The Bilerico Project

Mommy in the Middle (of Gender)

Paige Schilt — Sun, 13 May 2012 11:30:00 -0500

A couple of years ago, I interviewed my wife, Katy Koonce, about life as a genderqueer mommy. Many things have changed since that initial interview: our son is in third grade, and Katy's gender presentation is ever-evolving. In honor of Mother's Day, I decided to post an updated conversation about mothering in the middle.

Paige: These days, it seems like half the strangers you encounter read you as a man and the other half read you as a woman. That's a pretty good match for your identity, but it's awfully unpredictable. What is it like to live with that uncertainty?

Katy: You know, it's mixed. It feels exciting and right, but it can also be really hard. The other day, I was in GNC shopping for vitamins, and the sales guy started calling me "sir." Then, about half way through our interaction, he seemed to change his mind. Before I left, he actually asked whether the masculine terminology was correct. I loved that! I told him I was very comfortable with both and that he "couldn't get it wrong." Poor guy. I think it was like a "Pat" moment and he was left more confused than before. I kinda want to go back and interview him about what made him question his assumption and where he got the nerve to ask. Part of me feels responsible, like I should try to ease his discomfort. But I also want to reinforce that it's okay to ask. Cuz that's how I roll.

Paige: Our son is in third grade, which has been the threshold of greater self-consciousness about his family. You volunteer in his classroom every week. What's it like being the indeterminately gendered parent in that setting? How do you navigate that?

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Plaid Dad

Paige Schilt — Fri, 27 Apr 2012 16:30:00 -0500

My mom is in Mexico for a few weeks, so I think it's safe to share this story.

Two years ago this month, Mom's dad died. Grandpa was an artist and entrepreneur, a small-time inventor who owned a custom frame shop. Over 65 years of marriage, he and Grandma amassed a large archive of slides and photographs that documented everything from their courtship to Grandpa's business ventures and countless family camping trips.

My sister and I both flew to Phoenix for the funeral, but Kristen got there first. She ended up spending a day with the family archive, helping Mom select pictures for a coffin-side photo collage. Ever the social scientist, Kristen wasted no time in sorting through the evidence and identifying her own salient data. By the time I arrived, she had the slide projector set up in Grandma's living room.

"There's this picture you have to see," she said, when we had a moment in private. "It's Mom and Dad right after their honeymoon. They actually look kind of hip. It's weird. I need to have that picture."

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A Few (More) Words About Breasts

Paige Schilt — Thu, 29 Mar 2012 14:00:00 -0500

As a chronicler of queer family life, there are two topics I have studiously avoided: breastfeeding and my wife's chest surgery.

It has not escaped my notice that both of these topics have to do with boobs.

All my life, breasts have been vexed. As a fourth grader under the influence of Judy Bloom, I waited vigilantly for signs of "development." In the absence of any mammarian swellings, I was too embarrassed to ask my mother for a bra. I was afraid she'd ask the obvious question: "what for?" My best friend, the frighteningly precocious Susie Patterson, smuggled 29AA hand-me-downs to school. She delivered the goods under the watchful eyes of the cafeteria ladies, and I hastily shoved the mass of straps and padding into my Muppet Movie lunchbox...and proceeded to forget about them, until later that night, when I heard my mother shrieking with laughter as she unpacked my lunch.

By the time I reached high school, I was furtively searching my health textbook for information about the outlying age range for breast development. Was it possible that I was just a late bloomer? Are you there God? It's me, Paige. I'm not asking for a miracle. I'm just asking for a B cup.

Eventually I realized that a late-adolescent growth spurt was not going to materialize. I purchased a Maidenform padded push-up bra. In Speech class, I memorized a section from Nora Ephron's classic essay, "A Few Words About Breasts." I played my flat chest for laughs, but the words resonated more than I wanted to admit. Like Ephron's narrator, I believed that breasts were the magical badge of femininity. My A-cup assets made me slightly uneasy - not just about my attractiveness - but about my identity.

