Most people understand the idea of family — the people in one’s life that are concrete and lack the ability to be exiled. Typically one’s family consists of blood, married, and adopted relatives, all of which share at least one common ancestor. It’s, unfortunately, not always the case that a family has exile-impossibility. We see disownment occur across a variety of situations: teenage pregnancy, criminal activity, religious variability, financial hardship, and, in my case, minority gender and sexuality identities.
The idea of a family is contingent on non-removal, yet across the demographics I just mentioned, removal almost always seems more plausible. For queers specifically, one out of every three (⅓, 33%) people — of all queer sexualities and genders — will face homelessness in their lifetime. Now, as a queer person, I am aware of my perception bias towards knowing more queer people, but even the most homophobic of people likely know at least three queers. The very idea of so many queers facing homelessness disgusts me, disgusts our community, and should disgust you too. Our government, but more so, our society, has the full capability of eradicating homelessness and inequality, yet infants, children, teenagers, adults, and the elderly, are all on our streets today.
Homelessness is not the only consequence of a familial exile. Familial isolation can lead to violence, sexual assault, death, criminal activity, and subsequently, the inability to be able to recover from a long-lasting and traumatizing experience. These consequences only compound the difficulties of obtaining and holding a career, communicating with peers, and life progression.
With an incredibly disproportionate amount of queers facing disapproval and exile, our progression as individuals and as a community once again relies on our own methods and restructuring for prevention and escape. Though our society should support all of its members, we are once again relegated to fend for ourselves. The resiliency of queers is our concrete, our foundation; We look not to only assist and advance ourselves, but of every queer we share our environments with. Even a queer peer from my high school, who I know to be a pathological liar, is not exempt from my assistance; I would take him into my own home before allowing his complete exile from our society. Our depth of care for one another is what continues to keep our communities alive.
Chosen family is our response to exile. Chosen family is our method of achievement. Chosen family makes up the characters in our lives, whether we admit it or not.
Chosen family, as I’ve mentioned previously, can include the people you are born unto, but is expansive, with the ability to include peers, mentors, sexual partners, friends, etc. A chosen family has no limits or bounds unless created by the individual. The idea was originally coined by Kath Weston in her 1991 book, Families We Choose: Lesbians, Gays, and Kinship. I first heard it, and adopted it into my life, during Tyler Oakley’s 2017 Pride Youtube Series, Chosen Family: Stories of Queer Resilience.
Without any formal knowledge on the concept, I was able to recognize its application to my own experience. During Pride 2017, I was in my first queer relationship — with chicago. Sure, we had been fucking for years, but I finally had a boyfriend, and at the time, I believed it to be my first experience in queer love. What my age has helped me recognize, is that I was experiencing queer love before this for many years. chicago was simply my first experience in romantic queer love. chicago as my boyfriend, as my best friend, and as a peer, was and likely always will be a part of my chosen family, even in our non-communication. Moreover, chicago’s family, are people I no longer talk to, but could turn to in my darkest of moments for guidance.
Prior to chicago, I had two best friends that I didn’t yet understand to be a part of my chosen family, when undoubtedly they were. Two best friends who would be the ones to open my eyes, to assist in my own understanding of them, of myself, and of the world that enveloped us.
Kayla Wilson has been in my life since the third grade, where we shared our daily teacher and bi-weekly gifted educator. Back then, Kayla had an absolutely massive crush on me; One you would expect between two kids at age 8, she was obsessed with me and I was terrified by how much she liked me. Because of that very crush, we wouldn’t become best friends until the 6th grade, when we once again shared the same teacher. Only then, things had changed.
Between the ages of 8-12, Kayla progressed brilliantly in psychological development. By the time we were back in class together, Kayla had become a fierce advocate for human rights, not only for the progression of women’s equality – be it the pay gap, abortion, or birth control – but she loudly advocated for queer rights, racial equality, and overall, a more just society. I started crushing on her then. On my since-deleted tumblr, I would write love poems to Kayla, with some quite a bit less discreet than others. As we continued growing older, into middle and high school, her desire for a more-just world only grew. She fancied the alternative, nature, and sought to leave almost any environment she encountered better than she found it. Though a nervous rash was sure to break out across her neck, she would confront and explain her beliefs to anyone she believed would benefit from hearing them. She, most certainly, is part of the reason I am no longer afraid to speak.
During college, Kayla and I moved in together both on- and off-campus. Living together for over four years only broadened our understanding of each other and of the world we lived in. We poured water on pro-life chalk art on Jayhawk Boulevard; We marched together in solidarity for Black Lives Matter; and she helped me write the email to my younger sister’s school counselor when my parents mishandled and abused her after coming out. When we disagreed, we most often left the conversation on a more neutral standpoint, truly attempting to understand others’ perspectives. Kayla is my best friend for life, but more so than that, she is my family. She is a critical part of my chosen family. Three paragraphs on my familial relationship with Kayla simply doesn’t suffice, perhaps it’s a tale to be told another day.
