by Jane Weiss
Suddenly, the thought of this innocent child walking into a lion’s den of her own making filled me with apprehension. I suggested that there were lots of heroes she could write about, and asked if she thought she should choose someone else. But she was adamant. The other kids had already chosen the best-known idols, and it would be boring to keep hearing about the same ones. No, Harvey Milk would be her hero.
“But how will you describe gay?” I asked, since defining terms was a requirement for the presentation. What did she think the kids or her teacher would think? Did she know if anyone in her class had ever heard of Harvey Milk? She remained undaunted, and set about writing her paper and preparing visual aids for the presentation.
The day of the big event was soon upon us, and that morning, I dropped Erin off at school with her poster-boards and overhead transparencies. I must have said fifty prayers throughout the day that she would be surrounded with protection as she brought Harvey Milk to life in this classroom of children from white, Christian, conservative, probably mostly Republican suburban families. When I arrived home from work that evening, I was disappointed, remembering that Erin would be out to dinner with her father, and I’d have to wait to hear about her day. But as I entered the house to the insistent ringing of the phone, I heard Jane answer and say, “Just a moment.” Handing the phone to me, she mouthed, “It’s Erin’s teacher.”
My face must have blanched to snow white, if it matched the sickening feeling in my stomach. Mr. Anson had never called me at home. This must be the response I’d dreaded. Why had I ever allowed her to honor a homosexual as a hero to a class of fourth-graders? What was I thinking?
“Hello, Mr. Anson. I just walked in the door,” I managed to stammer.
“Mrs. Zahn, I’m glad I was able to catch you. Are you aware of the presentation Erin made to the class today?”
Mustering all my courage, I boldly responded, “I certainly am!”
“Well then, first of all, I have something important to say to both of you. I want to commend you for having the courage to tackle a difficult subject, and to do it with thoughtfulness and sensitivity. And secondly, I don’t know if Erin told you,” (to which I mumbled that I hadn’t spoken with her yet) “but this was the last day of presentations for the heroes project. And after all presenters did their thing, the kids voted on the overall class hero. Not only was Harvey Milk Erin’s hero, he ended up being this year’s class hero! I just wanted to say thank you for taking on a delicate subject and for Erin’s beautifully rendered version of why oppression of individuals and groups—no matter how they may differ from us—is wrong. Congratulations!”
Relieved—and proud of Erin—I thanked Mr. Anson for his call.
Again in sixth grade, not long after Jane and I had gone to a parent conference with teacher Mrs. Gates, she led the kids through a compassionate lesson that culminated in their developing a poster of “Rules of Respect” for their classroom. The day of the lesson, Erin arrived home from school giddy with excitement. She explained that Mrs. Gates had asked the class if they together would disallow any hurtful or derogatory name-calling of anyone, by anyone. The entire class shared experiences about how it felt to be called something offensive like “stupid,” or a label such as “gay” or “Jew” when said in an intentionally insulting way. There was further discussion about why people needed to belittle or denigrate anyone who is different from him-or herself. Ultimately, the class agreed that they would not use any of this language to hurt another, and they would “stand up and object” if they heard anyone else doing it. Erin was on a high, and I said a prayer of thanks for Mrs. Gates’ perceptive recognition of children’s vulnerability to unwarranted cruel words.
Nonetheless, Erin suffered through one of the most traumatic events of her school years when Carrie, one of her best friends through elementary school, turned on her at the end of sixth grade. I never knew precisely what occurred, but Carrie was angry with Erin, and she and two or three others of their group decided Erin wouldn’t be their friend anymore. Things that had been shared in confidence were freely talked about, and the three girls laughed at, or made loud derogatory comments to or about Erin whenever they saw her.
There has been much written about how girls bully differently from boys. Girls do more backbiting with words—belittling and demeaning others, and making up untruths about them. Two, or three, or more, may gang up on one girl, spreading gossip that raises questions in the minds of others about her honesty, integrity, or values that make her feel like a true outcast. This type of bullying can leave emotional scars that sometimes become incapacitating. I didn’t realize the seriousness of the situation when Erin told me what Carrie and the others were doing to her, but I could see her fear and anxiety as she described at the dinner table what had transpired that day at school. My heart ached for her, and I tried every way I knew to bolster her ego that was being shredded daily by these one-time friends.
There was no way the relationships among the girls would be healed before summer break, and since they lived in different neighborhoods and did not see each other for three months, they all headed off to junior high school with this breach still between them. It’s scary enough to be making the change from elementary to junior high school, but Erin was also distraught about how Carrie and the other girls might talk about her to students she’d never met. That was the beginning of her expressed sensitivity to Jane’s and my relationship.
With young teenagers becoming sexually aware and preoccupied, Erin was petrified that the girls might talk about me as a “queer,” “gay,” or “lesbo,” if they had the least suspicion about Jane and me. To Erin, that would be a fate worse than death. Fear at the thought of it was nearly paralyzing to her, and she grew ultra-sensitive to anyone discovering the truth about Jane and me.
