Looking Back - A Memoir by Morris Henderson

Looking Back - A Memoir
By: Morris Henderson
(Copyright 2014 by the author)

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

PROLOGUE

Peter Wilson’s husband, Harry Jackson, died unexpectedly in 2011. They had been partners for forty years but married only recently, in 2004 when Massachusetts recognized same-sex marriages. Almost three years later, in January of 2014, Peter returned home after visiting in Seattle with his son and daughter-in-law over the Christmas holidays. It was a blustery Saturday afternoon, cold with blowing snow outdoors, not the sort of weather to inspire a positive attitude. Nevertheless, Peter decided, after years of postponing the task, to go through Harry’s belongings. His grief over having lost his lover and husband, he hoped, had subsided enough to permit him to sort the items accumulated over decades and to decide what to keep, what to pass along to their three children, and what—with remorse—to discard. It was a painful but necessary task.

He picked up a thick manila envelope and took out a sheaf of papers. He was dumbstruck by the only words on the top sheet: MY LIFE AND LOVES. Why the plural of love? It was not a careless mistake that Harry, an accomplished writer, would make. A disturbing thought arose in his mind. Had Harry been unfaithful during the contented and happy decades they lived together? “NO!” he chided himself. Not possible!

He took the thick stack of paper to a comfortable recliner to read what his husband had written. Looking at the next page in the bundle, he noted with amusement that it had been typed on Harry’s old manual Underwood typewriter and he chuckled at his partner’s resistance to use an electric typewriter and, later, a word processing program on a computer.

What follows are a few of the significant entries in his late partner’s diary.

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MY LIFE AND LOVES

June 2, 1972

I will move in with Peter tonight. I debated whether I was prepared to commit to a long-term relationship but my unbounded love for him was undeniable. He must feel the same way about me; it was he who so persistently urged me to become what he euphemistically called a life-long partner. I hope my libido and hormones are not distorting my rational logic. We’ve known each other for a scant six months and rapidly became good friends. We almost by accident discovered each other’s secret longing — yearnings that were fulfilled by three glorious months periodically sharing a bed, our bodies, and our souls. Both of us had, with extraordinary discipline, concealed our true identities until ... until that mystical moment when, seemingly simultaneously, we recognized — or at least convinced ourselves — that we had found what we so desperately wanted and needed: a partner.

June 10, 1972

I’ve never been happier. All my misgivings about living in a (relatively) open gay relationship pale next to the joy of loving and being loved by what I can’t help feeling is a perfect man. Let the bigots hurl insults. Let my friends abandon me if they feel they must. Let possible obstacles impede my career. It’s a trivial price to pay for the bliss that I now enjoy and for the empowering sense of freedom; the fear of the consequences should my identity be exposed no longer haunt me.

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June 3, 1973

We had our one-year anniversary celebration last night — a delicious dinner on the terrace of a posh restaurant, a bottle of wine, and then home, OUR home, for the capstone of the night: long, loving togetherness until we reluctantly fell asleep. Two very happy people — their souls united in an inseparable bond, merging their individual identities into a single entity: a couple. One year! It seems that short time comprises the whole of my life. Of course, I remember what came before: agony, guilt, and shame of being different; the effort of maintaining a façade of respectability; and the depression caused by thinking I would never have what I desperately wanted. But Pete miraculously freed me. He transformed a dry, shriveled shell of a man into a vigorous, blossoming, and healthy man. It might be a stretch to say he saved my life but without doubt he gave it immeasurable meaning. I can only hope and try to be worthy of his love and to return nurturing love to him in equal measure.

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Peter stopped reading. His vision was blurred by tears—tears of joy over the memories of the rapture he experienced during those early days of life when his love of Harry motivated every thought and action ... and tears of sadness at having lost the man whose love had enriched his life. He sat in wonderment that Harry had kept a diary without mentioning it. In a strange way the secretiveness of the diary only added profound meaning to what he wrote. He vaguely recalled Harry’s offhand comment that he might write a book one day about irrational homophobia and being a reviled member of a lower caste. Perhaps, Peter thought, this diary was meant to be notes for that project.

After several minutes, Peter had regained enough composure to continue reading. There were few soul-baring entries until much later.

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August 25, 1981

Pete and I had our first major disagreement. I’m not sure if it can be resolved as easily as our previous differences of opinion. In most cases, and there were several, we agreed to respect the other’s individuality and accept that no two people can agree on everything. This time, however, it’s not a trivial matter. It’s one that has the potential of damaging or even destroying our relationship. I’m afraid one of us will have to abandon or compromise his fundamental beliefs.

Pete suggested that we adopt a child. His arguments revolved around what he called the fulfillment of having a family, of raising a child, and of the joy of seeing him or her mature into an adult. My argument (That’s the wrong word; it was more of a thoughtful discussion than a heated disagreement.) was the impossibility of being a traditional family unit. Society would not tolerate two gay men masquerading as a normal couple. Moreover, it would be a disservice to the child who would face ridicule from his or her peers and suffer extreme emotional turmoil. I’m torn. I fear for the vulnerability of a child of two homosexuals but I also recognize that Pete clearly wants to adopt and I want to do anything that will make the love of my life happy. The dilemma has been in my mind for days. Do I agree and please Pete? Or do I stand firm to protect a vulnerable child from abusive taunts?

My other reservation, that no social service agency would approve placing a child in what they regard as an unhealthy environment, was almost totally rebutted by Pete’s explanation that his father was a respected and powerful political figure in the community and could “grease the skids” (as he put it) to secure the necessary permissions. I raised the possibility that the exercise of his father’s influence, if it became known, would jeopardize the reputation and future of a respected pillar of the community. Pete feels confident that his father would cooperate both for our happiness and for the privilege of being a grandfather.

The discussion will inevitably be continued later.

August 30, 1981

In spite of my misgivings and because it is obvious that Pete wants a child I have agreed to his suggestion. Continuing to resist may very well destroy our relationship that I cherish above all else. May God grant us the wisdom to shield the child from the malicious bigotry that Pete and I have witnessed and endured.

