promise I’m going somewhere with this.)

I love that scene. I have probably watched it fifty times, maybe more. Even at eleven years old I like to think that I understood what the filmmakers were really trying to say: blind obedience is bad and, if I ever decide to join a post-apocalyptic cult in an ape dominated world first make sure the other members aren’t hideously scarred mutants who worship a nuclear warhead.

Actually what I remember most – and what resonates now three decades later more than it ever did in 1986 – was the line, “I reveal my innermost self,” because in this age of technological isolation I realize that we have become those hideously scarred mutants hiding out in our underground cities, communicating through psychic messages, hiding behind a mask so no one can see our truth.

We don’t leave our houses. We communicate through the tap of a phone screen. We are the sum total of our social media profiles.

We don’t let people see the warts. We hide. We reveal nothing.

I dread social obligations. I just want to hole up in my house eating doughnuts and watching Call the Midwife. The real world is too much work, too much effort. I do not talk on the phone. All calls go to voicemail. All communication is done through text or instant messaging. My phone rings and I think, Why are you calling me? Did someone die? …and if someone did die then why don’t you just text me the bad news so we can avoid a scene?

(Texting is like having psychic powers and if it worked for movie mutants then it should work for us.)

I feel bad.  I feel guilty. I think I must be the only person who feels this way, but then I log on to social media and I see the whole goddamn world has gone Planet of the Apes. 

Facebook is nothing but the latex mask we wear over our hideous radiation scarred faces.

(Okay, I know I’m being a bit much here and really this is just an excuse to talk about those ape movies, but also everything I’m saying is kinda true.)

I honestly have no idea what anyone’s innermost self looks like because all I see is perfection. Perfect families. Perfect marriages. Perfect pictures of perfect dinners.

We all do it.

Life is a fucking postcard and you had better keep up because if you can’t compete with my fake life then something must be lacking in your fake life.

Just once I would like to see someone (not me, of course!) say: My life is a mess. My children hate me. I haven’t spoken to my spouse in three days and that’s okay because the truth is I’m hoping for a fourth day of silence. Also, I ate three gallons of ice cream last night and I just deep fried a pie for my second lunch.

Imagine how freeing life would be if we all walked around showing our hideous scars to one another. I’m not talking about complaining, please don’t do that because no one wants to hear you whine. I mean just some good old fashioned truth tellin’ and if that seems like too much, if you can’t handle the truth, then don’t try and sell the latex mask lie.

Embrace the mess. Cherish the silence. Eat the second lunch.

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?

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?

 

pride

I never understood Pride. Each year the calendar would flip from May to June and suddenly we gays were plunged head first into a month long bacchanalian celebration of all things not heterosexual. For thirty days and thirty nights we were stuck in an endless loop of ABBA songs and drag queens singing ABBA songs and threeways set to drag queens singing ABBA songs.

I was embarrassed by Pride, by its parades and rainbows, by its ostentatious façade, by its forced compliance. Oh sure, I liked Cher and Judy and Barbra and Muriel’s Wedding and I like any parade that includes a fireman throwing candy at me, but Pride just wasn’t for me. I was content being a lowercase gay…I didn’t need to be an all caps lock GAY.

If asked to describe myself I would have no trouble coming up with a very long, but not-always flattering, list of words, and while gay would undoubtedly be on that list of words, ultimately it would be just a word and not the word. It wasn’t that I was running from the word I just didn’t want to be defined by it.

I was living in New York City in 2004 when one morning after emerging from the subway I found myself smack dab in the middle of the Pride Parade. I was horrified. A few years later I attended a Melissa Etheridge concert during Pride Week in Pittsburgh and all I could think the whole evening was, “Why does everyone have to be so gay?”

It’s not that I had a problem with how other people were choosing to express themselves – if anything, in the face of my insecurity, I admired their honesty – I just needed for everyone to take a step back and bring it down a notch because lowercase me was feeling lost in this increasingly all CAPS LOCK world.

And yes, I understood that it wasn’t the job of other people who were confident and secure in their identities to make me feel confident and secure, but if I could live my big gay life quietly then why couldn’t the rest of them? Why did they need parades and rainbows and threeways and I mean, c’mon, an entire month of anything seems excessive and also wasn’t ABBA for everyone?

I don’t say this often, but I was wrong. We need parades and, more importantly, we need everything that those parades represent. We need every rainbow flag that says, “We are in this together.” And one month isn’t long enough because we should celebrate happiness and love every day. But most of all we need to remember that while ABBA may be for everyone, no one will ever appreciate their music like the gays.

I think I missed out on a lot by not embracing Pride. I see that now that I have kids because in many ways I would not have my kids had it not been for the gay men and women who came before me. They stood up and they marched and they celebrated and they were caps lock GAY so that every lowercase gay could one day be happy and fall in love and get married and live, every day, the life I take for granted.

nineteen years and counting

Yesterday my husband and I celebrated our 19th anniversary. This milestone is not in observance of the day we first met, we had actually met a few weeks earlier, but it is a celebration of the day we first defined our relationship and by “defined our relationship” I mean it was the day our platonic long walks became less about walking and decidedly not platonic[1].

Nowadays, a word that makes me sound much older than my 41 years, everyone meets online. They swipe right. But in the pre-internet world of 1997 my husband and I met the old fashioned way – at the grocery store. I was working as a clerk and he was a customer, or rather, he was buying and I was selling.

It was something at first sight and within six months we were living together.

Quite a lot has happened since that day I slipped a schoolgirl’s note into my future husband’s bag of groceries. The world has changed. We have changed. We’re unfortunately older. We’re hopefully wiser. We’re definitely fatter.

From there to here he and I have made more than a few missteps and, like all long term couples, we have survived our fair share of (un)natural disasters, the least of which being my propensity towards self-sabotage and imperfection.

But we’re still here.

Yesterday after we had dropped our sons off at school I said to my husband, “Who could have imagined nineteen years ago that this would be our life?”

Certainly not me.


[1] For the record it was a kiss. Todd’s not that kind of girl.