Tag Archives: LGBTQ

Reading picture books 1992.

The Beauty of Books

Unbeknownst to me in 1990, Dr. Rudine Sims Bishop highlighted the necessity of providing children with diverse books in an essay titled, “Mirrors, Windows, and Sliding Glass Doors.” That same year, I was immersed in an array of childbirth, parenting, and picture books. I loaded infant Colin and three-year-old Eric into their car seats for weekly excursions to Tiny Tales story time at our public library. Eric and I unpacked bagfuls of board books and picture books on our way in, then replenished our supply after Tiny Tales ended.

Occasionally, I carted those books plus some of our own to the childbirth education classes I taught and scattered them on my students’ chairs. At the beginning of class, I pitched our public library and the joys of reading to children, ending with my hope that my students’ babies, like mine, would find comfort in “warm laps and good books.”

reading picture books 1992
Colin, Karen, and Eric Buley 1992

In 2017, years before I uncovered Dr. Bishop’s words, I penned a blog post titled, “Queer is not a bad word.” I reflected on my early parenting years, then added:

“Fast forward twenty-five years. I wish I had known to look for LGBTQIA books. That acronym was not in my vocabulary back then, but acceptance, empathy, love, and tolerance were. I have since learned that I am an ally. And Eric is queer. He is also a Fulbrighter. A City Year AmeriCorps alum. An Education Pioneer. A TeamChild Board Fellow. And an MPA. A recent graduate of the University of Washington, he was nominated to be both a Husky 100 and a Luce Scholar. He is fluent in Spanish; has lived on four continents; and is compassionate, kind, and an inspiration. His sexual orientation does not define him.”

My days of hands-on parenting, childbirth education, and obstetrical nursing are long behind me. Now, I work in a high school library. There’s a chance some students whom I helped to welcome into the world years earlier have since recommended books to me.

But students in parts of our country have less access to books than others do. As reported last month in U.S. News and World Report, “Book bans, while not a new phenomenon, have gained momentum in recent years. Censorship attempts have most recently targeted books that include LGBTQ characters or address issues of race and racism.”

In my quest to learn more, I discovered Dr. Bishop and her research. Her advocacy for literature that mirrors children’s experiences or provides glimpses or portals into the lives of others is more important now than ever, as I wrote in a June 16 Seattle Times op-ed.

Thirty-two years have passed since Dr. Bishop wrote: “When there are enough books available that can act as both mirrors and windows for all our children, they will see that we can celebrate both our differences and our similarities, because together they are what make us all human.”

If I were still teaching childbirth education classes, I would scatter board books and picture books—including The Day You Begin, Oglivy, Love Makes a Family, Antiracist Baby, and Love You Forever—on my students’ chairs. I would tell my students I have two adult children, “One is queer, and one is not, and I love them with all my heart.”

I would share my hope that their babies find delight in warm laps and good books, plus I would add a pair of fervent wishes. “May your children grow to discover and embrace their authentic selves, and may you harbor these words from Love You Forever in your hearts: ‘I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always. As long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.’”

Queer is not a bad word

It was a new word for me. Queer. 1967, age eleven, I sought out my twelve-year-old brother, careful to catch him out of earshot of younger siblings. “What’s a queer?” I asked.

Ssshhh!” He flicked his head toward the adjacent bedroom where our mother was putting away laundry. “Mom will hear you.”

His stage whisper was so loud, I was certain she heard him, not me. I left, my question unanswered.

I had a fallback plan: Julie, our thirteen-year-old neighbor. She would tell me. And she did. I don’t remember her words. Straightforward, they didn’t leave a lasting impression. The shushing did.

I didn’t fault my brother, though. Growing up in the 1960’s, the families I knew didn’t talk about sex. I added “queers” to the list and moved on.

Twenty years later, I had my first baby. When I changed Eric’s diaper, I practiced saying “this is your penis” and “this is your scrotum,” determined to say those words as easily as “Head of hair. Forehead bare…”

When he was four, I borrowed a kids’ library book to read to him and to one-year-old Colin. It had cartoonish drawings and talked about bodies and making babies, subjects I did not want to be taboo. That same year, Eric traced a panty liner on a piece of paper. “I drew a uterus!” He presented his drawing, his pride palpable. 

His drawing did look like the knitted uterus I used in my Lamaze classes. I reveled in his artistry, creativity, and in the way the word rolled off of his tongue.

Eric and Karen Buley.
Eric and Karen Buley.

Fast forward twenty-five years. I wish I had known to look for LGBTQIA books. That acronym was not in my vocabulary back then, but acceptance, empathy, love, and tolerance were. I have since learned that I am an ally. And Eric is queer. He is also a Fulbrighter. A City Year AmeriCorps alum. An Education Pioneer. A TeamChild Board Fellow. And an MPA. A recent graduate of the University of Washington, he was nominated to be both a Husky 100 and a Luce Scholar. He is fluent in Spanish; has lived on four continents; and is compassionate, kind, and an inspiration. His sexual orientation does not define him.

On the eve of his seventeenth birthday, Eric left Montana to spend a year in San Miguel de Tucumán, Argentina, as a foreign exchange student. Four days ago, I donned a pair of Argentine earrings he gave me, harnessing his courage as I prepared to embark upon my first solo door-to-door canvassing. His political activism began in high school when he restarted an Amnesty International club for his senior project. My activism, spotty throughout the years, kicked up last summer. In recent weeks, it has been on overdrive.