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Peter paused reading to reflect back on the decision to adopt. He knew Harry had reservations but didn’t realize at the time the strength of his partner’s objections. Harry had been right in his predictions of the child’s traumatic experiences that ranged from teasing to hurtful insults. And he was correct in anticipating the daunting challenge of helping the child cope with what was then rampant persecution of homosexuals. But, Peter recalled, Harry had been superb with his empathy, patient counseling, and emotional support.

Peter became eager to read what Harry had written in his diary about those crises.

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December 12, 1988

It’s taken eight years — far longer than we expected — to be on the brink of having a child. Pete’s father has been both diligent and persistent working on our behalf but we all underestimated the potency of the bureaucratic establishment’s aversion to homosexual unions. They delayed and denied every request for consideration. Their reasoning (on the rare occasion when it was offered) was sanitized and loaded with bureaucratic gobbledygook but there’s no doubt that behind it all was bigotry. The narrow-mindedness was buttressed by a fear of public outcry for placing a child in the care of deviant parents.

But Peter’s father spoke persuasively with a good friend, a local judge. I suspect the most convincing argument on our behalf was the veiled threat of a law suit. Fortunately, the judge was sympathetic to our cause and somehow convinced or coerced key leaders of the social service agency to approve our application. Now all we have to do is to wait for a child who needs — and will get — a loving home.

March 7, 1989

We were visited today by a prudish woman from Social Services to inspect our home, interview us, and cast judgment on whether to allow us to adopt. Her demeanor was more businesslike but went beyond objective professionalism. She was cold and condescending. Her attitude was that she was here only because she had been ordered to visit us. No longer able to contain her disdain for us, she said when leaving, “You’ll hear our decision within a week. But if it were up to me, placing a child with two homosexuals violates everything I hold dear.”

Her parting announcement (and an explicit condemnation of us) came as no surprise and cast doubt on the adoption. But the phrase, ‘if it were up to me,’ implied that our sexual orientation will not be a factor as the Director of the department made the decision.

I must admit that in the years of waiting, I’ve come to terms with the idea of being a father if only of an adopted child. I still have major concerns but I’m committed to doing whatever I can to minimize the child’s challenges or at least impart some coping skills.

March 14, 1989

Halleluiah! Our application has been approved. Pete is ecstatic. We called Pete’s father with the good news and to thank him for his efforts. He’s very pleased and repeated his wishes for our continued happiness — now as a family and not just a couple.

The challenge of raising a child, already difficult, now seems even more so. We may not be the first gay couple in Massachusetts to adopt a child but are certainly one of the first. That means, for the good of others like us, we must do our utmost to succeed. Failure would only stoke the fires of hatred and bigotry. May God give us the wisdom to succeed.

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Peter, reminded of his father’s help (Although he would never know the full extend of the effort.), had but one thought: he wished his father could have seen what an upstanding man Jamie turned out to be. Perhaps, he consoled himself by thinking, if there is a heaven Dad knows.

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July 10, 1989

More good news! We’ll soon have a son! All we know about him is that he’s five months old and his mother, a minor, got pregnant out of wedlock. She delivered the baby and at her parents’ insistence, gave the baby up for adoption. My heart goes out to her. I can only imagine the torment of having a baby and be forced to give it away. She’s likely to be haunted by the experience, especially on the child’s birthday each year. I wish we could somehow assure her that the boy will be well cared for. But, of course, it’s against the rules to disclose who adopted your child. Moreover, she may be homophobic and would be troubled even more knowing the home to which her baby was given.

Pete and I are already planning the conversion of a spare bedroom into a nursery. We long ago resolved the issue of child care. Since I’m a free-lance writer and work from home, I will be the daytime daddy. Pete will assume those duties on evenings and weekends. I can hardly believe how my mind has changed. Where I was initially resistant to the notion of raising a family, I’m now looking forward to it. Sure, it will be extra work and there will be a mix of problems and joys. But problems can be solved while joys linger on to be relished forever.

July 20, 1989

We picked up the baby from Social Services today. Thank goodness we were prepared with all the necessities since he came with nothing more than a diaper (wet) and wrapped in a blanket. The prospect of caring for such a fragile, helpless, and vulnerable baby suddenly hit me as it had never done before. I can only hope that my emotional turmoil was not obvious to the Social Services staff whose facial expressions and behavior suggested they knew and disapproved of placing a baby with a homosexual couple. I promised myself that one day I would take the child back to show them that he was both mentally and physically fit.

I must break the habit of calling him “the baby” or “the child.” We decided some time ago to name him Jamie, after Pete’s father, James, to whom we owe immense gratitude for facilitating the adoption.

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Peter said aloud as though Harry was still alive and in the room, “I felt the same way, my love—fear of being responsible for a baby and elation at having a son.” He continued reading, skimming quickly over entries that dealt with clients and work projects. His current, consuming interest was in Harry’s account of parenthood and the milestones in his children’s lives.

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October 3, 1989

Because I will be the primary parent and not legally Jamie’s father, we addressed the problem of what the little boy should call me. Pete immediately suggested “Dad” as though it were not open to debate. He argued that we were partners in the adventure and Jamie should regard each of us as his father. I countered that it could be confusing to the boy as he begins to develop verbal skills. Both of us will respond when he calls for daddy when he only wanted one of us. We explored several options. Dad and Uncle Harry. Pete rejected that one emphatically because it diminished my role as parent. Dad Pete and Dad Harry. I rejected that as being too cumbersome. Dad and Papa. Neither of us was fond of that. After several more attempts, we opted to delay the decision. In the meantime we would employ a variety of workarounds. For example, when speaking to toddler Jamie we could refer to one another as “your other dad.” Perhaps, in the end, the dilemma will be resolved by Jamie who, when he’s old enough to think it through, will decide for himself what to call us.

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Pete chuckled as he recalled Jamie’s choice. On his third birthday party he was speaking with Grandpa Wilson and proudly mentioned, “I beat Dad at checkers yesterday.” The old man inquired, “You mean Peter?” To which Jamie replied with the unfettered indignation of a three-year-old replied, “No, Grandpa! My other dad! I have two dads!” From that day onward, both of us were called ‘daddy’ or ‘dad’ and rarely did the ambiguity have to be clarified.

