Around the age of 14, I decided I wanted to be a foster parent some day.

In Oregon, where I grew up, my grandma’s sister, who I spent a lot of time with, became a foster parent around that time, and across the country in New Jersey, my FTM uncle and his (male) partner were in the process of adopting four young children themselves.

Even then it just made a lot of sense to me as I thought, “Why would I ever want to make another human when there are so many cute ones already available!” And also, I knew for certain - as I skipped school to write really bad poems in my dear diary about the lives of dreamy gay boys, and carried around threadbare copies of Gore Vidal paperbacks lifted from the local Book Bin - no baby would ever come out of my own boyish body. Yikes!

Anyways, 22 years later, I found myself looking for a new place to live in Oakland and realized I was looking for a two bedroom: It was time. Like many long-imagined dreams put off indefinitely until “it made practical sense,” until I “was really ready,” my idea of being a foster parent was the kind of great idea that would happen some day far in the future. And by virtue of its very nature, the future was always a few years down the road.

But it just kind of hit me in that transitional moment that the future was now, that I was as ready as I would ever be and after finding a two-bedroom I could afford on my own, I started the process of becoming a foster parent.

My idealism about the it’s-okay-to-be-gay-etc.-ness of the Bay Area was extinguished during my very first week living in San Francisco 10 years ago when a guy in a park called me a lesbian and hocked a loogie in my face. So I had no unrealistic expectations that going through the process of becoming a single, transgender-identified foster parent in this region would be smooth sailing. But, in fact, it was not very hard.

It turns out that any asshole who can show up for the many meetings and trainings, do all their paperwork and meet the home requirements can get certified to be a foster parent. There were even a few un-self-conscious racist/classist/homophobic bigots in my training group who had no problem getting the state’s stamp of approval. Still, I was really tentative about reactions to my gender during the entire, lengthy process (which involved in-depth personal interviews and un-planned home visits by a social worker at any hour) and had fears related to my identity as I thought ahead to actual children being placed in my home. In my worst nightmare about all the things that could go wrong, an angry, homophobic teenager would be placed in my care and, realizing I was gay, in a moment of acting out, would make up an awful lie about my personal conduct and land me in the clinker. No thanks!

My original plan was to be a short-term respite care provider, which means that when long-term foster parents need a break, the agency can call me to see if I’m available to take their kid for a week or long-weekend. This usually happens when foster parents have had it and really need some time off, and it is crappy for the kid who has to move to yet another home for a length of time. However, it felt like even with this scenario’s challenges, it would still be the most realistic for me in terms of what I was up to with the rest of my life and also give me some experience in foster parenting in a not-ready-to-commit-forever kind of way.

But things change. Right around the time my certification went through, I found out through a friend that a gay/transgendered teenager they mentored was being removed from their homophobic home in Fresno (Fresno, god!) and needed a place where s/he could feel safe gender-wise.

The word was that this kid had a lot of problems, but that his team of social workers, therapists and advocates hoped that finally being in a home where, for the first time in his life, it would be beyond okay to be out (and just be himself in all ways) would help some of his other difficult behaviors settle down a little bit.

So, my original short term respite-care provider plan completely scrapped, in short order arrived the most adorable teenager, walking up the stairs of my apartment dragging three gigantic duffle bags and wearing the tightest, brightest, pinkest floral-patterned leggings I’d ever seen, looking nervous but hopeful, and saying, “Hey, Charlie” as I showed him his new room.

Read Part 2 here. 

Original published at originalplumbing.com.