Recently, while leaving my child’s elementary school, a fellow parent, Sarah, called out to me from her vehicle. “Do you ever leave this place?” she asked, leaning over the console of her minivan. She had a point—I spend a significant amount of time at my child’s school. I walk my first grader to class every day, volunteer weekly in her classroom, and lead an after-school program. I also strive to attend as many school field trips and parent-invited events as my schedule allows. Moreover, I’ve made it a priority to connect with the school’s principal, my child’s teachers, and her classmates.
As I stood by Sarah’s window, I replied, “It certainly feels that way.” She praised my dedication and patience with the kids, which was flattering to hear. However, I decided to share a deeper reason for my commitment: “I want to show these kids what queer looks like.”
Her laughter was accompanied by a nod of understanding. Fortunately, I live in a relatively accepting community, yet my children remain among the few with two moms. I’m often mistaken for my daughter’s father, and my appearance—wearing men’s clothing with a short haircut—doesn’t conform to what many children see in media or among their peers. But I embrace it.
Every time a child assumes I’m my daughter’s dad or questions my gender, it opens the door for an important conversation. I can address their curiosity and offer insights beyond the limited narratives often presented in schools. I tell them that it’s perfectly fine not to fit into conventional molds. There’s no single way to express gender, and what matters most is respecting how individuals feel comfortable in their own skin. By simply being myself, I challenge and reshape their notions of normalcy. I’m not just helping with their writing assignments; I’m helping normalize diverse family structures and appearances.
I also stand as a beacon for those children who may come from families with narrow views. For instance, there’s a boy whose father sports an NRA hat and an “All Lives Matter” T-shirt. While that father loves his son fiercely, his beliefs may not be as open-minded. I noticed his lingering gaze on me during an after-school event, clearly disapproving of my rainbow beanie and non-traditional attire. Despite this, I smiled and waved, reminding myself of why I volunteer: to be the representation I lacked as a child.
Some kids come from homes that might not accept people like me or might be taught to disapprove of my lifestyle. There are also students who may eventually come out as queer, and they deserve to see examples of diversity around them. I recognize that my presence might offer hope and strength to closeted kids who feel isolated. While I certainly want them to develop their literacy skills, my greater goal is to help them embrace themselves and appreciate the differences in others.
When I was younger, I didn’t have any role models to guide me. I was surrounded by bigotry, which made it difficult to feel accepted. I eventually found my way out of that darkness, but I wish I had seen examples of diversity sooner. I strive to be the representation I wish had existed when I was growing up. That’s why I’m committed to being present—I want to show up for my community and my children.
In summary, my involvement in my children’s school is driven by a desire to provide representation for queer identities and to foster an environment of acceptance and understanding. By actively engaging with students and staff, I aim to normalize diversity and support children in embracing their true selves.
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