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May 4, 1992

Embarrassing? Certainly. Crisis? Almost. Pete and I had settled down for the night, confident that Jamie was sleeping soundly. Both of us were feeling amorous and had begun to engage in foreplay. So intent were we in pleasing our partner, we didn’t hear the bedroom door open. But the plaintiff call, “Daddy,” instantly seized our attention. The voice was almost obscured by sobs. We both rose to a sitting position to see Jamie standing in the doorway, the light from the hallway creating only the silhouette of a three-year-old but fully illuminating our bare chests. “What’s wrong?” both of us said almost in unison. “I peed in my bed,” the boy said with his head hanging down. “I’m sorry! I couldn’t help it.”

After comforting him for several minutes and assuring him that we were not angry or disappointed, Jamie’s mood improved. Pete said, “Take off your wet pajamas, put them in the hamper, and put on a fresh set. It would be a good idea to jump in the shower just long enough to rinse the pee off yourself. While you’re doing that, I’ll change your sheets and blanket.” Pete turned on the bedside lamp and made the mistake of getting out of bed before Jamie left the room. The small boy was astonished at what he saw. He just stood and stared. Pete realized his mistake and grabbed a robe to put on.

Pete and I had just finished re-making the soiled bed when Jamie returned from the bathroom and jumped into bed naked. “Aren’t you going to put on a clean pair of pajamas?” I asked. “No.” he replied. “You don’t wear pajamas. Why do I have to?” Neither Pete nor I could think of an explanation that would be appropriate for a three-year-old so we returned to our own bedroom. Jamie slept naked from that day forward although we insisted on his being covered whenever he left his bedroom.

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Peter smiled. He had almost forgotten that incident but reading Harry’s account brought to mind another event. Three years later, Jamie gathered the courage to ask about the differences between a boy’s little penis and an adult’s and why hair grew around it. Peter’s explanation was straight out of a physiology text book. There would be another, more appropriate time to discuss other changes associated with puberty.

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July 30, 1994

Pete and I registered Jamie for kindergarten today. It was, to understate the experience, interesting. We introduced ourselves to the secretary in the office as Jamie’s parents. The expression on her face was priceless: a grotesque mixture of surprise and confusion. We let her suffer through the difficulty of absorbing the information and struggle through forming a response. Upon Pete’s explaining the situation, her expression turned immediately into a scowl of disapproval. She responded by saying she could fill in the form with Pete as a single parent. Pete objected, insisting that I have full and complete rights as a parent. Her frustration of having to deviate from rigid, bureaucratic procedures was obvious. She excused herself to summon the principal who, fortunately, was more understanding and not in the least judgmental (whatever his private thoughts may have been). He instructed the dazed secretary to complete the standard form but cross out “mother’s name” and write in “co-parent.” Pete must have felt that diminished my standing because he suggested “father’s name” also be changed to “co-parent.” His insistence prevailed and the principal agreed. As I reflect on the event, I can only love Pete more. Equality for gays is a fiction at worst and a hope at best. But Pete’s consistent regard for me as an equal in undeniable.

September 14, 1994

I took Jamie to his first day of kindergarten this morning, the first major step in his journey toward adulthood. I’m sure I was more nervous than he was. I was reluctant to relinquish care of a little boy with whom I had spent much of the past five years. Jamie, however, bounded out of the car, eager for the adventure of his first day of school. I had to call him back for a final hug. He was not pleased. But I needed it.

I got back in the car and checked on the one-year-old sleeping peacefully through the whole drama safely strapped into his car seat. A foggy glimpse of the future passed through my mind. “In a few short years, Josh, you will start school. Will you hang back as a few other children this morning have done, clinging to their parent and fearing the unknown? Or will you, like your big brother, charge confidently into your future? I promise to do whatever I can to prepare you for the challenge.”

Suddenly, I was aware of the far greater challenge our two sons would face, one they had not yet faced but inevitably would be: the questions and likely taunts from schoolmates about having no mother but two fathers. Pete and I had discussed the eventuality frequently and had formed some tentative strategies for helping the young boys cope with the confusion and persecution. But, we agreed, our best plans could easily be derailed by the specifics of the situation when a young boy asks for clarification of having two dads. Or, later, the sometimes thoughtless and sometimes cruel ridicule for living in a unique family environment. My fervent hope is that Pete and I can help them understand that love—between adults and for their children—has multiple bases and may not always conform to the majority population’s beliefs or practices. Pete and I may regret subjecting two precious children to hateful bigotry but we both are firmly committed to do our best.

As I drove home, I knew that Pete would be home that evening and that it was inevitable he will want an even more thorough discussion of the day’s events than he usually demands. I recurrently feel guilty that I, who initially opposed adopting, now have the burden of being the primary parent. But the satisfaction almost always overcomes the weight of the burden. An irony is that Pete is the legal father since the archaic regulations do not provide for an unmarried couple to adopt. Even more unheard of is two men adopting. One can hope that will change.

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Peter’s reading of the heretofore secret diary was interrupted when the phone rang. Josh was calling from the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs. It was common for him to call to check up on his dad whenever he had the time from his demanding schedule but it became a long conversation with a lengthy synopsis of Peter’s visit with Jamie and family. It was late when they hung up and Peter was hungry. He decided to get a bite to eat and go to bed, reluctantly postponing the reading the rest of his husband’s diary. He slept late on Sunday morning but rushed through breakfast so he could resume reading the diary.

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December 1, 1996

I couldn’t be more proud of our two sons. When at home, there are arguments between them — as in the case, I’m sure between all young siblings — but rarely erupt into anger and never (to my knowledge) in violence. And within a day or at most two, they are buddies again.

Josh seems to be maturing more rapidly than his older brother did. No doubt that’s because he has Jamie in addition to Pete and me to motivate and guide him. I suspect it’s true in all or most families: the younger children learn and benefit from the older ones.

