Having a bit of a moment right now. My dad and I rarely talk. He remarried after cheating on my mom and the woman he married is just….godawful bigoted and racist and my dad, in true male fashion, basically just takes on the personality of whomever he’s married to. So when he was with my mom, he was compassionate and accepting and kind. Now? Not so much. On top of picking up racism and bigotry and just general stupidity, he and my brother got into it a while back and put me in the middle to the point I had to scream at my father on Mothers Day, telling him that I am NOT his mother NOR my brothers mother and just because Mom is dead doesn’t mean I have to fucking parent my father and brother, just because I’m the only remaining female in the family, that parenting my child is enough for me and could they please work their shit out like the adults they purport to be. So that went SUPER well and completely fucking ruined my Mother’s Day (and has now become a running joke each Mother’s Day: has Brother or Dad called to fuck up my day yet??)
But whatever. My brother no longer speaks to him but I maintained a “call on birthdays and holidays” relationship with him, and every now and then I would text him pictures of his grandson to show off his progress or achievements and humble brag about my parenting, since judging my parenting is one of his favorite past times.
But now? I don’t know. I texted him pictures of my son’s cheer competition yesterday; he did really well, has been practicing hard, and had a ton of fun. So I wanted to share it with my dad because he’s my only living parent and sometimes I foolishly trick myself into thinking he cares. So I send him the pics, some from the competition, some of him posing with his medals like Michael Phelps, and then I throw in some brags about his academic achievements because I know I probably won’t text him again until Christmas.
Totally normal partially estranged parental conversation, right? Well, tonight I just dropped my kid off at cheer practice (this shit literally never ends but he loves it so whatever) and I get back in the car and see a missed text that he mistakenly sent to me.
WHAT THE FUCK OLD MAN??? What the actual FUCK??? First off, who are you forwarding pictures of my grandson to????? Anyone who I want to see pictures of him, I send them directly to them. They aren’t for forwarding and you as his grandfather should realize that. Secondly, WHAT. THE. FUCK???? I know you, old man. You ain’t “reclaiming” that slur, oh hell no. You say it with the same intention as the men who beat Matthew Sheppard to death in a cold field in the middle of nowhere. You say that to belittle the things your grandson takes joy in because you can’t stand the fact that a little boy can find joy in sparkles and pompoms and cheerleading without being gay. And even if he DOES turn out to be gay, how dare you call him queer? I’m sorry, I don’t reclaim that slur, I’ve known too many people that were hurt while that was yelled at them and I know coming from my dad it was not meant as a “YASSS KWEEN!” Kind of queer. It wasn’t a puffed up chest, proudly proclaiming “here’s my queer grandkid, sure do love him!”
Also, he’s SIX. Six!!! Maybe he’ll be gay, maybe he’ll be straight, who fucking knows or cares right now?? He! Is! SIX!! Referencing his sexuality right now is so stupid and fucking dumb and unnecessary.
I’m so mad right now. I want to cry I’m so mad. My son loves what he loves and he loves pastel unicorns by the literal DOZENS, and rainbows, and cheerleading, and sparkly shiny things, and scootering, and wrestling, and poop jokes, and playing football, and tackling his dad, and all sorts of things. He likes “boy things” and can throw a better spiral than most adults, and he likes “girl things” too, and kicks ass at cheerleading. It makes me so mad to think of my crotchety old dad sitting in his old man recliner in Oklahoma laughing at what he perceives to be his “gay” grandson. Fucking queer. Shut the fuck up, old man, and get the fuck out of here with your preconceived notions of masculinity.