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The Incident

Paige Schilt — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 19:00:00 -0500

A few months back, I wrote that my son had never been bullied at his Texas public school. Perhaps it was inevitable, given that Waylon is in third grade now, but a week or two later there was an incident.

The story unfolded over dinner at our favorite neighborhood Texmex restaurant. Waylon was well into his second bean and cheese taco when he broached the subject. "Mom, B-- said that being gay is bad."

B-- is a familiar character in our dinner table conversations. He's an older kid who attends Waylon's after-school program. He has a prime position in the elementary school social hierarchy because his parents allow him to play Call of Duty: Modern Warfare. Every day after school, B-- captivates the children of our hippy dippy neighborhood with his encyclopedic knowledge of military weaponry.

"What did you do when he said that?" I was trying to keep my voice calm. I was thinking do not freak out, do not freak out, do not let him see that you are kind of freaking out.

"I said, 'My parents are gay.'"

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Not Your Grandmother's Lesbian Philanthropy

Paige Schilt — Sat, 17 Dec 2011 18:00:00 -0500

This time of year, my mailbox is overflowing with letters.

They're not Christmas cards. My holiday inbox overfloweth with end-of-year fundraising letters from nonprofits.

Most of these organizations have my address because I made small donations to support specific services or projects. But, despite the fact that I'm so popular during year-end fund drives, I've never thought of myself as a philanthropist. After all, philanthropist is someone who has serious money, and I'm an English major.

For me, the term "lesbian philanthropy" conjures up a vision of a rich white lady with lots of shawls. I am a non-rich white lady who looks terrible in shawls. Thus, although I have often heard about the Astraea Lesbian Foundation for Justice, I never thought of myself as a potential foundation donor.

However, all that changed when J. Bob Alotta came to town.

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Bear Finds Homo Home

Paige Schilt — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 14:00:00 -0500

My friend (and fellow Bilerico Project contributor) Jeff Lutes has a new book called Okin the Panda Bear Finds His Family. It's a magical tale about feeling different and finding your peeps, a fable for all ages about deaf culture, adoption, and non-traditional families. It's available just in time for the holidays, and it makes a great gift for libraries and little ones.

Okin is loosely based on the story of Jeff's family. Jeff and his partner, Gary Stein, are the proud fathers of three children. Gary and two of the kids are deaf, and American Sign Language is the primary language in their home. "Okin" is an anagram for the name of their oldest child, who was adopted from China.

Okin the Panda Bear Finds His Family can be purchased with a remarkable DVD that tells the story in ASL and English. Like the book, the DVD features beautiful, hand-painted illustrations by Hiroko Sakai.

The Austin launch party for Okin was packed with folks from overlapping deaf and LGBT communities. After the reading, I asked my eight-year-old son what he thought. "I never knew so many people spoke sign language!" he answered.

Waylon was particularly taken with the early pages of the story, which show Okin playing with panda friends like Pang, Kew, and Bao Yu. "It was sad that he had to leave his friends," Waylon said.

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Queering Rick Perry's Curriculum

Paige Schilt — Tue, 18 Oct 2011 15:00:00 -0500

It's that time of year again. For Texas families with elementary-aged kids, back to school season means the obligatory curriculum on families.

My son, Waylon, is in third grade, so we've been around this thorny mulberry bush a few times before. But this year the path took a new turn.

"Mom," Waylon asked, "how come some people don't have kids?" He was hanging on the back porch door and swaying in and out of the house in a fidgety eight-year-old kind of way.

I was in the middle of draining a boiling pot of noodles into a colander, but I still wanted to provide a wide-ranging answer. It came out something like this: "Maybe-they-don't-want-to-or-they don't-have-the-money-or-the-support-or-the-interest. Maybe-their-pet-is-their-baby-or-their-work-or-their-art...or something else."

"But what about carrying on the generations?" Waylon asked.

Perpetuating the ancestral line is not something we discuss much in our donor-inseminated domestic domain. As far as I am concerned, my family's dominant genetic traits are early baldness, alcoholism, and a propensity for moles. If the Schilt line had stopped with me, the chief mourners would be rich dermatologists.