Jamie is doing very well in second grade. His teachers tell us in periodic parent-teacher conferences that his work is well above average and he is a model student. Pete always arranges time off from work to attend the conferences with me. The teachers’ reaction to meeting with two fathers is always interesting. Jamie’s first grade teacher was both surprised and flustered when she met us because she didn’t know we were a gay couple. But whatever her views of homosexuality might be, she handled the situation quite professionally, quite unlike Josh’s kindergarten teacher who by innuendo couldn’t hide her disapproval of our family structure. Mrs. Stevens, Jamie’s second grade teacher, was already aware of the home environment because Jamie had mentioned his two dads in class. We took the opportunity to find out what we might not have already heard from Jamie and asked how the other students reacted to the news. “All were surprised,” she said. “Some giggled and some scowled. But mostly they were simply curious.” Pete then asked whether there had been any teasing, insults, or ostracizing directed at Jamie. Her response was only partially encouraging. “None that I could notice in the classroom. But, of course, I have no way of knowing what went on at recess or during lunch.” Having already formed an opinion of Mrs. Stevens as an experienced, competent, and compassionate teacher, I probed further by saying, “Jamie has told us of a few encounters with others who were once friendly and are no longer because of his two male parents. We’ve listened and tried to help him through the rejection. But I would be grateful if you, with your far more extensive experience with youngsters, might be willing to talk to him privately. Perhaps you can uncover something that we, as his parents, should be aware of and can do something about.” She said she would. I hope she does.

December 15, 1996

The school principal phoned to ask me if I could please come to pick up Jamie. It seems he was in an altercation on the playground and both he and the other boy had been suspended for two days as punishment. I rushed to the school and sat with the principal in his office. Jamie, at my side, acted sullen and (I’d like to think) ashamed of disappointing me. The principal knew only that Jamie and another boy were fighting. He had conflicting accounts of the fight from the two boys and hadn’t been able to get any information from other students. I put my arm around my son and assured him that everything would be okay. After several minutes of coaxing, Jamie told me what happened. The other boy (by Jamie’s account) had viciously and profanely insulted him and his two queer fathers. (The other boy had denied that and claimed that Jamie started the fight after being knocked to the ground playing football.) With no witnesses to corroborate either story, the principal said he was left with only one option: suspend them both. However, because I knew Jamie very well and could almost always detect any deception, I believed him and told him so. His gloomy mode began to slowly disappear. The principal’s parting words further cheered my son. “You’re not the kind of boy who starts a fight, Jamie. I hope you understand, however, that I must suspend both you and the other boy.” Jamie mumbled, ‘Yes, Sir’,” although I’m not convinced he accepted the fairness of the action.

On the drive home, Jamie contritely said, “I’m sorry, Dad. But I couldn’t help it. Toby was saying bad things about you.” I’m not sure if it was the right thing to say but I tried to minimize his guilt. “It’s okay, son. Every boy will get into a fight or two. But it’s all over now. I still love you.”

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There was no further mention of the incident in Harry’s diary but Peter remembered vividly the long discussion that evening (in seven-year-old terms) that spanned the irrationality of discrimination against minorities; the innate motives that cause two men to love each, which is something natural and beautiful but not commonplace; the profound and eternal love of fathers for sons; and finally, a principle that probably didn’t register in his mind at the time — it is not necessary to defend your fathers from verbal abuse. Arguing will never convince a bigot. Fighting reduces you to their level. It isn’t easy but you can choose not to let it bother you. You own your own feelings. And you can control them. It’s difficult but you can do it. Real strength is not letting others control your feelings

Later, Harry asked if a seven-year-old boy was capable of controlling his emotions. “No,” Peter replied,” but the seed was planted in his mind and may, with time, grow. At least both dads hoped it would. That character strength is important because there are bound to be more taunts and insults.” And there were. There would be many discussions with both boys about homophobia, persecution, and coping with intolerance.

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January 17, l997

Mrs. Stevens called and asked if we could meet with her. We agreed to be at the school during the lunch period when she could talk freely. We suspected that it was a result of our request to talk to Jamie and that she had some information.

She did. It was not a complete surprise but it was still troubling. She began by reassuring us that Jamie’s school work was nearly flawless but, no doubt due to the limited time to talk, she moved quickly to the reason for our meeting. It was a single comment Jamie made. It came after Mrs. Stevens’ inquiry about how the other children in school seemed to be teasing him about having two dads. After some time and as a result of the teacher’s gentle probing Jamie said, “I wish I had a dad and mom like the other kids.”

Both Pete and I were deeply troubled and only minimally relieved when Mrs. Stevens hastened to add, “He said he loves you both. His wanting a mom is only to eliminate the teasing and — I suspect although he didn’t say as much — cruel taunts and insults. ‘Fitting in’ is important to seven-year-olds. That’s been important since the days of the cave man because social adhesion was important to survival. Another part is the set of beliefs and values children are immersed in at home. Regrettably, those unquestioned beliefs are often narrow-minded and are the source of discrimination and persecution.” She paused before continuing, “But I don’t need to tell you two about rampant hatred for minorities, do I?”

Pete and I thanked Mrs. Stevens for her efforts on our behalf and, in equal measure, for her nonjudgmental understanding of what it’s like to be in love with someone of the same gender.

As we left the school and drove home, Pete and I agreed that we must have another conversation with Jamie. But we were not sure about what to say except that our confidential meeting with Mrs. Stevens could never be revealed.

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Peter recalled the meeting at school and the agonizing forethought that he and Harry struggled through to prepare for talking to Jamie. The talk didn’t occur for a couple of weeks. Peter looked forward to what Harry wrote in his diary about it.

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February 1, 1997

Our worry and preparation for “the talk” produced a plan of action that, it turned out, was soon abandoned — at least how to initiate it. Pete and I were washing dishes after dinner. Josh was busy playing a board game with a friend. Jamie came into the kitchen and asked, “Can I talk to you both for a little while?” We settled around the kitchen table and Jamie said, “I’ve been thinking about what you told me. You were right about one thing. Arguing with a bigot doesn’t work. I’ve tried it. It just makes them madder. I haven’t tried fighting since that first time when I got suspended. I try to remember what you said about it’s my choice to be happy or sad. But when somebody teases me about you, it makes me mad. What can I do so the mean things they say don’t hurt?” There followed a long exploration of what the other kids were saying and how it made him feel. Eventually, Pete asked, “Do you wish you have a mom and dad like other kids?” Jamie’s response was immediate and emphatic. “NO! I like both of you.” He paused and admitted, “Sometimes, maybe. Then nobody would tease me. But then I think of what great parents you are.”

