Recently, I was leaving my child’s elementary school when a familiar face called out to me. “Are you always around here?” She leaned out of her van, raising an eyebrow in curiosity. She wasn’t wrong; I do spend a significant amount of time at the school. I walk my child to class every day, volunteer weekly in the classroom, lead an after-school program, and chaperone field trips whenever I can. I make a point to connect with the principal, my child’s teachers, and their classmates.
As my first grader walked ahead, I leaned into my friend’s van and replied, “It certainly seems that way.” She complimented my dedication to the kids, which was nice to hear. Yet, while I genuinely enjoy engaging with the children and becoming part of the community, I confided in her about my deeper motivation: “It’s important for these kids to see what queer looks like,” I said.
Her laughter was supportive, and she understood my point. Although I am fortunate to live in a largely accepting area, my children remain the only ones with two moms, and I don’t fit the mold of what a typical mom looks like. I’m often mistaken for a dad and I don’t resemble the women depicted in children’s books, TV shows, or films. With my short hair and androgynous style, I can confuse children at first glance—but that’s okay.
For every child who assumes I’m my daughter’s father, for every whisper of uncertainty about my gender, I see an opportunity to foster conversation. I can expand their understanding beyond the traditional, heteronormative narrative. I affirm their observations, explaining that I love how I present myself and that there is no “right” way to express gender. What matters is respecting what makes each individual feel comfortable. By simply existing as I am in their space, I am reshaping their notions of normalcy. Helping with their writing assignments every week not only becomes routine for me but also serves to normalize my queer family and my masculine identity for these children.
I also show up for the kids who may face challenges at home, particularly those who have conservative or bigoted influences in their lives. I remember one boy whose dad wore an NRA hat and an All Lives Matter T-shirt. While I respect his dedication to his child, it was evident that he disapproved of my presence. He scrutinized my rainbow beanie and gender-nonconforming attire. In response, I offered a smile and a wave, even as I reflected on the significance of my presence at the school: I represent the diversity I desperately needed as a child.
There are students in my child’s school who are likely grappling with their own identities or who are being raised in homes that do not accept people like me. These kids might one day identify with the LGBTQI+ community, and I understand that I may be the only representation of acceptance they encounter. I strive to provide hope and strength to those who feel isolated. My goal is not just to help them with their academics but to encourage them to embrace themselves and appreciate the differences in others.
When I was young, I lacked the representation I now aim to provide. All I saw around me was hostility and reasons to stay hidden. While I eventually found my way to authenticity, I wish I had known earlier about the diverse world that exists. Sometimes, being the representation you wish to see is crucial, which is why I choose to be present at my child’s school. I’m always there.
In summary, my commitment to volunteering at my child’s school stems from a desire to provide representation and support for the diverse identities that exist within our community. I aim to foster acceptance and understanding while also encouraging children to embrace their true selves.