This information is important because I come from a Catholic family wherein all members were expected to vote straight-ticket Democrat and labor unions were held in the same high-esteem as the Virgin Mary.

You can imagine the conflict that arises when we all gather around the holiday dinner table.

Although my extended family was religious, I was never required to attend mass by my parents, nor did they ever attend. I was allowed to do my own thing — to find my own path and construct my own beliefs — something my mother now admittedly regrets.

I think that with the unexpected death of my grandmother in 2000, my mother looked for solace and comfort and somehow she found it in the beliefs of Christianity. About a year ago my mother revealed to me that she and my step-father had been attending church for the past couple years. She was afraid to tell me.

We moved to Greater Lafayette in 1991, after my step-dad’s steel worker’s union had gone on strike for the umpteenth time and my parents realized they needed more than a high school education. My mom minored in Women’s Studies at the university and brought home the most amazing books and knowledge that she shared with me and my friends.

Over the course of several years, I witnessed my mother reach feminist consciousness: working through the almost-inevitable period of misandry — wherein she realized the oppression of sexism and grew angry at the world and men in particular– working through her own feelings of hurt and regret, to reach a place where she understood the workings of our culture and society and wanted to make change. She started with me and my friends, telling us to educate ourselves and to stand up for what we believe and against injustice.

I witnessed also the transition of her religious beliefs, from a background in Catholic school indoctrination to a discovery of ancient goddess-centered religions to one of almost non-belief.

In the 90s she worked on the Clinton campaign and she went with me to the polls the first year I was able to vote and joked with me about how her Democatic vote would cancel-out my step-father’s Republican vote.

Something changed, and I don’t know if it all has to do with my grandmother’s death or with my mother’s rheumatoid arthritis diagnosis or with the fact that she is getting older and knows it, feels it. I’m sure it’s everything combined and then some.

I haven’t been able to have a political discussion with my mother in years. I realized my lack of religious faith at an early age, so the fact that we have different views on religion is something we’ve been able to work with — we either avoid the topic or make polite small-chat. But politics? Next to my grandmother she’s one of the main people responsible for my politics.

My step-father is an entirely different story. He was born in Valparaiso, IN, and was raised in Gary for the majority of his life. His father was a racist and he accepted the bigotry that he continues to carry with him. It was my step-father who introduced me to racist thought and language. It is because of this exposure that I learned a deep sense of justice and the need for anti-racist activism, from White folks especially. He and I would argue and argue over the rights (in his mind) and the wrongs (in my mind) of racism, to the point where my mother would have to step in and eventually told him not to use the n-word in my presence. His racism, I have learned, has come to influence my mother’s beliefs.

In Michigan, we touched lightly on topics such as religious faith, race, and other politics. We knew when to switch topics.

The campground we stayed in was comprised entirely of White people. The towns we visited were comprised entirely of White people. Once, when we were on the boat and out near Lake Michigan, out by the pier, we saw a family walking together out towards the end of the pier. My step-father saw the color of their skin and said, “I knew it had to be muddy somewhere.”

At the campground, while we were sitting at the table outside waiting for our food to cook, my mother and I were talking about children and parents. One of her friends had said her husband was worried about their son, who is about 7 and is fond of cooking and baking. The husband is worried that too much exposure to such “feminine work” will make him gay. I asked my mother what she said. She said not to worry about it, “unless he’s 11 and still wants to wear an apron. Then, he needs to be re-directed.”

My parents believe that being gay is all a matter of conditioning, that children can be swayed one way or the other — as if our sexualities were absolute dichotomies, just as our skin is either White or Not.

It greatly disturbs me to hear these things from my parents, to feel that everything I say to them is a waste and that they hold no weight to my thoughts.

My mother tells me that when I get older, I “will realize”. I will find Jesus, find God, find absolute heterosexuality, enter marriage, have heterosexual God-fearing children. I will Realize.

As I’ve gotten older, the only thing I’ve realized is my parent’s fear and hatred and that I will never be like they want me to be or they like I want them to be.