The counseling session ended when I suggested a line to use when someone teased him: “I guess I’m lucky. Both my parents are men. They were little boys once so they know how to raise a boy. Women aren’t as good at it.” Jamie grinned broadly, signaling that he liked the idea. Pete suggested, “As soon as you say that, just walk away. When others realize that you aren’t bothered, it’s likely they’ll leave you alone. Sure, it may still bother you but remember you can, with practice, control your own feelings.”

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There was a big gap in the diary entries, which puzzled Peter until he recalled that Harry had been extremely busy for almost five years researching and writing a book. The publisher was pressuring him to finish. But Harry adamantly insisted, “I’ll do it right, not fast!” Pete did what he could to minimize Harry’s burden of being a stay-at-home parent but Harry felt his obligation to the two boys took priority. Frequently, Peter went to bed alone while Harry worked into the wee hours of the morning but he was always up in time for breakfast with the family.

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April 4, 2002

A big problem has been dropped in our laps. My sister has been seriously ill for months. As the widow of a Viet Nam casualty, she trusted care of her only child, a daughter, to her late husband’s mother — a logical move since the eight-year-old Juliana loved her grandma who was happy to welcome Juliana into her home. The problem arose when “granny” had an incapacitating stroke and my sister asked me if I would be willing to care for another child. My first response was not well thought out. “You want your daughter in a home with two gay men?” Her reply was more reasoned. “Look. You know I didn’t approve of your moving in with Pete any more than I approved of your choice to be gay. But over the years, I’ve seen how much you love Pete. And what good parents you are to Jamie and Josh. That trumps all my former misgivings about gays and gay parents. I know I can trust you to give Juliana a loving home. The only question is whether you’re willing to do it.”

I couldn’t immediately grant the request. I surely didn’t want to say no. How could I? The little girl, only eight years old, had gone through enough troubles with losing a father and seeing both her mother and grandmother suffer through illness and infirmity. But I couldn’t say yes either because Pete would also have to be willing. And, to conform to our normal practice, I would have to include our sons in the decision. I’m confident they will agree but it is extremely important that they participate in such a momentous decision.

April 5, 2002

Another substantial reason that I love Pete and our sons: They all supported the idea. Little Josh initially objected but his reasons were weak. After hearing Jamie’s opinion, he ultimately yielded. It was a typical of his strong motivation to duplicate his big brother’s behavior and thinking, a motivation that was often expressed as competition to surpass Jamie’s mental and physical abilities.

The majority of the discussion in our “family council” explored the logistical arrangements of accommodating a girl into the household. The major problem was resolved when I proposed that I move my office into the basement thereby freeing up a bedroom for the boys’ cousin. It will require some remodeling and sacrificing some space in the recreation room but, I argued, that would be trivial compared to providing a home for Juliana. As an interim measure, Juliana will stay with us until bedtime. Than she and I would go to my sister’s home where I would spend the night and get her off to school the next morning. It will be the first time Pete and I have been apart overnight. That was distressing but temporary and necessary. I’m sure Pete feels the same way. Remodeling the basement and furnishing a little girl’s bedroom begin tomorrow.

My sister’s prognosis is not good and I worry about losing her. Juliana does not know the severity of her mother’s condition. I’m reasonably sure that Juliana will become a permanent part of our household. I also worry about how we can integrate a young girl into our family.

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Peter put down the diary, closed his eyes, and reflected on the decision to make room for Juliana. It was not based on any prior intention of expanding the family but entirely on helping a child who, although she surely didn’t grasp its full impact, would be left with nothing but an uncertain future. Peter felt at the time that it was a responsibility. In a short time, however, he came to feel that it was not a mere duty and additional burden but an opportunity — one that would yield far more satisfaction than trouble.

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April 14, 2002

Rather than attempt the relocation of my office by ourselves, we hired a contractor. It was a wise choice; the new basement office is almost completed. The only disagreeable part of the project has been the workers’ scarcely concealed disdain for having to work for a couple of gays. I overheard one say to the other, “I can’t believe two perverts are allowed to have children!” I was about to go downstairs and confront them about their bigotry but didn’t. First of all, it would be useless to try to change their minds; bigots are immune to logic and reason. Secondly, the confrontation might delay their work or, worse, result in sloppy workmanship.

April 20, 2002

Pete and I spent much of the day shopping for furniture and accessories for Juliana’s bedroom. We were two complete idiots when it came to selecting things for an eight-year-old girl. The store clerks, however, were a great help ... even though their expressions revealed both surprise and disapproval when we explained we wanted something for “our” new daughter. I had to stifle a laugh when on clerk asked “What do you mean by ‘our’ daughter?” Pete and I just glanced at each other, knowing what the other was thinking. We could have explained that we were a gay couple but that would just be a distraction from the objective of selecting appropriate furniture. I chose to say, “Actually she’s my niece but I’ve always thought of her as the daughter I don’t have.” The clerk grinned, “That’s sweet.” Thus we avoided a detour on the path to finishing what we came into the store for.

May 3, 2002

Juliana has been living with us — I should say, “has been part of our family” — for a week. It’s been a time of adjustment for all of us, most especially for Juliana who is now in her third home in a few short months. I’m Uncle Harry to her as I’ve been all along. But it took a little persuading to convince her it was all right to call Pete ‘Uncle Peter.’ In her young mind he is just another man who happens to live in the house. That is sure to change when she’s old enough to recognize that Pete is more than a permanent house guest.

She still talks of “going home” when Mommy is better. Neither Pete nor I have had the courage to tell her it probably won’t happen and she’ll be with us for a very long time. More accurately, I suppose, neither of us wanted to upset her before she is comfortably settled into our family.

May 10, 2002

We received word today that my sister, who had been under the care of visiting nurses, has been admitted to Hospice and given only a few more weeks to live. When Juliana asked to visit her mother again, I faced the unpleasant reality of telling her the sad news. Her sobs and tears broke my heart. We visited the Hospice Center and it was, for Juliana, another prolonged period of crying. My sister, I’m sure, was just as distressed but valiantly comforted her daughter. I admit that my tears flowed too — not for the impending loss of my sister but for the pain of an innocent child who has yet to realize that death is an inevitable part of the cycle of life. (Do any of us fully accept that reality?) But I tried to hide my tears from the distraught little girl.

