When you’re in a same-sex relationship, how do you introduce your girlfriend to your church pastor?
Such was my dilemma at my baby niece’s birthday party and dedication (the evangelical equivalent of a baptism). My mom, an active member of the church, had coordinated with the pastor who would facilitate the dedication. Naturally, she took on the task of introducing everyone to the pastor.
My sister and I approached the pastor and his wife. Mama did the usual introductory routine — names, order of birth (“my fourth,” “my youngest,” and so on). The pastor and his wife responded by shaking our hands and gushing about our beautiful faces. My girlfriend, Joy, stood beside me, quietly and politely smiling. My mom turned to her to continue the introductions.
“Her officemate,” my mom said, explaining Joy’s relation to me.
Officemate. Or “co-worker,” as other cultures more commonly say.
When it comes to relationships, labels matter. But inaccurate labels hurt.
Months of gradual acceptance, family Sunday lunches including Joy, and mundane conversations at the dining table between me, Joy, and my mom had all been reduced to the platonic term of “officemate.”
The term is not untrue, to be fair. Joy and I did work together; that’s how we met. But that wasn’t the reason she was at this family gathering. She was there, first and foremost, because she’s my girlfriend — not some random co-worker I decided to bring along on this intimate occasion.
When it comes to relationships, labels matter. But inaccurate labels hurt.
My mom and I have come a long way since that December evening when I told her I met someone — a girl — as she sat across from me at a restaurant.
It’s only been eight months since I came out to my mom. And to her credit, it must’ve been difficult to accept my same-sex relationship at all.
As a kid, I remember running around with my sister in the hallways and playing in the playground while my parents attended Sunday service. In everyday conversation, my mom is the type to enthusiastically quote bible verses for impromptu pep talks and anecdotes.
I feel like my mom and I have come a long way since that December evening when I told her I met someone — a girl — as she sat across from me at a restaurant. Her initial response: “How can that be?” genuinely unable to fathom my attraction to someone of the same sex. My mom’s initial reaction was followed by an invitation to read the Bible together (particularly Romans 1, a known passage that condemned homosexuality), with the presumption that I was just confused. But I responded by explaining that the best and most loving thing she could do for me was to accept me as I was, contented and happy about the love I have found. That conversation ended with an agree-to-disagree kind of silence. A silence that carried on to my mother’s response to Joy during the first few times she would come over to our house or join our family dinners.
Regardless, Mama came around over time. From dodging interactions with Joy, my mom started including her in our dinner conversations, chuckling at Joy’s childhood stories or making eye contact as she shared her own. I was hopeful that this new normal could be something my family welcomed with warmth.
Despite all the acceptance, part of me was anxious that my mother came to terms with my same-sex relationship due to denial, that maybe I had simply found a deep friendship with Joy, which I misinterpreted as a romantic relationship. And it was only a matter of time until I’d be enlightened and get back to my heterosexual path. This was a problem because I felt like Joy was the one.
The word “officemate” plays on a loop in my head. Each utterance pinching my chest.
My fears were validated by that one word at the party. “Officemate.” It felt like we were back to zero. That all those months of acceptance were an illusion.
It’s been almost a week since the party, and I still feel hurt by my mom’s denial and refusal to acknowledge my relationship. The word “officemate” plays on a loop in my head. Each utterance pinching my chest.
My mom and I still text each other in the middle of my workday to check up on each other, but I can’t bring myself to confront her about the label mishap. I’m afraid I’d be asking too much. I worry that bringing it up would cause her to move one more step back from accepting my relationship. Or maybe I’m just afraid to find out how she really feels, how she can’t accept the life I’ve chosen. I’m afraid she’ll take away my privileges of having my girlfriend around our family.
Maybe my mom meant to protect me, not only herself, from people who wouldn’t understand.
“Put yourself in her shoes; what would she have said to the pastor?” I say to myself. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision my mom had to make, one that had to prevent prying questions or judgment. This sudden sense of empathy dissolves my resentment. Maybe my mom meant to protect me, not only herself, from people who wouldn’t understand.
With all this in mind, I come up with a compromise. My mom can’t introduce Joy as my “girlfriend” to her church friends. “Girlfriend” is a word that would only be acceptable after a radical shift in an entire community’s beliefs. And it would be naive of me to think that such acceptance would happen any time soon, if ever at all. So I settle for a different word that encapsulates some form of attachment and love.
“Friend.”
One evening, I muster the courage to ask my mom: “In family gatherings, could you refer to Joy as my ‘friend,’ at least? ‘Officemate’ sounds too detached, like she’s just some random person I decided to bring along.” To my pleasant surprise, my mom responds with nothing more than “Okay. I just didn’t know how else to introduce her.” And again, we conclude the conversation with a level-headed, agree-to-disagree silence.
I hear that churches in other parts of the world, like Canada, have become accepting of the LGBTQ+ community. Perhaps Joy and I could move there someday, to greener pastures where girlfriends (or wives) don’t have to be demoted to “officemate” or “friend” at Christian gatherings.
But for now, the word “friend” will have to serve as a cloak to protect my girlfriend, my well-being, and my mom’s stature from a culture that’s not quite ready for a more accurate label.
