I met my daughter for the first time just after midnight on December 16, 2021. The Beatles song “Here Comes the Sun” rang out in celebration over the intercom, announcing her birth to an otherwise cold and quiet hospital. I remember I wanted to seem approachable, in case she had any questions later, so I began our introduction with a bright “Hello.” She’d seen so little of the earth, and I hoped my husband and I could be the ones to help guide her over its rough terrain and equip her with a spelunking spirit.
But to start, I was a visitor, as it said clearly on the badge stuck to my shirt. We were here at the invitation of her birth mom, who had asked us to come quickly, overnight from North Texas, for the birth, and also if we’d commit to be there for life as the parents of this child.
I never expected to be a dad. However much I’d have liked to, being openly gay foreclosed that route, at least according to the map charted by my Assemblies of God upbringing. Friends of mine in Texas who lived queer lives long before Obergefell v. Hodges legalized same-sex marriage knew that any chance to raise a family was bound to the closet. I was unable to stomach presenting as straight, but I remained trapped in that vapor, wondering what I’d do next.