Juliana moped through the rest of the day, hardly leaving her bedroom, and only picking at her dinner. I hope we will have the wisdom to guide her through the pain and to provide a loving home for her.

June 7, 2002

Attendance at the funeral filled every pew of the church with relatives, neighbors, friends, and church members. Juliana paid little attention to the eulogies or the choir’s hymns. She cried a lot but I was gratified that she clung to me. I like to think that she saw me as a loving surrogate parent and she was somewhat comforted by having an uncle who could sustain her through her grief. It will be a long time before her pain subsides but, by God, I will do anything and everything to help her recover. Pete is willing to do the same but Juliana is not ready to accept him or her two cousins as her new family. I can only hope that with an abundance of patience and empathy, we (Pete, I, and the boys) will be able to win and earn her trust and love.

June 13, 2002

A phone call from a lawyer and the executor of my sister’s will informed me that I was the sole beneficiary of my sister’s Will that had been signed only recently. The estate was not large — equity in the house and a small savings account — and specified that it be used for the care of Juliana. My decision, readily endorsed by Pete, was that it be held and used later for a college education. We would happily cover all living expenses and health care.

September 10, 2002

A Social Services employee called this morning. She said that since Juliana was an orphan, her care and welfare was to be supervised by the state. I thought it was inexcusable but unsurprising that it took the bureaucracy three months to check the status of an orphan but I chose not to voice my disappointment ... at least not initially. I diplomatically protested the need for state oversight, assuring the fussy caller that we have and would continue to provide a loving home and that Juliana would always be properly cared for. That wasn’t enough to convince her. She insisted not only that the premises be inspected but both parents be interviewed. In addition, Jamie, Josh, and Juliana would be interviewed. We had nothing to hide but resented the intrusion into our affairs. I tried again to convince the uncompromising woman that everything was fine but she was adamantly committed to what she called standard procedure. I resigned myself to agreeing to an appointment with a case worker that afternoon.

I called Pete with the news. He said he wanted to be there for the visit and could arrange to take the afternoon off. At two, only one hour before the appointment, he had not come home. My concern was minor because I thought he might not be able to leave work. But fifteen minutes later, he came into the house with an odd expression. “Sit down,” he said. “I have something to show you.” It was a miniature tape recorder that fits easily in a shirt pocket. Pete explained that it’s often used by police in a traffic stop. The exchange with the driver is usually inconsequential. But if it isn’t, a recording of who said what could be invaluable — either to substantiate the driver’s verbal abuse or to defend against a false allegation of police misconduct. Pete had purchased the recorder on the way home and explained, “We don’t know who’s going to visit and cast judgment on us. We can be reasonably sure, however, that whoever it is will not be pleased with two gay men raising an impressionable child. She — or he — may be homophobic. If so, it’s bound to be revealed in what is said. I propose that we capture the entire inspection on tape. If it turns out that she recommends that we not have custody of Juliana ... and if there is any prejudice against gays, we can appeal the decision. The recording wouldn’t be admissible evidence in court but it could very well persuade the Social Services Director to overrule any negative recommendation. We know that she was on our side in the two adoptions and we can count on her to support us again. What do you think of my plan?”

I agreed with everything Pete said but another thought came to mind and I said, “But we can’t record the interviews with Jamie, Josh, and Juliana. If we did without their knowledge, it would violate everything we’ve done to build honesty and trust within the family. And we can’t tell them in advance because it would possibly make them even more nervous and intimidated during the interview. Moreover, if the case worker insists on interviewing them in private, how would we smuggle the tape recorder into the room with them?”

“You’re right,” Pete agreed. “But I still think it’s a good idea to record the case worker’s conversation with us. Just in case we need proof of bias.”

The case worker arrived promptly at three. We ushered her into the living room where she asked (with what appeared to me as a suspicious tone), “Where are the children?” It seemed to appease her that they were in their rooms doing homework so we again presented our case: the two boys have been properly cared for and Juliana will be as well. It only precipitated an unexpectedly blunt response. “I must do a thorough review. It’s especially necessary in light of the ... ah ... unusual home environment. I don’t know how two gay men ever received permission to adopt but it’s unnatural. An innocent little girl shouldn’t be corrupted by perversion. It’s my responsibility to protect the little girl from harm. Therefore, I must insist on a thorough investigation”

I was incensed over the blatant bigotry and the implied threat. I restrained myself from lashing out only with great effort, knowing that alienating the intolerant intruder in our affairs might result in Juliana’s placement in a foster home, a further disruption to her already chaotic and traumatic life. I looked at Pete, confident that he shared my outrage and that he was pleased with himself for having the forethought to record the bitch’s venomous eruption of undisguised hatred. He calmly replied, “Do what you must. We’ll be happy to cooperate. All we ask is that you look at the facts that are relevant to Juliana’s well being ... without distorting those facts with your obvious disapproval of there being two male parents in the household.” She snorted, scowled, and said, “May I see the sleeping arrangements?”

We showed her Juliana’s bedroom first. After taking a few notes, she wanted to see the boys’ bedroom. More note taking. Pete asked if she wanted to see the master bedroom. “NO!” she barked. I can only imagine the reason for her disinterest.

There followed a long interview of Pete and me which often got into matters I regarded as private (sharing a bathroom and dress code, for example). The interrogation was interrupted when Jamie, Josh, and Juliana came downstairs. We explained to them who this strange woman was and why she was there. All three children showed their displeasure by their facial expressions, which I hope only Pete and I recognized.

As she looked at the youngsters, the woman smiled for the first time. No doubt it was an insincere smile but one she had been directed to display when speaking to a child. She turned to Pete and me and said, “I’d like to talk to each child. Individually. In private. Where can I do that?” I escorted her and Juliana to the basement recreation room. Fifteen minutes later, they came upstairs. Jamie was next, followed by Josh. Both Pete and I wondered about the tone of the questioning and the content of the answers but agreed that any disclosure of what was said must be volunteered by the child. That was consistent with the standard for honest, open communication we tried to establish within the family. Our confidence in their telling us what the social worker asked and how they answered was not misplaced. Each of them — Jamie and Josh more so than Juliana — were eager to relate what went on and even more eager to ask what the “old woman” was going to do to us. I explained the purpose of the visit, didn’t mention the possible outcomes, and thanked them for their cooperation and honesty.