When we first moved into the Chanhassen house, Jane and I bought a sleeper sofa for the master bedroom suite in addition to our queen bed. We explained to Edward, Moria, and Erin that if they ever felt it necessary, they could tell any of their friends visiting the house that either Jane or I slept on the sleeper sofa, and the other slept in the bed. When Erin was in junior high and had friends over, she insisted on having the sofa pulled out into a bed, complete with pillows, rumpled sheets, and blankets. She was taking no chances in the event one of her friends glanced into our room.
Erin also asked Jane and me to be extra careful about looking at or touching one another in any way that the kids might interpret as too intimate. Sometimes, the meaning of this was difficult to sort out, as Erin tried to explain to me in a note when she was in seventh grade. The occasion was her early spring piano recital in a church. At some point, I apparently rested my arm on the back of the pew behind Jane. Erin played her piece, and when she returned to sit with us, she was obviously upset. I asked if she was displeased with her performance, but she said she didn’t want to talk about it. A short while after returning home, however, she came down from her room and gave me this handwritten note:
Dear Mom –
I wanted to tell you that what was bothering me wasn’t just how I played. I was just thinking about stuff. I know I have already talked to you about this. I don’t like this anymore than you do, but even if one of you puts your arm around the other, pats each other’s rear, or gets close to one another—I know that these things are natural for you guys, but at my school (most junior high schools), all it would take is one quick glimpse of something like that, and my life would be miserable. The kids in junior high hate the way we live so much (they don’t understand it), that even if a gesture isn’t that major, it will become major. Please, just become more aware of these small movements.
Love, Me
(Your favorite 12 year old)
P.S. I don’t like this either. It seems like sometimes I am more worried about if someone sees this than I am about other things.
P.P.S. You have already gotten better. I will make do with how I played—it was pretty good, just not my best.
It was hard to see her ongoing struggle with my situation, and to learn the depth of her fears surrounding it. She grew intensely preoccupied with keeping the secret, and it was years before she found comfort in being honest about who I was. My wonder child didn’t deserve such a heavy burden.
This incident was the first I was aware of the extent of Erin’s sensitivity about my relationship with Jane. That was only a glimpse of what would erupt repeatedly and with greater intensity over the next six to seven years, keeping the three of us engaged alternately in loving and tension-filled relationships. Erin became hypervigilant regarding any subtleties in Jane’s and my behaviors, and how our living arrangements appeared to those she brought home. She entered her own hell as she literally became phobic about her friends discovering the relationship between Jane and me. Although she had grown to love Jane as a second mother, her fears around us being “found out” quickly morphed into anger at Jane when there was the least reason to be upset with either of us. Her interactions with Jane then became curt and sarcastic, or she shunned Jane altogether and related only to me.
Erin and I had conversation after conversation about how to handle her feelings and fears, but peer pressure and cruelty at that age superseded her rational resolve, and the disrespectful behaviors towards Jane continued.
Erin awoke one morning in her sophomore year in high school, and came into our room in tears. She had a nightmare that she was alone on the stage at Minnetonka High School, facing the entire student body as they hurled questions and derogatory comments at her about my queer lifestyle. She sobbed her way through relating the dream, and could hardly catch her breath as she described its ending—the students had thrown food at her, booed her from the stage, and told her to “get lost.” She was so deeply shaken, she could barely gather herself together to face the real school day. But she did. And she undoubtedly did that more times than we ever knew.
Watching the pain Erin experienced due to my relationship with Jane was nearly more than I could bear. Seeing the effect on Jane as a result of Erin’s shunning and disrespect was even more disturbing because these two individuals I loved so dearly were caught in such hurtful dynamics. When emotions were settled down after some particularly difficult situation, Erin and I, and sometimes Jane, processed the incident and agreed upon how things could be better handled in the future. Erin’s tearful apologies to both of us indicated that she wasn’t being intentionally unkind, yet her fears usually took over and the same pattern continued.
I wasn’t sure how to advise Erin during these years. Knowing how incredibly cruel children and teens could be to one another, and that the most degrading comment they could make about anyone was, “You’re gay,” I wanted Erin to protect herself from this abuse. In our almost-daily conversations about the topic of homosexuality, Erin was absolutely convinced she could tell no one about Jane and me.
I said I would support her in any way she needed except that I would not deny Jane, nor would I allow Jane to be mistreated. Erin and I determined that she might have to wait until college for kids to become more enlightened and less cruel, and for her to resolve her own homophobia.
Chapter Sixteen - Midlife courage, Compassion and Character
Jane
Two years after Bonnie wrote her bold letter to my children and family in 1986, I was finally willing to risk trying anything more than appeasing and accommodating them. Several years of intermittent therapy had enabled me to become more self-reliant in managing my guilt, sadness, and anger.
My accomplishments and promotions at work helped to improve my self-confidence. My relationship with Bonnie felt even more secure, for it had deepened in equality, respect, and joy. Our circle of stimulating and supportive friends had widened to include several lesbian couples, as well as neighbors and coworkers. My spiritual study and practice continued to help me transcend my emotional pain, and reframe my journey as a powerful, transformative process, giving me the courage to keep my heart open, and grow through the challenges of this period of my life.
