I recently left my child’s elementary school when a fellow parent, Sarah, called out to me. “Are you always around?” she asked, leaning across the seat of her SUV.
She was correct; I spend a significant amount of time at my child’s school. I walk my first grader to class daily, volunteer in her classroom weekly, and lead an after-school program. I strive to attend as many field trips and school events as my schedule permits. Additionally, I’ve made an effort to connect with the school’s principal, my child’s teachers, and her classmates.
As I poked my head into Sarah’s vehicle, I replied, “It sure feels that way.” She complimented my patience and willingness to dedicate so much time, which was flattering. Yet, while I genuinely enjoy engaging with the kids and being part of the community, I revealed my deeper motivation for my involvement: “Someone needs to show these kids what queer looks like.”
She chuckled and nodded in understanding. Although I’m fortunate to live in a relatively accepting environment, my children remain the only ones in their class with two moms. And I certainly don’t conform to the traditional mold. I often get mistaken for the father figure due to my short hair and masculine clothing. However, I embrace this role.
Every time a child mistakenly calls me my daughter’s dad or questions my gender identity, it opens the door for a meaningful conversation. I can challenge the narrow views presented in many children’s books and media. I reassure them that I appreciate my appearance and emphasize that there’s no single way to express gender. Respecting individual differences is what truly matters. By being present, I’m reshaping their perceptions of normalcy. My contributions to their schoolwork help normalize my family’s queer identity and the diversity of appearances.
I also consider the kids who may face bigotry at home. For instance, there’s a boy whose dad often wears an NRA hat and a shirt that says “All Lives Matter.” While I don’t doubt his love for his child, I sense a closed-mindedness in his demeanor toward me. During our shared after-school program, I noticed his disapproving glares at my rainbow beanie. Even so, I smiled and waved, while internally reminding myself why my presence is crucial.
I volunteer to be the representation I lacked in my own childhood. I want to be a visible example of queer culture and family for kids who may be raised in homes that don’t embrace diversity. Some of these children might one day identify with the LGBTQI+ community, and I may be their first glimpse of acceptance and openness.
I’m also aware that for some kids, my presence can provide hope or strength as they navigate their identities. While I want them to develop literacy skills, my priority is to help them learn to love themselves and embrace others’ differences. As a child, I didn’t have role models or examples of acceptance; I only saw reasons to hide. I eventually emerged from that fear, but I wish I had known earlier that people like me existed.
In a world where representation matters, I choose to show up for my kids and others like them.
Further Reading
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Conclusion
In summary, my commitment to volunteering at my child’s school stems from a desire to represent diverse identities and foster an inclusive environment. I aim to provide support and visibility to children who may not see themselves reflected in traditional narratives. Through my presence, I hope to inspire acceptance and understanding.