September 24, 2002

The tape recording was not needed. The Director of the Department of Social Services called to say that Juliana could stay in my care. “But only,” she emphasized, “because you are the nearest blood relative and in spite of the unusual family structure.” At least she said ‘unusual’ instead of ‘unnatural’ as the investigator had. She said nothing about whether the case worker’s recommendation was positive or negative. I had little doubt, however, that the investigator’s report was biased against our raising Juliana and that the Director, who had helped us in the past, had overruled the recommendation. The news was doubly good. Juliana would live with us and we didn’t have to go through the ugly procedure of using the tape recording to appeal an unfavorable decision. The Director concluded the conversation by saying that I would be listed as the foster parent and that there would be periodic visits to monitor Juliana’s welfare.

I told Pete about the call and expressed my extreme displeasure at being monitored by the bureaucracy. He countered by reminding me that we had nothing to hide and, in fact, could be proud of the way all three children were loved and cared for. Any inspections would be no more than passing irritations. His arguments were correct and I could only agree. But my resentment of the government’s intrusion lingers — not because it isn’t necessary for a few cases in which a foster child is neglected or abused but because our family is clearly not in that category.

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Peter’s memory replayed the events of that day. He was amused at the intensity of his partner’s resentment of government supervision, which was no doubt born of his dedication to Juliana’s adjustment and attitude. That resentment withered over time because we had only two routine visits from Social Services, the last of which ended when the social worker’s parting comment was, “My congratulations to you both. You’re exceptional parents. Juliana and her brothers — she insists on calling them her brothers — are obviously in good hands. I’m going to recommend that no further visits will be necessary.”

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November 2, 2003

Jamie is clearly passing through puberty. His voice is deepening (and often cracking) and fuzz is apparent on his face. I haven’t seen any other signs of maturation. The last time I saw him nude was over two years ago. We were on vacation in Virginia and were changing into our swim suits for a dip in the ocean. He was shy about disrobing with me present because it was quite unlike the dress code when we were at home. But he must have accepted that there was no option so we both stripped. He mostly faced away from me but I caught a glance and saw that he still had a little boy penis and very small scrotum. He also stole a fleeting glance at me but showed no signs of interest in a considerably larger penis and thick bush of pubic hair.

He has asked no questions about changes in his body. I suspect he’s getting all the information he needs from other boys at school or from physiology text books. Rightly or wrongly, I’ve chosen not to introduce the subject into any conversation with him. My reasoning is that I have complete trust that he feels free enough to ask me or Pete if he wants that sort of information. And I’m sure that he will share what he knows with his little brother at an appropriate time.

He has, from time to time, asked other questions about his two dads. The most probing and extensive conversation occurred about two years ago. It started simply enough: “You two really love each other?” I assured him that we did. “Just like a man loves a wife?” I sensed that something had triggered his curiosity. And that the questions may delve into very private matters so I resolved to be honest ... up to a point ... but to decline to answer specific questions about sexual activities. My reply was only partially thought through in advance. “There are many kinds of love, Jamie. We love you because you are our son and we’re proud of you. That’s called familial love, meaning love we have for family members. There’s also a less powerful love we have for very good friends because we enjoy their company and want to make them happy. Then there’s the love that married couples share. You asked if Pete and I love each other like that. I can’t speak from experience because I’ve never loved a woman but one thing I know beyond any doubt. The love that Pete and I share for each other is just as strong as between a man and a woman. Both of us would do anything to make each other happy, to protect each other, and to protect the loving bond between us. The only very little difference is that a man and woman can get married. Two men can’t get married because the law doesn’t allow it. But legally married or not, the bond between me and Pete is just as strong as though we were married. Does that answer your question?” He nodded but I thought I detected that something else was on his mind. I was right. After a pause, he said, “Other kids at school say it’s not right. They call it perverted. And they even say you’ll go to Hell.”

I chose to offer an explanation that I hoped would not be too abstruse for a pre-teen. “There’s a big difference between facts and belief. Beliefs are things you know but may not be true. When you were little you believed that Santa Claus was a real person. And the Easter Bunny was real. And the tooth fairy. But there’s no evidence ... there are no facts ... to prove that the belief is true. When people grow up ... as you are doing ... beliefs can become more complicated but facts don’t change. The fact is, a man loving a man or a woman loving a woman is not common but it is a fact. It’s true. When a man loves a man it conflicts with many people’s beliefs. They try to protect their beliefs by denying the facts. They claim it is not natural when it is. Think of it this way. Left-handed people or people with red hair are not like the majority of people but they were born that way. Does it make sense if two left-handed people get married and are perverts? Or if two red-headed people marry and others call that unnatural? Of course not. So why is it that two men who love each other and live together are call perverted? Because the belief is so strong that marriage should only be granted to a man and woman couple. Loving someone of the same sex is not common — perhaps ten percent or less of the population — but it’s the way they were born. Just as some are born with red hair or are left handed.”

I paused to gauge Jamie’s reaction. He sat for a long time digesting what he heard. I dreaded what might be his next question. Would he ask about sex? If so, I would have to evade the question. I was relieved when he said, “Thanks, Dad. That makes a lot of sense. It’s like you’ve said before that different is not better or worse; it might simply be different.”

I can’t be sure that my explanation would help Jamie endure the insults and disapproval of his peers at school but I hope it will. It may not ease his pain but it could help his ability to cope with derision and persecution.

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Once again, Peter paused to reflect on what he had just read. It occurred to him that he had originated the idea of adoption and that Harry was initially resistant. It was ironic that Harry became more devoted than Peter to the task of raising the children. That, in turn, resulted in them often being more willing to confide in Harry. It was a source of jealousy that Peter never voiced but often felt. It was quite logical that the children were closer to Harry since he was the stay-at-home dad. Peter nevertheless felt cheated over the years that his bond with the children was never as strong as Harry’s. It was not that they didn’t love him as much as they did Harry but the rapport, the trust, and the frequency and openness of communication was slightly less.

Peter chided himself for focusing on petty disappointments instead of the joy of being a father and on the pride of having three admirable children. More significant was the fact that Harry was gone but Peter survived to continue a treasured relationship with his grown children.