Unwittingly, the separation from my children that had created physical boundaries had also resulted in making my emotional boundaries clearer. However, for all of my efforts to explain my actions and improve our relationships, it appeared that my children, each in their own way, were attempting to punish me through criticism and shunning.
In these early years of being apart, I believed I could not survive, and surely we could not thrive, without my children and I in close proximity. But six years had passed, and we had all moved on with our lives. Michael was at Southern Methodist University graduate school, continuing to study theater in Dallas. Lynn was doing undergrad work in fine arts at the University of Minnesota in Duluth. Andrew was an undergrad in finance at the University of Minnesota’s Minneapolis campus, and Marie was in her junior year at Burnsville High School.
The convergence of all these factors enabled me to confront my children, even though I was afraid anything I said in writing would be used against me and could worsen things—as it had any other time I “dared” to claim more than they wanted to give me. This was surely another case of being vulnerable if I did act, and vulnerable if I didn’t. But at least with taking action, we might have a chance to positively change our dynamics.
I decided to state my disappointment and ask for a period of silence, so that I could sort out what I wanted to give and what was realistic to expect or to receive from them. In July 1988, I wrote this letter and sent it to each of them, in hopes that, by the time they would all come to Minneapolis for the holidays, we would have begun new patterns of relating.
My Dear Children,
Six years have passed since we last lived together. In that period, we’ve all accomplished much in school and in our work. I congratulate each of you on this, and on your resolve and strength to find enough inner peace about our separation, so that you could continue to grow emotionally, mentally, and spiritually.
Throughout these six years, my relationship with each of you has been surrounded by pain and very little joy. You’ve repeated, instance after instance, behaviors that deny me your presence, your respect, your acknowledgement of my most significant relationship, and my rightful place as your mother. I sense you’ve kept up this pattern to punish me for your not having a “normal life,” for my being in a “sinful relationship,” or to prove to me that I made a terrible mistake. I no longer accept your perception of me. I no longer accept your punishment or your blame. I am not guilty of wrongdoing, nor am I sinful. And at this point of our relationship, I hold you accountable for choosing to keep your pain and anger.
When I was thirty-eight years old, I made a scary decision to be free of the negative, life-strangling relationship I had with my husband—one that we had created and both allowed. I had come to a crossroads where I could continue to feel oppressed, sad, and fearful, or I could create circumstances to force a change. I chose deep inside me to allow change. The changes were many, and came fast. I felt I was being guided by my God within to a safer, happier existence. I completed my bachelor’s degree and began to work outside our home. I was successful. I found many new positive, deep-thinking friends whose philosophy and spiritual zeal matched mine. I found Bonnie, who offered her unconditional love to me. I have two journals filled with struggling with the issue of whether to acknowledge our mutual love, and whether to stay with or leave my husband.
Yours and my relationships could have been very different if I had not felt so guilty, and if I had shown a stronger belief in my right and ability to make this decision. My wall of fear and your wall of anger might not have become so high that we couldn’t see that we could forgive, accept, learn from this, and go on growing in our love relationship—as many thousands of divorced families do—yes, even when one or the other parent has chosen a partner of the same gender.
I believe that continuing to allow your punishing, denigrating behaviors toward me is unhealthy for you and for me, and for the kind of love relationship we need to share. I n
eed to have a period of no expectations, a time to rethink and re-pattern my responses to you. I request we have no contact—phone, letter, or visit—for about three months. I hope you will use this break to think through what you need and want from our relationship. I trust you will find ways to achieve a more respectful, loving relationship with me through your actions.
I will always love you. As your mother, God has given me a very special, unique love for each one of you—one that accepts, knows, enfolds, and upholds you. My love has never left you. Know that this is very difficult for me, but my need for personal and spiritual integrity has brought me to this place. - Mom
Michael responded immediately, letting me know in no uncertain terms that he felt very misunderstood. I acknowledged his letter, but explained that I would not respond until later. Andrew wrote me at the end of the three-month period of requested silence, also saying that he didn’t know exactly what I wanted from him, and that he was sorry that I was so upset. Lynn and Marie both called around that time, also, seemingly more committed to finding ways to connect more deeply.
Looking back on this time, I believe it was the beginning of a turning point for all of us. That next Christmas, Michael called me, and talked about how to include me in their elaborate Christmas celebration schedule. Bonnie and I hosted them on Christmas afternoon at our Chanhassen home. I was ecstatic and grateful, even though they only stayed a few hours to open presents and have a light supper. I’m certain they were uneasy, as they were going against their father’s expectations, and had lied to him about where they were. And none of them were comfortable around Bonnie, the “homewrecker” Charles had steadfastly portrayed as the villain who had stolen their mother from them.
But we had done it. My children, Bonnie, and I had patched together a first family celebration in six years. It was imperfectly perfect, and this mother’s heart began to dream again of festive family gatherings and finding ways to make up for lost years.