House

Hi, I'm back. My vacations were nice. Pics to follow. Blah blah. Right now, I'm irritated.

There's this guy, right, and his name is Stephen Bennett of Stephen Bennett Ministries, where he is pictured with his mannish wife, proving the failure or his Pray-Away-the-Gay method. He's also a Concerned Woman for America. Americablog reports his objections to the Cheney son. (Linkin' Love to Atari_Age.) Now, Objections to Gays Raising Children have been around forever. It's a tired topic, frankly, and I'm pretty sure I don't have to convince you, my readership, of its demerits. It's something we've all come to expect from the Religious Self-Righteous. But these arguments frequently cross the line into the implied condemnation of other "non-traditional" familes.

I get upset enough when I'm told I couldn't raise a well-adjusted kid with my imaginary male lover, but fine, of course they're going to say that. Hatred of gays is the new hatred of black, and I've learned to tune it out. But then Mr. Bennett comes along and it's all biology this, sperm-donor that, and that gets me all riled up because even though I identify as a gay man, I identify even more strongly as the adopted son of my lovely parents. And now it's personal because you're not just messing with my feelings anymore.

I was raised in a non-traditional family. Beyond the white picket fence (well, electric fence), it's all barren mother, gay son, disabled daughter. So when people go off on gay marriage because "marriage is for procreation" they insult the bond between my parents, who could never procreate. When they imply the "sperm donor" is more of a parent to this child than Heather Poe deserves to be, they insult my relationship with my mother and father, neither of whom played a role in my creation.

I'm not here to talk about gay marriage or gay adoption. Not really. I'm not here to stand up for Lynn Cheney. It's all been said before, and she's not exactly my favorite lesbian. I'm here writing this because I'm tired of feeling like I have to stand up for my family. I'm tired off all the talk about blood ties and tradition. And I'm sick of people looking baffled when I say I'm not interested in finding my biological parents. "Don't you want to know where you come from?" they always ask. Thanks, but I know where I come from. I'm a Brandwein and a Belonsky, a Chafetz and a Kessel. There's more of my mother's optimism and my father's shrewd skepticism in me than anything any two strangers put there.

I've known I was adopted since the beginning. My mom always kept this poem for me, and when I was a teenager, she gave me a copy of it on nice paper. I don't know what happened to it, but I'll never forget the poem itself:

Not flesh of my flesh,
Not bone of my bone,
But still miraculously my own.
Never forget for a single minute,
You didn't grow under my heart, but in it.

A little mushy perhaps, but it gets me in that spot. The point is, since I was a child, I've had a specific definition of what makes a family. For me--and I'm not saying this is wholly original--it has nothing to do with blood or association or kinship. It isn't who has their name on my birth certificate or even who I grew up with. My parents and sister are my family because I choose them to be so. And because they choose me.

That's the natural way: families born out of choice and mutual love. The religious right has it all wrong. To them, it's all roles. One man to be the daddy, one woman to be the mommy. There's nothing in their strict ideology about love or support or bonds. Where's the sanctity in that? Talk about playing house!