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March 3, 2005

Life has been hectic lately. I’ve been traveling for appearances on talk shows and for numerous book-signings to promote my latest book. As glamorous as that may sound, it’s a pain in the ass. And, according to my publisher, it is both essential and a contractual obligation. Had I known what a hassle it would be, I would never have agreed to that requirement in my contract. The aggravation of travel and being away from my family put me in a constantly sour mood. Of course, I could never let show in a public appearance or when talking to the kids on the phone. The one and only bright spot was being welcomed home. Hugs from each of our three children were delightful. They’re all in high school and I was afraid they would think such shows of affection were “not cool” but, fortunately, it’s always been a habit in the family and they are not ashamed or embarrassed. Just to be safe from malicious gossip, however, we have an agreement with Jamie and Josh that hugs in public will be postponed until later. I shudder to think what the bigots would think and say if they saw an openly gay father hugging an almost grown son.

When I called Pete from some hotel room somewhere, he listened to my complaints with empathy until I vented all my frustrations. And on my first night home from a road trip, our love-making was especially intense.

Turning to another matter, I am impatient to start on a project I have wanted to complete for quite some time: write an account of two dads raising three children. It is my way of adding a voice to the growing protest over prohibitions on gay rights and gay marriage in particular. It may take generations to expunge the narrow-minded prejudice, to abolish laws (that, in my view are reminiscent of Jim Crow laws and not allowing women to vote), and to live in a society that recognizes that homosexuality is not abnormal or repugnant. If I can make a small contribution to that progress, I will be pleased. One of the major points to be made in my planned book will be that two gay men can competently raise a family. AND the children in the family will become productive, well-adjusted adults. Our three children will be proof of that assertion. All three excel academically and athletically. Jamie is on the football team, Josh on the track team, Juliana on the swim team. None are stars in their chosen sport but all have the respect of their team mates and the student body. Each has a wide circle of friends. Jamie and Josh are dating girls (playing the field, in my generation’s terms) and Juliana has a steady boyfriend.

Years ago, I had a valid reason to postpone launching into my project. I had to wait for the children to grow up, to see how they matured, and to gather more information on the joys and problems of parenthood. Now, however, that reason is no longer valid. It has become merely a rationalization for procrastination. I am convinced now that I ought to begin the project. At a minimum, I can chronicle the early years of our family. It may take a while to write the early chapters. During that time, more events will happen and can be the basis for concluding chapters. But another reason to delay is the uncertainty of financial independence now and in retirement, which depends, I suppose, on the sales of my books and a steady stream of royalties.

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Peter stopped reading as a mixture of emotions overtook his thoughts. There was awe. What he read was convincing proof that Harry’s idea of writing a book about a “nontraditional” family was far more than an idle goal. It approached a passion. There was regret. Unaware of Harry’s plan, he wasn’t able to encourage his partner to achieve the goal. And to contribute to the effort. There was a measure of disappointment. Why had Harry never mentioned his goal? It was so unlike him not to be completely open and honest. There was suspicion. What other secrets had Harry not shared? And there was profound sorrow. Harry unexpectedly died three years ago without achieving his goal.

Peter pondered the possibility of writing the book that Harry so wanted to publish. But he lacked the literary skill. Perhaps he could enlist the help of an accomplished writer. That would require considerably more thought but he resolved to pursue the idea. It would be a fitting if posthumous tribute to his beloved partner. He put the diary aside to explore the possibilities.

Days later, he resumed his reading and found one particularly poignant entry.

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December 30, 2010

I am deliriously happy. Pete and I have been legally married since 2004. The marriage license is a simple piece of paper that legitimizes our union and symbolizes the progress made in recognizing the rights of the gay minority. However, it can’t begin to adequately represent the decades of devotion to each other and the extraordinary joy of loving and being loved by a companion who, together with our children, has enriched my life.

The capstone of my elation is the marriage of Jamie to Suzanne yesterday. Josh was best man and Juliana was a bridesmaid. The church was packed — mostly with relatives and friends of Suzanne — but liberally sprinkled with our friends. There were a few instances of small groups of people talking and casting what I recognized as disapproving glances in the direction of Pete and me but we heard no disparaging comments. By contrast, Suzanne’s parents, who had been friendly to us during the courtship, were perhaps overly attentive to us before, during, and after the ceremony. I’d like to think that they were making a point to demonstrate to other, less tolerant guests that we were not perverted sinners.

After a honeymoon in Cancun, Jamie and Suzanne will locate in Seattle where Jamie has a great job with a promising future. I’ll miss him but I am proud of him and we will surely keep in touch by email, Skype, and occasional visits.

Josh’s ambition is to attend the Air Force Academy. Aviation has been a long-standing passion with him. Pete and I fully support his goal and are encouraged by the strong possibility that he will receive an appointment. He is somewhat conflicted. He has told us that his girlfriend is not willing to wait for him to earn his wings. A breakup seems inevitable. But Josh, while disappointed, accepts it, confident that he’ll find another young woman when the time is right for marriage.

Juliana has her sights set on medical research perhaps, although she hasn’t said so, because of the untimely death of her mother when she was very young. That will mean years of college and graduate school — most probably a long way from us.

I couldn’t be more proud of our three children. And, to a lesser extent, of the role Pete and I had in giving them a nurturing home.

Pete and I will be empty-nesters but that is a phase of life I look forward to with great anticipation. We will be buoyed by cherished memories of being parents of three exceptional souls. We can travel to places we have longed to visit. Hopefully, we can dote on our grandchildren, confident that their parents will do as well or better raising them that Pete and I did with ours. The past has been gloriously rich and rewarding. The future promises its own pleasures and rewards.

Yes, I am deliriously happy and eager to partake of more of life’s pleasures.

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Upon reading that entry in Harry’s diary, Peter broke into tears. Just a year later Harry died and was denied the future he ardently anticipated.

EPILOGUE

Peter’s persistent efforts to publish Harry’s story as a book were unsuccessful. What you’ve read as an Internet posting is a meager substitute for the memorial an extraordinary man deserves.

Author's Note: Iatia's meticulous editing and valuable suggestions were significant contributions to this story and are appreciated.

Posted: 02/14/14