Kayla’s best friend at the time, who later also became my best friend, Oliver Jane, is another member of my chosen family.
Back in the sixth grade, while platonically crushing on Kayla, I was head-over-heels romantically-interested in Oliver. Oliver and I would end up dating off and on for a few months before deciding to just remain friends. Oliver was a lot like Kayla, sharing a plethora of humanitarian beliefs, while perhaps being an even louder advocate for the queer community. You see, at the time, I was brainwashed and was brainwashing myself into believing I was straight. To compensate, I was staunchly against anybody being gay; even though I wholly understood myself to have crushes on multiple guys. Through a vast number of conversations between Oliver, Kayla, and myself, I would come to understand and support the queer community, my community, our community. And, when I wanted to kill myself for being queer and unaccepted, they were the ones to know about it. Kayla and Oliver talked me through my bouts of situational depression more times than I could count.
As Oliver and I grew, our sexualities began to parallel. Though I am not sure how she identifies these days, I do believe there was a time where I was gay and she was a lesbian; Our sixth grade relationship would never be revitalized. Yet still, in our friendship, Oliver showed me that queers are resilient. Though her home life didn’t reflect mine, I was well aware of the hardship she and her family had faced growing up. Oliver chose to take this hardship and make it work in her benefit. She lived life to the absolute fullest, desiring the most out of every experience she had. Her advocacy was loud and broad, going as far as to show up to a spirit day – dress like your parents day – in nothing but a large black garbage bag and a nametag that read “Hi, my name is Dad.” Oliver helped me understand that family can be shitty, can be considered your family, but that family doesn’t have to be your family.
Just last year, I invited Oliver to my 23rd birthday party after not seeing each other since either 2017 or 2018. My invite to her was genuine, I wanted so desperately to see her again and reconnect, yet, after so long, I did not expect her to come. Still, like any member of my chosen family would, Oliver came, and it was as if not a singular day had passed. There wasn’t awkward distance or unfilled silence. I spent as long as I could with her without neglecting my other guests [lol thanks Savage Mom for imprinting that on me].
Even though we are no longer best friends – in fact, we are potentially only proximally friendly – she was, is, and always will be a part of my chosen family.
Last October, Troye Sivan released his third studio album, Something To Give Each Other. The album is themed around queer love – more specifically, around the implications of queer sex. Now, for this piece, I’ll omit the dirty details of my numerous sexual activities, but Something To Give Each Other did inform my relationship to queer sex. My sexual partners, ex-boyfriends, and any one-night stand I’ve had are each individually important in their own right. The theme of the album hinges on the fact that even the most unimportant of sexual occurrences, even the worst of relationships, in addition to the best of them, give us something. No two exactly identical, but each vital in developing one’s identity. Chicago taught me patience, Quinton gave me levity, Keenan frankly didn’t give me much, but impassioned me towards the aesthetic, Kade taught me communication, and Tyler showed me real love, true love. And the many men who I’ve shared my bed with, giving me love for my body, and I love to theirs; From Zak to chicago to Jacob, to multiple Adams, Austins, Jordans, and Evans; Flipping Justin and Cade, Isaac, Gus, and Gabe; We each, and all the others unnamed, had something to give the other. They, too, are my chosen family. Boyfriends, husbands, and partners that were not meant to last, but instead, were perfect for the times that we shared.
My chosen family also includes so many people I have already mentioned in this book: My adoptive family, Kat, Kirk, Peyton, and Eden White; My siblings, Serena, Andrew, Katelyn, and Mark; My nephews, Anthony and Ezra; My Nanny and my Tata; My queer mother, Alyx; My cousins, the Shires, Mariah, Josh, and Jade.
Amongst others who have yet to be mentioned: A plethora of my past and present coworkers, Erika, Bre, Ruth, Thomas, Abby, Deavynn, Christopher, Ruthie, Cameron, Chris, Jeff, Sarah, Heidi, Beth, Ashley, Carrie, and Anne; My tattoo artists Chess, Felix, and Lua; My previous roommates, Drake, Kelvin, and Nick; My college friends, Emily, Mary, Aydra, Iris, Miles, Joe, and Backer; My teachers, professors, and administrators, Mrs. Simpson, Mr. Zimmerman, Mrs. Jackle, Mrs. Borjon, Mrs. Sanders, Mrs. Aeschliman, Mrs. Brunton, Mrs. Hunley, Jeanne Vacarro, and Arlowe Clementine; And, of course, my core group of friends, the subject of the following story, Chicken Babies: Myself, Peyton, Sam, Nikky, Amy, and Morgan.
These are the people that matter; the ones I could turn to in any situation; the ones that even when I don’t know them well, I know them enough to love them unconditionally. My chosen family is my family, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.