Vincent, Mona, and Jack

We had been parents for two days, and had just completed a thirty-hour train ride with our screaming infant. We were sitting in Grand Central Station, waiting for our New York City to Syracuse connection. I'm sure we were quite a sight: two gay men with red eyes, bad hair, searching various and sundry bags for a clean bottle, nipple, formula, diapers, a talisman—anything that might calm our daughter. To garner a bit more attention, add to this picture that we are both European American and our daughter is African American. We might as well have held up a sign: We're Here, We're Queer, Help!  

It's difficult to believe that was ten years ago, and I'm reminded of the quirky coincidence that Mona entered our lives during a celebration for National Coming Out Day. We were walking through the lobby of a local hotel, and I decided to check our answering machine at home. This was pre-cell phone, at least for our family, so I popped a coin into one of the payphones that once lined hotel lobbies. There was a message from our adoption agency and a phone number to call. Within minutes, Jack and I discovered that we had become parents. Two of Mona's godmothers-to-be were with us, so the four of us stumbled toward our cars, while trying to absorb the wonderful news.

Any queer parent understands the prophetic significance of having been informed of one's parenthood at a National Coming Out Day gala. How many of us have experienced our toddler sitting in the baby seat of a grocery cart and proudly announcing to the cashier and all shoppers within a five-mile radius that she has two daddies? Or, "No I don't have a Daddy, but I have two mommies."  Mona loved introducing Jack and me as, "This is my father and this is my other father" or, "This is my father; my other father is at home" to complete strangers who had merely smiled or said hello.

As fledgling parents, some ten years ago, sitting in Grand Central Station with our infant daughter, Jack and I recalled our thirty-hour train ride, filled with odd looks, some questions, and a lot of welcomed support. An elderly woman approached us, pushing her shopping cart filled with newspapers and about as many bags as we had piled around us.   She stood front and center, approximately three feet away, looking quite perplexed. First, she stared at Mona, then me, then Jack, then back to Mona. She continued this for several minutes, as if she was attempting to solve one of those Magic Eye stereograms in the Sunday paper.  Finally, another woman sitting near us yelled at her, "What the hell are you looking at?"

Ten years later we still get the occasional side-glance, sometimes a stare. And like any queer parents we're well aware of the hate that our love and commitment seem to provoke in some folks. But we'll continue to raise our daughter and cherish her many wonderful gifts. We'll continue to share our home with Mona's ninety-five year old grandmother, as we did with her grandfather until his passing. And we'll continue to treasure the thirty-one years we've shared together, God-willing eventually making it to and surpassing fifty years together. Come to think of it, folks should stare at us and maybe learn something from our gay lifestyle.

Vince is a former teacher for the Syracuse City School District and a continuing writer. His work will appear in the forthcoming anthology Donors and Dads: True Stories of Gay Men and Fatherhood (Haworth Press). His monthly online column Vince's View can be found at www.prideandjoyfamilies.org. Jack is an Urban Forester for the U.S. Forest Service. Mona is a fifth grade student in the Syracuse City School District.

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