Nuclear Family Month

And a battle for the rainbow

When my mom got in line to receive Communion at St. Michael’s Monday morning school mass, Jody leaned over and whispered to me—loudly enough so that everyone around us could hear—”Your mom is divorced. It’s a mortal sin for her to receive Communion.” I was eight, and my face burned with an equal mix of shame and anger.

Divorce was not my mom’s choice. It was a decision my dad made when he opted not to stick around. And it was none of Jody’s fucking business, anyway.

“What about your mom?” I asked incredulously. “She’s divorced, too!”

“Her marriage was annulled by the Catholic church,” Jody said smugly. “And she’s remarried now, so technically, she’s not divorced any more.”

I wanted to smack her, but instead, I said a quick prayer to St. Jerome, patron saint of anger, to help me keep my hands at my side instead of on her face.

Catholicism never made much sense to me when I was young. It still doesn’t. Neither does any other religion, for that matter. Especially Christian Nationalism, which is just a bunch of white guys making up the rules so women don’t take over and crush them like bugs. I’m old enough now to understand that the shaming and cruelty is the point of so many man-made religions. I’m educated enough to understand that female subjugation and patriarchal control has always been the goal. So, words like Jody’s no longer burn.

But I’m still angry. And I no longer offer up prayers to St. Jerome. I scream into the void instead. The results are the same, but the relief in my soul is much more satisfying.

Mike Braun, Governor of Indiana, the state I was born and raised in, has declared June “Nuclear Family Month.” It is, of course, a slap in the face to Pride and those of us who simply want to be treated equally in this country. In his AI-nightmare announcement (which probably resulted in at least ten of his beloved nuclear families who live just downwind of a data center going without clean water), the nuclear family is described as: “One husband, one wife, and any biological, adopted, or fostered children.” I mean, it’s obviously, “God’s design for the family structure and the foundation of society since the creation of the world.”

If I didn’t already feel like an outcast as the child of a single mother, Mike Braun certainly would have made me feel like one with this proclamation. Mom couldn’t receive Communion, I wasn’t part of the preferred “Nuclear Family,” we were pariahs in every way. And as a queer woman, that label remains.

It’s exhausting.

Why do we have to continue to make people feel less than? Why do we say this kind of love is better than that kind of love? Why can’t consenting, adult humans just love who they love? Why can’t kids of queer and single parents and those being raised by their aunts and uncles and grandparents feel like they belong, too? Because they do. We all do. We all belong to the human race, and this kind of “othering” for political posturing is damaging and cruel. It’s erasure of the worst kind. A silencing.

I had a lovely book event this week in Indianapolis. Friends from my past and present attended. Classmates, colleagues, former prom dates, BFFs from way back when. Not one of my family members attended. No aunts, no uncles, no cousins, no nieces, no nephews. For whatever reasons, not one family member was able to or chose to attend. I talked about how hard it is to go back to the place in which I was made now that my family of origin is all gone. I feel like an orphan in my hometown. I feel like I no longer belong. Sure, I am loved by many extended family members, but I will never again experience the joy of a multi-generational family holiday—one with grandparents and parents and children and siblings. I no longer have that because my inner circle is gone. It’s painful enough to feel the weight of being just outside of those other circles—loved, perhaps, but not included—and then Mike Braun has to throw “Nuclear Family Month” bullshit on top of it all?

Here’s what I experienced at my book event: The love and commitment of chosen family. Those who have no biological tie to me but who still continue to choose me. And sadly, that’s all that many LGBTQ+ people have. One friend at the event asked if my family embraced me when I came out, and I explained how wonderfully supportive my family has been. But my friend’s family wasn’t. A majority of Julie’s family isn’t. So many families aren’t. When you pit queer against the Bible, queer rarely wins.

Imagine that: A belief in an entity that may or may not exist is more important than your own own flesh and blood, than humans who share your DNA.

I will never understand.

And if that’s not painful enough, Mike Braun and his MAGA cronies poured salt into all those Hoosier wounds.

There is no end to feeling like you’re not accepted and not enough when religion is the measuring stick by which you are judged. Especially when you come from a single-parent home. Especially when you are queer. Especially when people who claim to live by their Bibles selectively pick which passages they choose to live—and judge—by.

I’m so incredibly grateful for my chosen family, both in Indiana and in Kentucky and across this beautiful, broken country. When someone doesn’t have to hold you and still does, you know it means something deep and strong and true.

And at the end of my little queer book event, there was a wicked hail storm followed by a glorious rainbow. We all ran outside to take pictures. I’m pretty sure it was a big fuck you from The Universe to Mike Braun. At least, that’s what I’m choosing to believe.

Happy Pride, friends.

(If you haven’t yet ordered a copy of Hurricane Lessons and still want to, I’m donating $5 from every copy sold in June to The Trevor Project to help prevent LGBTQ+ youth suicide. You can purchase here: Bookshop.org. If you’re an audio listener, try here instead: Spotify. Maybe send a copy to Mike Braun.)