What does family look like for queer couples? That’s the question at the centre of author Jane Byers’ new memoir, Small Courage: A Queer Memoir of Finding Love and Conceiving Family. In the book, the B.C.-based writer shares intimate parts of her life with readers, from the start of her coming-out journey to the adoption process she and her partner, Amy, undertake to adopt a pair of twins. In this excerpt, Byers meets with the twins’ evangelical Christian foster parents who are concerned about placing the children with queer parents. Their ensuing conversation shows the lengths LGBTQ2S+ people must often go to prove their worthiness.
When we said yes to the social worker about tossing our hat in the ring for the adoption process, we were being considered along with about eight other couples initially. Every two weeks or so we got an update from the social worker stating that we were still “in,” as they whittled it down to six families, then four, and so on. We were particularly nervous about this process after being told we were not a model family for many social workers because we were a same-sex couple. Thankfully our social worker saw beyond our sexuality, though we were asked to do a number of things that we considered extra work because of our same-sex family status—a “gay tax,” we jokingly called it. Nevertheless, we overachieved when asked to write an essay on how we would provide the twins, especially the boy, with positive male role models. We hastily made a mental checklist and compiled a real list of our suitable male friends who could potentially step up for weekly play dates and mentorship opportunities. We laid out in a thoughtfully detailed essay how we would provide the children opportunities for exposure to their ethnic heritage, given that their bio-mom was originally from southern India. We planned to visit large metropolitan areas every chance we had, attend Diwali and eat Indian feasts weekly. Our willingness to jump through hoops was an advantage because we didn’t assume making babies was a right, nor did we assume it wouldn’t be an invasive process.
We were skeptical given the systemic biases, so we were pleased to hear from our social workers that we were one of two families still in the running after their deliberations. Being competitive in team sports, we referred to this as the finals, sudden death. The process seemed to drag on and when we pressed them on why, we were finally told it was so the evangelical Christian foster parents could meet us in person to reassure them and to help them tolerate the thought of us as the adoptive parents. We were meeting so the Christians could get to know us and ask some questions, noting that they had never knowingly talked to any “homosexuals,” according to the social worker. While this was a healthy step for developing a working relationship, it further delayed things. All I wanted to do was see the little girl and boy whom we’d heard so much about and whom we wanted to adopt. I wanted to witness their every movement and gesture, knowing that, at thirteen months, they were becoming more mobile and changing so much every day. Normally this meeting would not take place. Normally we would meet the kids at the same time we met the foster parents and started the adoption transition. Janice, our social worker, called and said, “The Kelowna social workers want you to meet with the foster parents and with them to try and help this process along. Can you meet on either December 20 or December 21?”
“We fly out for Christmas to see family on December 20. Could we meet earlier?”
“No, they are the first available dates.”
“We could try and change flights.”
“No, don’t do that. They will figure out another date.”
When we got the call proposing a new date, we were walking along our main street in the snow. “They can’t make it work between everyone’s schedules until January 14.”
Amy yelled as if in pain “No!” as she slid down the wall of a shop. Bystanders thought she was physically hurt or having some kind of attack. I crouched down and put my arm around her. I always took longer to absorb these difficult bits of news so we passed the baton of comforting the other from me to Amy as we reacted in our own ways to the news. Eventually, we made the long, snowy drive to Kelowna to show the foster family we didn’t have snakes for hair and to answer any questions they had about us. After many months of being in this process, we sat in a government boardroom with beige walls and a view of the Kelowna sprawl and met with the twins’ foster parents. She was soft featured, maternal and smiling; he, thin, angular and slightly combative. Both had thick Scottish accents. They sat at one end of the large table and we at the other, buffered by three social workers. It was the most important job interview of our lives. The foster parents’ accents put me at some ease. Fundamentalism wrapped in a Scottish accent was more palatable to me somehow. Or perhaps it was my inclination, when face to face, to find the common ground, knowing that whatever our topical differences, we humans share many more commonalities. “So, you are Scottish?” I asked.
“Yeah, is that a problem for you?” the foster dad answered.
“No, as long as the kids aren’t fed deep-fried Mars bars,” I said, chuckling. “I’m from northern England and in fact my ancestors fought as mercenaries in the border wars and our family was granted the right of wearing the tartans of one of the clans.”
“Which one?” asked the foster dad.
“I’m sorry, I don’t remember. It’s blue and yellow,” I said.
“Can you tell us about the twins? What are they like?” Amy asked.
“Although not relaxed, the meeting proceeded well until one of them asked, ‘What will you do if our children grow up to be straight?’”
“They are cute. The boy is Mr. Energy Efficient, a little more laid back. He likes the rhythm in Indian music,” the foster mom said, smiling.
“The girl is Ms. Energy. She crawls over him and steals his bottle and his blankie. They have little silky snuggle rabbits the size of face cloths. She also takes care of him,” he added.
