Your People

On the cost of staying polite in front of my own daughter

I’ve spent my whole life making jokes when I should have been clear about what I want.

It’s kept me safe. It’s also kept me small.

I learned early that there’s a price for taking up space when you’re different. The world will make you pay for it at second-grade recess, a high-school hallway, a late night walk home from a bar, a meeting room where you’re the only one who has to explain yourself.

So I learned to be charming instead of clear. Funny instead of firm. I built a whole life on not asking for too much.

And then I became a father.

And for the first time, shrinking stopped feeling like an option. Because someone is watching me.

I realized this the day our nanny offered to let my daughter call her “mom.”

We didn’t want a nanny.

Nannies were for people who had money. Not money, but money. We were two dads, one working in entertainment and the other in architecture. These weren’t the industries with the paydays people imagine. Plus, we’d just had a baby via surrogacy, which had already cost us the equivalent to a down payment on a house.

But it was early 2021, still in the thick of COVID. Daycare was either closed or felt like a potential death sentence. We both had to work, there was no choice about that. We couldn’t afford Los Angeles on one salary, let alone Los Angeles with a baby.

And we had no family nearby. No parents who could risk getting on a plane. No siblings on the West Coast to lean on. It was just us.

So: a nanny.

We posted job listings on multiple apps. We asked the questions we thought we were supposed to ask. Do you have experience with infants? Are you vaccinated? Do you have references?

And then, after their initial responses, the question I hated asking but had to: “Are you comfortable working for a same-sex couple?”

I anxiously waited for their responses. Some stopped messaging. One of them blocked us. One of them said, “Oh, I love the gays!”

We did not hire her.

Another replied, “I don’t have any felonies…” but didn’t clarify any further.

And then we got a referral from a friend. As you might guess, this is the best case scenario.

We set up a phone call, because she couldn’t figure out the mechanics of Zoom. Her name was Sofia. She was warm. Kind. We had an instant rapport. She had three kids of her own and multiple grandchildren. She worked for all kinds of families, she said. By the end of the call, David and I agreed that we wanted to move forward with her. We set up a one-month trial to see how our daughter would take to her.

First day. Fifteen minutes in. She looked at me very earnestly and asked, “Do you know George Michael?”

George Michael? He’d been dead for five years. Did she think all gay people knew each other?

“I didn’t know him personally, but I’m a big fan.”

“My sister used to work for him. He bought her a house.”

“Oh,” I said. Reflexively I immediately followed with, “Well, I don’t have George Michael money.”

She looked at me and feigned a smile, but didn’t say anything.

And I thought: Did I just tell her I’m broke? Did I just apologize for not having pop star money?

Ugh, there it was. The reflex. She’d just told me her sister worked for one of the most famous gay men in the world, and my first instinct was to make sure she knew that I wasn’t like him. That I couldn’t compete. That I was less than. I simply could have said, “That’s amazing. Waiting for That Day is one of my favorite songs of his.

But I didn’t. Because somewhere in my nervous system, there’s still a voice inside that says: Don’t ask them for too much. They might leave. Or even worse, she’s judging you.

I took a deep breath and moved on, for better or worse.

The trial month flew by and my daughter loved Sofia. They played and played. She took her on walks, she read to her, and Sofia treated her like she was family. Surprisingly, Sofia never looked at her phone and always entertained her without a TV or iPad. Our parent friends were amazed. We truly couldn’t have asked for more or a better caregiver to spend time with our daughter.

One uneventful afternoon, I came upstairs from my home office to make lunch. Sofia was at the table eating while Georgia napped. I sat down to lunch with her and we made small talk. Something as previously discussed, I’m pretty terrible at. However, Sofia was so kind and so warm it made it all the easier.

“I went to lunch this past weekend with my old client Catherine,” she started.

I took a bite into a boring salad. “Oh yeah, sounds like fun. Where did you go?”

“I can’t remember the name, but it was very fun and lively. There were a lot of your people there.”

My people?

“Hmm, I don’t think I know which restaurant you mean. Can you tell me more about it or where it was?” I asked, glossing over the “your people” descriptor.

“You know it, it’s on the corner of Holloway and La Cienega. Lots of people having fun with drinks. Catherine loved it. You people are so funny!”

“Huh. I’ll have to look it up and try it sometime with David,” I said. I couldn’t taste the salad anymore. I looked down at my watch. “Oh wow. I totally forgot I’m supposed to be on a call right now.” I took one last bite of salad before scurrying back down to my office where I had no such meeting.

My stomach burned. I felt like I’d heard something I shouldn’t have. I paced in my tiny office.

“Your people.” In my own home, at my kitchen table.

---

“Why didn’t you say anything?” David asked as we got into bed later that night.

“I don’t know. I was so stunned. I didn’t know how to respond. I froze.”

“She’s not homophobic and I don’t think she meant it in any sort of way,” David said.

