Back when photographer Gabriela Herman’s mum came out as gay, Gabriela says she didn’t know how to handle it – she was in high school and didn’t know anyone else with LGBT parents, despite going to a liberal school in a liberal town in New England. “It was still so uncommon then,” she says over the phone from New York, now 36. “I didn't even feel like if I talked to someone about it they would understand. My siblings and I were super close, we usually talked about everything, but we didn’t talk about it either.”
After some therapy sessions, which she found painful and unhelpful, and even a period of cutting off contact from her mum, Gabriela eventually grew to accept her mum’s relationship with another woman, a process aided by embarking on her photo project, titled “The Kids ”, in which she travels around America taking portraits of people with gay, bisexual or trans mums and dads.
When she began the project seven years ago, her only lead was a US non-profit her sister had put her in touch with called COLAGE, who helped people dealing with what she’d been through. She went to their meet-up and found for the first time a room full of people who had experiences just like hers. “It became so therapeutic for me, because before that I just didn't share my story or talk out loud. Through hearing other people do it I became a lot more comfortable, and met this whole community that I didn't even know existed.”
Gabriela has now photographed over 100 children of LGBT parents all across the USA, although according to the Williams Institute there are an estimated six million people with LGBT parents living in America. She’s found that no two individuals’ experiences are the same: “For some kids it was never difficult, they were just like ‘these are my parents’ – especially if they were born into a family with LGBT parents,” she explains. For others, there was a lot of shame, embarrassment or hiding of the truth. “Sometimes it was even the parents forcing kids to keep things a secret, to stop other kids teasing them in school.”
One standout story for Gabriela was a girl in California called Chelsea, who was biologically related to both her dads because they had combined one of their sperm with the other’s sister's eggs. “I just thought that was phenomenal,” says Gabriela. “I thought I’d heard everything and then she was the first person I had come across who had DNA from both her dads, it was incredible.”
Another was a woman called Danielle, who was raised by six parents. “That was a very unique scenario,” Gabriela laughs. “She had one lesbian couple and one gay couple who had decided to have kids together, so one of the mums and one of the dads had conceived her and her brother. Then the gay dads divorced and both re-partnered, so she had four gay dads and two gay mums raising her as one big family.”
And then there was a whole batch of kids that she calls "second gen", who also identify as LGBT themselves.
Of her overall findings, Gabriela says it definitely seemed easier or harder to deal with depending on where subjects lived. For people with a gay dad in the San Francisco Castro district, it was more regular – “Everyone had a gay dad!” she jokes – but for people growing up in places like rural Nebraska, with less diversity, or in more isolated communities in general, things seemed harder.
Whether or not the kids also came out as LGBT didn’t seem to affect the process of acceptance one way or the other, however. “For some it becomes a great bonding moment but for others, the coming out process is even more tricky,” remarks Gabriela. “Mark, featured in the book, is a great example, where he came out first and with his guidance and support he was able to help his dad come to terms with his own coming out.”
In a time when Donald Trump takes measures to regress the legal wins of America’s LGBT community almost monthly, and when global anti-same-sex marriage campaigns draw on the “but think of the children!” argument as a deterrent (such as in Australia, just recently), a photo project aimed at raising awareness around the complexities and joys of being the child of LGBT parents seems vital.
“I think that’s a dangerous rhetoric and I hope this book will help others who are feeling lost and alone and letting them know that there are people like them out there who have gone through similar experiences,” agrees Gabriela.
Things have improved for the photographer personally – she now goes on family holidays with her siblings, her mum, her mum’s partner, her dad and his girlfriend – and she also thinks things are improving for others in her boat. When she started in 2010, it was pretty difficult finding willing subjects; towards the end, there were people contacting her from all over.
On top of that, she’s noticed that more recently subjects report that having gay parents has never really been an issue to them at all, particularly her younger subjects. “I’m done shooting for a while now,” says Gabriela, “but that was definitely the most encouraging thing I took away from the project. Hopefully in the years to come, this won’t even be an issue at all, and people will wonder why I even made a book about it.”
Ahead, Gabriela’s subjects share part of their stories.
All images copyright Gabriela Herman from the book The Kids: The Children of LGBTQ Parents in the USA, published by The New Press.
Jaz, Webster, New York
One of my best friends growing up, who I’m still very close with – she wasn’t allowed to sleep over for a while, and then when her parents finally said that she could sleep over, her mother took my mum aside and was like, “You can’t kiss in front of my daughter.” And I was just blown away. The funny thing is her parents couldn’t care less now, but because they had never associated with gay people before they were afraid it was going to damage their child’s psyche or something.
People started realising how awesome they were, and that took a lot of pressure off of me to feel like I had to defend them. I think a big turning point for me was when I was probably 14, and my mum and her partner Tammy and I went to a theme park, and I asked Tammy, “Is it okay if I call you Mum sometimes?” And she started crying and it was so sweet.
Photographs courtesy of Gabriela Herman.
Adrian, Pembroke Pines, Florida
One Thanksgiving, I came home from college and there was this other woman living in the house. My dad had already sort of moved out at that point, maybe a couple months prior – I knew, by then, my parents were getting divorced. So it was like, “Is this a friend?” We didn’t really talk about it explicitly. I think she just confirmed that, “Yes, there’s a woman here and we’re a thing,” without actually saying it. I didn’t know if I was walking on eggshells or walking on a bombshell. Maybe she wasn’t ready for it, or maybe, in retrospect, I wasn’t completely ready for it.
