“Aunt”s and Other-Mothering in a Queer Household
Wise Edits
I remember my Aunt Dee vividly. I remember her planning and executing my 5th birthday party to perfection. I remember her yelling my name, searching the apartment complex every time I ran away when my mother would come home high off her latest drug binge. I remember sitting in the living room eating freeze-pops and playing Pac Man on the Atari with my cousins, while she and my mother talked, listened to music and danced in the kitchen. My time with her was the closest I came to a stable environment until I was 13 and went to live with my father and his then wife. Being that young, I didn’t know she was a lesbian, but as I got older, I started to wonder. There were no clues, but there was . . . something (I guess it was my blossoming gaydar). I stopped wondering when my mom’s boyfriend called her “that dyke bitch.” I didn’t care. All I knew was that I loved my Aunt Dee, and she loved me. With skin like raw agave nectar and coal black hair, she was a tall, long-legged elegant Alpha-wom