“That’s the worst part. I don’t think she knows that it’s offensive. I know her intention wasn’t bad. That’s why I didn’t know what to do.”

“I would’ve said something if it were me.”

I rolled my eyes in a way only married couples can at each other.

“I would have,” he said. “Besides, I think she’s just super catholic.”

“I went to 12 years of catholic school. My parents still go to church. They’ve never once used the phrase, ‘your people.’”

“Fair. Well if I hear it, I’ll say something to her,” David said and kissed me good night.

A month or so later, Georgia and Sofia returned from the park while David and I stood in our kitchen catching up. Georgia ran up to me asking about one of her favorite stuffed animals and I went to her room to help her look for it while still listening to David and Sofia talk.

“How was the park,” David asked.

“It was great. Georgia loves to sit with all of the other nannies and just watch them. She also loved the avocado I brought for her.”

“That’s great,” David said.

“Georgia met a new friend whose nanny sat with us today. She works for one of your kind of people.”

Upon hearing this I peered out of Georgia’s bedroom and stood in the doorway watching David to see how he’d respond.

“That’s fun. Was it a boy or a girl friend?” he asked.

I caught his eye and folded my arms across my chest and shook my head with a smirk on my face. David looked at me with horror on his face, followed by a sheepish smile.

Georgia breezed past me in the doorway and showed Sofia what she’d been looking for, a brown lion stuffed animal.

“Did you have fun?” I asked.

“It was wonderful. I just told David that Georgia met a new friend. Her nanny works for one of your kind of people.” She had said it again, but now Georgia was also there.

“You mean, incredibly handsome and successful kind of people?” I asked.

She looked at me confused. I could’ve just said, Please don’t call us that. But I didn’t. I didn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable or badly because I knew she was so incredibly kind and my daughter loved her. Instead, I made a joke. Even worse, I made a joke in front of Georgia instead of correcting Sofia. I felt like shit.

---

I watched Georgia. At two years old, she was a sponge, soaking up the way the world spoke to us and the way we spoke back. Every time I laughed off a comment about ‘my kind,’ I was handing her a manual on how to apologize for her own existence. The pressure to change was building, a physical weight in my chest, and it finally crested on a Tuesday afternoon while I wrapped up my work and Sofia was feeding Georgia before she left for the day.

“Oh, I hope it’s okay, but I told Georgia that she could call me ‘mama’ if she’d like to.”

Georgia repeated “Mama,” while sitting in her high chair and looked at Sofia.

My chest tightened. My face felt like I had needles all over it. I felt the old reflex kicking in, laugh it off, make a joke, let it slide. Don’t freak out. Be calm. She’s not doing this out of malice.

“Uh,” was all I could muster. I was an okay writer, but clearly not a gifted orator.

“It’s just that when we’re at the park and she sees all the other kids who have a mom and a dad, she wants one too,” she explained.

I exhaled.

“So she’s been calling me ‘mama’, I’m sure you don’t mind.”

My stomach dropped. David was on a work conference call. I had to deal with this now, in the moment, not later with some pithy retort.

I looked at this sweet, kind, grandmother and then at Georgia who was devouring a bowl of pasta while watching me intently.

I paused and then said in my most polite tone, “I actually do mind.”

“Excuse me?” Sofia said.

“We love that you and Georgia have bonded deeply and that she feels so safe with you. You have been amazing with her. However, I don’t want to confuse Georgia. You are not her mom. She has two parents who love her very much.”

“Okay, but…”

“I think we can come up with another special name for you, but I don’t feel comfortable with Mama.”

“You’re the boss,” Sofia said, suddenly a bit more businesslike. Right. I was.

“Oh and one other thing, please don’t refer to same sex couples or LGBTQ as ‘your people’ or ‘you people’ please. You can say ‘gay.’ The other way is borderline offensive and I know that’s not your intention.”

Sofia didn’t smile. She didn’t offer a witty retort or a warm grandmotherly chuckle. She simply nodded, gathered her things, and said “See you tomorrow.” Then left. The silence she left behind wasn’t peaceful; it was thick and prickly. I stood in the kitchen, listening as her car pulled away.

I had finally taken up space, but the room felt colder for it.

I realized then that “clarity” is a lonely business. For forty years, I’d been addicted to the hit of dopamine that comes from making a stranger like me. I’d used humor to buy safety, a social currency I traded to ensure no one saw me as the “difficult” gay man. But looking at Georgia, I knew the “charming” version of me was a luxury she couldn’t afford.

My life was no longer about being liked; it was about being defined.

This was only Tuesday. I hadn’t solved the problem, I’d just finally agreed to show up for the fight.

I picked Georgia up from her high chair. She smelled like tomato sauce.

“Dada,” she said.

“Yeah,” I whispered, my stomach still tight, my voice finally my own. “Dada’s here.