The mile high family

Waiting to board a flight at the airport, we all learn a lot about people with whom we might otherwise have limited to no exposure. At Chicago’s O’Hare Airport, you’ve got all kinds. There are people coming in from the corn fields of the Midwest, kids flying to and from their Big 10 Universities, military personnel, corporate flyers hawking their wares, vacationers making transfers to exotic destinations and Chicagoans trying to escape the snow and ice that has rampaged the city. We’re all at the airport-where the stress is high and people-watching just happens.

There are fewer venues where a gay family is more exposed than in a crowded terminal gate at the airport. When your kids are whining, “Mommy!! Mom!!” with their outside voices and hurling their fed-up bodies on top of our respective selves, the structure of our family becomes quite obvious. When Asher was a baby and couldn’t yet talk or refer to us by name, more than one clueless baby-gazer would ask if Gabriella was the Grandmother. While I’d love to tell you that I look 20 years younger than my age and that Gabriella is a dirly old lady and a cradle-robber, in fact, people are simply clueless and had absolutely no point of reference and very little imagination.

We don’t hide who we are. We are proud of our little family, but sometimes we like to keep a low profile. I wouldn’t feel very comfortable wearing a Jewish star in certain parts of this country or many parts of the world, either. There are plenty of people who are far more out, loud and proud of their religions and family make-ups than I, I admit, but I’m also a mother who doesn’t want to put their children in harm’s way, and I don’t necessarily want to be waving my rainbow flag amongst red-state homophobes at the airport; especially red-state homophobes whose flights have been delayed for 3 hours Christmas eve; an ornery lot, indeed. Illinois is blessedly blue, by the way.

I can’t help but feel like we’re under the microscope. It could be that we are the first gay homosexual family that some of these people have ever seen. I imagine the questions they’re asking themselves when I catch someone’s lingering gaze. “How did they get these kids anyway?” “Do these boys show any signs of being gay or overly effeminate?” “Which one of them is the ‘Dad’?” or “If we crash in the middle of nowhere like on ‘Lost’, will they be uber handy and build us all houses...or at least make-out in front of us? Did I pack my video camera...”

It’s not fair, I realize. They could be staring because “some of their best friends are gay” or because they wish they were gay (hey, who doesn’t?) or because they are just grateful that they don’t have to travel with small children. And I know that I have some pretty good conversations with myself while I’m perusing the motley bunch at the airport. I’m sure the assessments I make are entirely more interesting than their real life stories. We do always end up flying with at least one Orthodox Jewish family. I’d swear that when we flew from Chicago after Passover last year, half the plane was booked by Orthodox Jews. The young mother has 4 or 5 kids. Wig often held back with a wide headband. Unflattering dress. Dad is usually bearded. And I know that I spend a disproportionate amount of time staring at this particular population. We’re the same and yet worlds apart. At least we aren’t in uniform. I won’t leave the house if Gabriella and I are dressed remotely similarly, and I don’t even like it when she borrows my lipstick.

Our flight is delayed 3 hours. Once we board, it is delayed an additional 2 hours. We are in a holding pattern outside of Newark for 2 more hours. Once we land, we wait 20 minutes for someone “to come help the pilot park the plane,” and when we do park, we have to wait 15 more minutes because they can’t open the door. After arriving at O’Hare at 10:30 for our 11:50am flight, we finally deplane at Newark at 8PM. Our children have done incredibly well. Levi slept for a bit, and Asher and Gabriella played Uno for hours. “I won so many times! It’s my lucky day!” he said. If only we could all feel so lucky after an entire day on a plane. Not one tantrum. Not one tear. They were a credit to their people.

Just before we left the plane, Rob the delightfully gay flight attendant wished us a happy new year and said, “You have a beautiful family.” So much said in those few words. After a day-long flight with two small children, he definitely didn’t mean we looked pretty. He was giving us the Gay-5. He was saying that he was proud of us and our sweet children and wanted us to know he was a fan. He was the “BEEP BEEP” to the “Honk if you love gay families” shirts we wore that day. Thanks Rob for the nod. It meant a lot to us.

Home. Back in our safe bubble where there are gay families all over the place and a straight population that is happy we’re here-or at least too polite to say otherwise. Now, can anyone please tell me how I can pop my ear that has been clogged since we landed? It’s driving me nuts. What??