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The Little Zeus's Room

Paige Schilt — Sat, 01 Oct 2011 18:00:00 -0500

This past summer, our family vacationed in Hawaii. We spent a lot of time swimming, snorkeling, picnicking and thinking about where my wife, Katy, could use the restroom.

In our regular life in Austin, this is less of a problem. In Texas, Katy gets read as male about 50% of the time and as female about 50% of the time. Her Gender Attribution Average (GAA) is actually pretty close to her internal gender identity, which is cool - unless she needs to pee. Still, in her day-to-day routine, Katy is usually able to avoid unfamiliar public restrooms.

In Hawaii, however, Katy's GAA was 100% male. This is not usually a problem either. When she's in a highly gender-conforming context, it's often easier for Katy to use the men's restroom, because she experiences much less rubbernecking and gender policing.

The problem lay in the fact that we were on vacation with our 8-year-old son.

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Beginners: Growing Up in Dad's Closet

Paige Schilt — Tue, 23 Aug 2011 17:00:00 -0500

The literature of growing up with a closeted gay dad is not exactly extensive. A few years ago, when Alison Bechdel was in town to talk about her graphic novel Fun Home, I waited in a long line to speak with her.

"My dad was secretly gay too!" I said.

"How was that for you?" she asked, barely suppressing a yawn. I had the sinking sensation that she'd heard it before, from a few hundred other children of closeted parents who were desperate to share a rare moment of literary bonding.

It's not surprising that these stories remain largely in the shadows. Ours are not the affirming, heart-warming "I love my gay dads" stories of the gayby boom. Rather, as Mike Mills' recent film Beginners captures so brilliantly, our stories are complex tales of generations affected by the closet, even after the triumphant moment of coming out.

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Queer Music Friday: Butch County

Paige Schilt — Fri, 17 Jun 2011 17:00:00 -0500

The line-up for the main stage at SF Pride has been announced, and Austin-based genderqueer rockers Butch County will take the stage alongside headliners like Sandra Bernhard and Linda Perry.

Here's a live video of the band, which describes its genre as "silicone cock rock."

(Despite the fact that random women are throwing bras at her in this video, and in the interest of full disclosure, I should mention that Katy Koonce, the sexy frontman for Butch County, is also my life-date.)

Butch County will take the stage at the San Francisco Civic Center at 1:45 on Sunday, June 26, 2011. More video links after the jump.

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Donor Duet, Part IV

Paige Schilt — Fri, 27 May 2011 12:00:00 -0500

This is the final installment in a four-part series. Read Part I, Part II, and Part III

The sun is setting on the beach as we make our way down Surfside's narrow, two-lane highway. When we pull into the sandy parking lot of Stahlman Park Recreation center, I'm relieved to see that the parking lot is fairly crowded. It helps that every third vehicle is a puffed-up Ford F150, which takes up one and a half regular parking spaces.

I release Waylon from the back of our Volkswagen. He looks adorable in his black t-shirt with Brian's picture on the back.

"Are you ready to rock?" I ask.

"Yeah!" he yells.

"We're going to dance and clap really loud, right?"

"Yeah, and I'm going to sing with Uncle Brian," he assures me as we walk across the sandy parking lot.

"That's a sweet idea," I tell him, taking his hand. "But it's not very likely, at least not tonight." I know that I sound like a wet blanket. I just don't want my baby to get hurt. Waylon breaks away and charges up the wooden ramp to the rec center. Outdoor floodlights illuminate the picture of Brian on his back. "Slow down!" I yell as he disappears through the swinging doors.

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Donor Duet, Part III

Paige Schilt — Thu, 26 May 2011 17:00:00 -0500

This is the third installment in a four-part series. Read Part I and Part II.

Surfside Beach is connected to the mainland by a string of chemical plants. Vast plantations of pipes and cooling towers squat over the shallow waters of the bay. At night, illuminated by security lights, the plants were strangely beautiful. In the daytime, they made me think of cancer and three-headed fish.

