Say the Thing: a Gay Youngster Asked To Call Me Dad and Changed Everything
Chosen, not born. Glitter, not guilt. One bar kid at a time.
This is the third part in a series of essays that started with Say the Thing, where I talked about coming out to a homophobic father, and continued with When Family Loves You Wrong, where I processed the fallout of sharing that story publicly — especially with my mother and sister. If those were about pain and boundaries, this one is about healing. About finding the people who chose me when the ones who were supposed to didn’t. About glitter, leather, late-night phone calls, and the moment I realized: maybe I get to be the Dad now.
The epiphany came when the quiet 24-year-old hugging me looked up with those big hazel eyes and said, “Can I call you Dad?”
Blue screen of death. Andy.exe has crashed.
This wasn’t the in-the-heat-of-the-moment “Daddy” or the teasing after buying someone dinner, “Oh, thanks Daddy!” But a genuine, from-the-heart, you-mean-something-more-to-me, “Dad.”
Cue the montage: childhood failures, family disappearances, cousins and aunts ghosting me like I was contagious. All of it, swirling behind his hazel eyes as the air just… vanished from my lungs.
I didn’t know that moment would reshape years of my life. I didn’t know the green-haired boy with the big hazel eyes would redefine everything I thought I knew about what family could be.
Maybe it was just a moment. But the message was clear: he chose me. So wait a minute… if he can define his family and what people mean to him, why I can’t I ascribe those same labels to people in my life who are already sort of filling some of these roles?
Oh fuck… hang on, Andy. We did this family thing, remember? The loud Italians you grew up with? The heap of cousins and aunts and uncles, and that one lady you’re not sure is really related but you just sort of rolled with it? … they ditched you, boo.
So the tug-of-war begins.
It’s a spiritual battle every queer person knows by heart. Do we trust? Or do we deny ourselves that luxury? Because that’s the messaging, loud and clear, isn’t it? We’ve been hurt, physically and emotionally — by people who are supposed to love us. And not just biological family, but other families too. We’ve learned not to trust religion, or bosses, or corporate America, or politicians.
No, my friends. Trust is 5-letter-word that is as rare as diamonds… or a good lace front that fits my man-head. That trust is a shiny, fancy extra feature of life that we don’t always have the spiritual capital to afford.
“Be the Dad that YOU didn’t have, Andy.”
That thought shot through my head… with a whole load of flaming baggage. I could do that. Be the Dad I didn’t have. Before I knew it, one of our local drag queens had sort of taken up the position of “Mom” to the same green-haired-boy — and several other younger folks I’d been mentoring. She’d been around longer than some of the kids had been out. You know the lady — AFAB but loves drag. Big hair, big heart, bigger opinions. You can imagine the pair we make. She called me “Baby Daddy”, I called her “Bar Wife.” And when one of our kids called us at 2am, their world falling apart… it wasn’t performative. It wasn’t pretend. It was palpable. We were present.
And so it grew. Before I’d realized what was happening, our little family included some of the local leather titleholders, shy wallflowers, even two of the go-go boys I hire at various events — any young person who needed parental presence.
And what’s amazing about this? My biological family would say they loved me, but we were always clear there were strings attached. “No Andy, you’re not banned from the Christmas Reunion — you should come! But the grandkids will be there, so bringing your male friend wouldn’t be appropriate.” I’m not even going to break that down here — that shit is a whole separate essay.
This new chosen family didn’t have those strings attached. They didn’t espouse a love for me despite being queer. No — that queerness united us. They accepted me for me. My whole life, this inherent queerness (there’s a book title for you) had been painted as this sort of boundary or barrier. You’re not going to have children… because of this inherent queerness. You’re going to have to be careful about who you let into your life… because of this inherent queerness. Your family will always look at you sideways… because of this inherent queerness.
Don’t get me wrong. The process hasn’t been spotless. I’m no gay Mary Poppins equipped with a rainbow umbrella and bag full of VHS head cleaner. But then, show me a family who IS spotless. I think families are messy by nature. Hell, love is messy. Bring gloves and a tarp. (The bleach is optional. The rug? I’m Italian — it pays homage to tradition.)
Alright… jokes aside. My chosen family has not only saved my life, but they’ve given definition to an existence rife with questions and unknowns. Life is a contact sport, kids. And it’s so much more meaningful with a team. One that truly has your back.
And so I encourage you… look upon the people in your life through this set of glasses. These folks may not just be friends you see on the weekend. People you have a drink with on occasion. Even people you play with regularly. These people just may be the chosen family you’ve accidentally surrounded yourself with.
Family means love.
Love can come from unexpected places.
This is about more than a last name.
The old saying goes: “The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of womb.” But let’s be real — that’s clunky, dusty, and sounds like something embroidered on a Wiccan throw pillow. Instead I give to you: The glitter of chosen kin sticks longer than any fucking DNA.