Although not relaxed, the meeting proceeded well until one of them asked, “What will you do if our children grow up to be straight?”
Amy pleaded with me with her eyes. I fielded this question. “I’m not a ballet dancer, but if one of my kids turns out to be, I’d be happy for them.” I exchanged a quick glance with Amy. “Chances are they will be straight; that’s totally fine. We just want our kids to be happy.”
Despite the questions from left field, it was clear the foster parents loved the twins, whom they’d fostered since shortly after birth. We began to form a picture of the twins in our minds but hadn’t yet seen a photo, which felt excruciating and also protective.
It wasn’t made clear to us who the decision maker was and we had no idea where we stood. What if this wasn’t going to work out? Little did we know we were meeting so the foster parents could get to know us and hopefully this would lead them to sanction us as parents while we overlapped in caring for the children. The social workers’ alternative was to yank the children out of their home if the foster parents refused to co-operate.
After the meeting with the social workers and foster parents, we tried to hold ourselves back from getting too attached to the idea, but the reality was that we were goners. Try protecting your heart against the threat of loss when you are in love. Two pixies looking out at us from a social worker’s computer, big brown eyes, little amused smiles, was the first-ever glimpse of the twins we were afforded, just after that meeting. Seeing a picture of your prospective children is a whole other reality compared with talking about their medical files and hearing a little about personalities.
On our drive out of Kelowna back to Nelson after this initial meeting with the foster parents and social workers, we stopped at a kids’ consignment store. We found a double bike trailer and after protective reluctance, we threw caution to the wind and bought it. We reasoned that we would pay a premium for such an item back home—that was, if we could even get our hands on a used trailer with Nelson’s competitive bargain hunting for activewear and sports equipment. It felt risky and yet delightful. It was packed in the back of our Subaru, like a foreshadowing of packing twin car seats in the back in the not too distant future.
“They are just expressing what others quietly fear, that we can determine our children’s sexuality”
That long drive home also gave us time to rehash meeting the foster parents. “Did they really ask ‘What will you do if your kids grow up to be straight?’” Amy asked.
“Yep, they really did,” I said, shaking my head.
“And did you really pull a half-articulate answer out of your ass?” Amy asked.
“You tell me. They are just expressing what others quietly fear, that we can determine our children’s sexuality. Why do people dress their girls in pink and boys in blue? Why do they tell boys not to cry?” I asked from my soapbox.
“I always think of the brilliant line in the ’90s movie Leaving Normal when Christine Lahti is staying in a kid’s room, adorned with hockey and aviation memorabilia: ‘Oh my God. This room has “Please, God, don’t make my son a fag” written all over it.’”
“Ha, exactly! You are always good for a movie quote,” I said.
Days passed during which we busied ourselves with distractions, held back from hounding the social worker and tried to be subtle in our babyproofing efforts. It was a mind bender to see our house through the lens of possibly sharing it with twins any day now. The step down into our living room from our kitchen, once charming, was now a hazard; the corners of our coffee table didn’t even register but were now a potential head-bashing weapon; and the electric outlets, once benign, were another source of worry.
When the phone call finally came, I was standing in the kitchen staring at the call display, scared and excited. “Are you sitting down?” Janice asked, in a trying-to-be-professional-but-excited voice. I called for Amy and put the phone on speaker, for I knew this was it: we’d either be told we were a match or not. Our dream come true or our bubble burst. “You have been matched with the twins. We’d like to know if you want to adopt them.”
We beamed at each other while sitting on our stools at the island, having obeyed Janice’s direction to sit. “No way. Oh my God. That’s amazing. Okay, what happens if we say yes?” I said, the rational part of my brain kicking in.
“We’d like you to give us an answer within a day or two. We need to start this process as soon as possible. You will be over at the foster parents’ home for about two weeks.”
“We have to live with the foster parents?” I blurted.
“You won’t stay with them but will be with the twins for every waking hour so they can get used to you and so you can learn their routines. You will stay at a hotel nearby. Normally this process is done by having gradually longer visits and them staying with you for a few days at a time, but given how young they are and that it’s a five-hour drive away, we think this would be the best.”
We got off the phone and hugged. I also recall noticing how quiet our home was, how everything was in its place.
The news we received set in motion two weeks of frenzied nesting, what most couples have nine months to do. We looked for cribs and managed to find two used ones. We researched strollers, decorated the children’s room with sweet borders of multicoloured balloons and stocked up on baby supplies. Our complete lack of knowledge about diaper sizes and what clothes they needed curtailed our excitement and our tendency to want to shower them with special everything.
Excerpt from Small Courage: A Queer Memoir of Finding Love and Conceiving Family by Jane Byers. Published by Dagger Editions, an imprint of Caitlin Press. Reprinted with permission of the publisher.
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