We were traversing this no-man's-land because Katy had a mission. She had found an old picture of Brian onstage, naked except for a cigarette, a fedora, and a strategically placed guitar. We were driving to the Brazosport Mall to get it transferred onto t-shirts for the show.

"I want a shirt too," Waylon said from the back. "I want a shirt with Uncle Brian on it."

"Hmm," I said. "I'm not sure that would be appropriate."

"Oh, what the hell," Katy protested. "He wants a t-shirt of his donor."

"Well, you can't wear it to school," I said, weakly. What the hell. It was a hilarious picture.

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Donor Duet, Part II

Paige Schilt — Wed, 25 May 2011 12:00:00 -0500

This is the second installment in a four-part series. Read the first installment here.

Before Waylon was born, I believed that my future child would not watch much television. On the rare occasions when he did watch television, I imagined, he would choose something that I liked - something witty and subversive like PeeWee's Playhouse.

Apparently there's a karmic debt to be paid for such hubris, because my son did turn out to like television, quite a bit. At age four, his favorite show was Thomas and Friends, a neo-Victorian boy's tale about anthropomorphic steam engines who compete to be "a really useful engine" in the eyes of a pig-eyed industrialist called Sir Topham Hatt.

"Mom, can I watch just one more Thomas?" Waylon asked, his face a caricature of exaggerated yearning. We had spent the morning jumping waves and building sand castles and flying kites on the beach. We were exhausted and a little bit sunburned. We'd had a late lunch and a shower, I'd removed most of the sand from Waylon's hair, and now we were lounging on the worn couch of our rented beach house, waiting for Katy and Brian to return from band practice.

"OK," I said, cuddling him closer. "You can watch one more episode. But you have to turn it off when Uncle Brian gets back."

Two days earlier, when Brian and his wife Kathy arrived at our house in Austin, Waylon had dutifully dispensed hugs and kisses before retreating to the safety of his toys. Today was our first full day at the beach, and Waylon was still a little shy around the newcomers.

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Donor Duet, Part I

Paige Schilt — Tue, 24 May 2011 14:00:00 -0500

Two days before our sperm donor was due to arrive in Texas, my wife walked in the door with a bulging sack of secondhand toys.

"Waylon already has too many toys," I said, shaking my head. "His birthday was a month ago! He's barely four and he has enough stuff to fill two closets."

"I know, I know," she replied, looking sheepish. "But he's going to be the only kid at the beach this weekend."

This is one of our most familiar family dynamics: Katy indulges, Paige worries, Waylon gets the loot. But for once I wasn't worried about my son's consumer character. I was more concerned about my wife's impulse to play Santa in July.

On the surface, her justification for the new toys was entirely plausible. We were about to embark on the kind of trip down memory lane that only the middle-aged can appreciate. Katy's best friend Brian, Waylon's sperm donor, was coming to Texas to play a reunion show with Rokitt, his hair metal band from the '80s. But rather than the gritty Texas blues clubs that they played in their prime, this time Rokitt was planning to electrify their die-hard fans from the fluorescently-lit comfort of the Stahlman Park Recreation Center on Surfside, a tiny island south of Galveston.

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Not Born This Way

Paige Schilt — Thu, 24 Feb 2011 18:00:00 -0500

Last week, Lady Gaga's single "Born This Way" debuted at number one on the Billboard Hot 100 chart. Her achievement marked the 1000th number one hit since the list was launched in 1958.

It also seemed to signal the ascendancy of a certain kind of narrative about sexual identity. If gays are born this way - whether because of biology or Creation - then they deserve rights, because their difference is innocent of choice.

There are so many reasons to be skeptical of "born this way" rhetoric. It emphasizes rights over freedom. It reduces identity to a dichotomy of choice or no choice. It relies on bad science. And, historically, attempts to locate difference in biology have been carried out in the service of domination, not liberation.

For myself, I can't help but question the increasing dominance of "born this way" narratives because they don't fit my own experience.

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