When I was a little girl, we rented out a room in our large Haight-Ashbury flat to generate extra income. It was always rented to a young gay man, probably because my mum, a single parent, felt it was the safest and most sensible option. Inevitably, our housemate would slide open the French doors that divided their room to the library and slowly, gently, tenderly, carefully, our friendship would unfold.
Once I did, I both grimaced and grinned. We had about five young men live with us over the years. These outings gave my mum nights off from mum-ing and me, adventures to be fondly remembered decades later. I heard them talk about how they had escaped to San Francisco from places like Iowa, Kentucky, Texas, so that they could live and love freely.
They had all been disowned by their families for being gay. They had to create their own families, and I was privileged to play the role of the little sister, niece, cousin they had to leave behind or, on an even deeper level, the child they never believed they would ever be able to have.
It was from them that I learned my lifelong mantra: Friends are the family we choose for ourselves. And love is love. Of course, I was much too young to really understand the implications of all of this, but what I did know was that I felt so grown up and cherished in their presence. I knew there was something special about these men.
To me they were worldly and fancy and sparkly and they knew a little something about everything. And most importantly, they taught me what they knew.