Montana has a special election coming up on May 25. Our lone seat in the House of Representatives was vacated in March. I have been working hard to elect Democrat Rob Quist. He represents Montana values, including equity. His Republican opponent opposed non-discrimination ordinances in Bozeman and Butte. But equity is a Montana value, so both ordinances won easy victories: Bozeman unanimously; Butte 10-2.

At a recent Special Election Action Forum, a speaker shared a conversation she had had with her mother. When she referenced LGBTQ rights, her mom asked, “What does the Q stand for?” then said, “Oh. That’s a word I don’t use.”

Her mom is a Baby Boomer, like me. I didn’t use ‘queer’ growing up, either. I do now.

Last week, while tabling on the University of Montana campus, I talked with another Baby Boomer. He expressed concerns about the candidates. I rattled off Rob Quist’s Montana values: public lands, affordable health care, Medicare and Social Security, public education. He told me he had been in the healthcare field, so we talked about that.

Then I shared the heart of my story. I told him I had never really campaigned before. I said that Rob Quist believes in equity, and I was fighting for my queer son who cried for two weeks after our November election. The current Republican candidate had fought non-discrimination ordinances, I said. I tried to keep the quiver out of my voice when I added that my fight was to elect a man who believes in equity.

He listened, then said that my son should not have to worry about being treated equitably.  He put his hand on my shoulder and told me he would vote for Quist “for your son.” He added, “My wife will, too.”

I thanked him, hoping he realized the depth of my gratitude.

I had another tender conversation when I knocked doors two days later. A man told me he had lost his wife the week before. His words matter of fact, I asked about her. Sixty—my age—she died too young. He told me about her cancer and her medical bills. I told him about my dad, who had passed away three months before, five days after breaking his hip. Eighty-nine, he had had a good, long life. We talked about affordable healthcare for all.

I told him I was campaigning because I had a queer son, and because Rob Quist believes in equality.

“Your son is what?” he asked.

“Queer.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s an umbrella term for non-heterosexual,” I said. I told him it was a reclaimed term, not the slur of our youth.

“I did not know that,” he said, his words thoughtful and deliberate.

We talked a bit more about his wife’s upcoming celebration of life, then said our goodbyes.

When I reached the sidewalk, he called, “Tell your son there are people out there who support him.”

“I will,” I replied, my voice catching.

Tears threatened as I walked to the next house. His words affirmed what I knew and gave me resolve. Montana has a single seat in the House of Representatives. I will continue to fight for Montana’s voice to be one of affirmation, safety, and inclusion.

Children should not fear the President.

Children should not fear the President.

My heart ached on election night. I wanted to turn off the television after Trump was declared winner, but didn’t. I forced myself to stay up and listen to his speech. His demeanor and tone were better than I’d seen. He said: “I pledge to every citizen of our land that I will be President for all Americans . . .” As a woman and a mother of a queer son I wanted truth in those words. All became my mantra as I tried to sleep.

Non-supporters did not share my forced optimism in subsequent days. Then Daniel Brezenoff started a petition asking the Electoral College to make Hillary Clinton president on December 19. I signed. Resignation shifted to hope. Her 2.7 million popular vote lead continues to climb.

Three days after the election I drove one hundred twenty miles to celebrate Veterans Day weekend with my parents. My dad, an eighty-nine-year-old WWII veteran, said, “I wanted to vote for Bernie, but you told me that would be a vote for Trump so I voted for Hillary.” He, Mom, and I shared our disbelief and concerns for our country. I told them about the petition—already three million signers by then—and shared my hope for a just outcome.

I awoke the next morning at three thirty. Unable to sleep, I got up at four and typed stream-of-consciousness ramblings. Then, awake for the day, I spent too many hours reading twitter hashtags: #StillWithHer and #NotMyPresident. I didn’t know then that, as my mind spun with ideas for action, a Peace Rally launched in downtown Missoula. A weekly event, I’ve since been to two, and I’ll march in the Missoula Solidarity Alliance Unity March on December 10. Please join me if you can.

My resolve to do something toughened after Steve Bannon was named Senior Adviser. After racist fliers peppered our community. I felt foolish that I’d tried to believe “I’ll be President for all Americans,” despite Trump’s hateful rhetoric and Mike Pence’s opposition to gay rights and same-sex marriage. I explored logistics and costs of blocking off streets or reserving a park for a rally to encourage electors to “flip the vote.” I planned a postcard event instead, facilitated by an offer to share space with Montana Book Festival’s TextCraft at Imagine Nation Brewing on December 4.

Concerned citizens gathered in solidarity after I announced the event at Missoula Rises and at a Peace Rally. While penning our cards, we learned of Standing Rock water protectors’ DAPL victory. Serendipity: affirmation of the power of voices as we exercised our own.

Writing postcards to electors at Imagine Nation Brewing.Book art and postcards and beer at Imagine Nation Brewing.Postcard champions at Imagine Nation Brewing.I’ve been told that hoping the electors will flip the vote is a pipe dream. I disagree. The day after we rallied, Texas elector Christopher Suprun wrote in a New York Times op-ed he would not be voting for Trump. And in the weeks since the election, a plethora of nonpartisan, non-ideological concerns have been raised about a Trump presidency.  

Twenty-nine voices. Five hundred postcards.

Twenty-seven voices. Words without pretense.I have faith that our electors will, like Christopher Suprun, do as they are tasked: vote with conscience to keep a demagogue and foreign influences out of the White House.Children should not fear the President.Children should not fear the President.