There was drama once it became more widely known in our family, and it damaged a lot of relationships on both her side of the family and on my dad’s side of the family. My parents are immigrants – my mum is from Jamaica, and she’s the matriarch of that side of the family since her older sister passed away. On my dad’s side of the family, we have Jehovah’s Witness and black immigrants. Add all that to the mix.
Photographs courtesy of Gabriela Herman.
Hope, New York
My gay dads were really involved with every school I went to. They knew my friends’ parents, were friends with them, sat on every PTA, and came to every event. Basically they were already out to the school community, and people knew them and loved them, and so I didn’t have anyone messing with me at school. In terms of friends, everybody was pretty relaxed. Sometimes they might have a question, or sometimes they might say, “That’s so gay” without understanding how disparaging that was, but nobody teased me about it, nobody made me feel ashamed, nobody made me feel other.
Photographs courtesy of Gabriela Herman.
Erica, Redding, Connecticut
When I was 20, I came out as bisexual to my mum, and we became close. She told me, “I’m glad that you are allowing yourself to explore your sexuality. I wish I had done the same when I was younger. But then, of course I wouldn’t have had you or your brother or your dad, and I can’t imagine life without all of you.”
I fell in love with a woman. It was unrequited. I had tried to rule out being queer for the longest time. I wanted to be heterosexual to prove people wrong that gay parents have gay kids. It was difficult.
Photographs courtesy of Gabriela Herman.
Jamie, Chicago
I remember even in preschool telling kids that I didn’t have a dad. Everybody was like, “Where’s your dad? Why don’t you have a dad?” I’m like, “Well, a doctor helped my mummy have me, and I don’t have a dad.” “Well, you have to have a dad.” “I don’t have a dad.” I actually got in a fight with a kindergarten substitute teacher who insisted that I must have a dad, because everyone has a dad. We were making Father’s Day cards, and I was adamant that I did not have a dad. She didn’t believe me.
Photographs courtesy of Gabriela Herman.
Malina, Santa Fe
My dads tried for 10 years to have me. They went to adoption agencies. They had been together for 20 years at that point, and it took them 10 years to finally have me. Back then, the science was so bad with IVF and assisted reproduction. They had 12 eggs, and they had spent so much money in trying to put this together. They would try three at a time, because back then, you would try three at a time. Now, you would get triplets if you did that. But none of them worked until there was one left and it was, according to the doctor, a shitty egg. It had, like, a crack in it or something, and my dads said they were going to give up having children if it didn’t work. And it took, and that little crappy egg became me. That’s the story of how I was conceived.
Photographs courtesy of Gabriela Herman.
Molly, Worcester, Massachusetts
My dad lived as a white man in America for about 50 years, and there’s a certain level of privilege and egotism that just naturally goes along with that, and that doesn’t really change.
My parents split up probably a year after. By that time it was clear my dad was going to transition. When she would come to see us, she would still be dressed as a man but there would be differences like her ears were pierced or her nails were painted. My dad’s given name is Austin and Austin was going away, and Vivian was emerging.
I remember that I was in college, and I decided to see my dad dressed, and I told my mum and my sister at dinner. I was like, “I’m going to see Dad dressed.” And they were like, “What? Why are you going to do that?” And I was like, “Well, I just feel like I have to. This is the way he is now. It’s moving forward.” I know it was really hard for my mum. It broke up their marriage.
Photographs courtesy of Gabriela Herman.
Niko, Newton, MA
I grew up with a mum and a dad until I was about 11, when my parents got divorced. A few months after that, my mum came out that she was gay and that her partner was this woman, Robin, who we had known for the majority of our life. She had worked with my mum. We had been family friends. I was the baby, and I didn’t really understand what was going on. It didn’t really register with me what it meant and what challenges my mum was facing in life. It certainly didn’t dawn on me to what extent my family was going to be labelled or judged by the rest of society. Since then, society has changed a little bit, made everything a little bit more accepting.
Photographs courtesy of Gabriela Herman.
Zach, Waltham, New York
I was born in New Orleans. My mother was 16. Patricia – she’s Vietnamese. My father, Charles, was 17. He was black and Spanish. I was adopted by Barbara and Kim, so I have two mums. As Americans, we’re pretty quick to put people in a box or judge them, whether it’s about having two mums or what your race or ethnicity is. I had less trouble with having two mums and more issues with finding myself in terms of race and ethnicity. In third grade, I remember people used to ask, “Why are you black and they’re white?” or “Why are you Asian?” I remember saying, “I’m adopted.” For a lot of kids, for what they understood of adoption, that was good enough for a long time.
Photographs courtesy of Gabriela Herman.
Mark, Snyder County, Pennsylvania
My dad was outed as gay in a police sting designed to entrap men who have sex with other men. After many years of marriage with my mum, everything came to a screeching halt in 2008, and our lives were turned upside down. He served almost four years in jail. During that time, they divorced, and my dad became more and more open about his struggle to accept himself as gay.
It was difficult having a parent in jail. I had recurring nightmares about his wellbeing. We communicated mostly through letters. Because I had been openly gay and gender non-binary for many years, I was able to provide my father with resources, information and support from my own experiences. This continues today and has brought new meaning to our relationship and, ultimately, I think, brought us closer.
Photographs courtesy of Gabriela Herman.
Caroline, Newton, Massachusetts
My mums are big old dykes and have been ever since I can remember. I went to the 1993 March on Washington, I grew up going to Gay Pride every year, a lot of my parents’ friends are queer, and their straight friends are really down for the cause. The people who are closest to being a father figure in my life are the gay men that are my parents’ best friends. I definitely grew up in a queer community. The famous story in our family is that my little sister Jing – she’s the best – she cried the first time she saw straight people kissing because she was so confused. She was probably 4 or 5 years old.
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