Chosen Famillia?

written by Valerie

Chosen familia? You mean to say that I can choose who my family can be?

“Preposterous.”

But it's true.

I, believe it or not, have a biological mother and a biological father. But do they know about my passions? Do they know me at all?

The quick answer is no, and the long answer is fuck no.

I want to first honor one of the origins of chosen family, and for that we go to ball culture, which originated in 1980s New York City. There were “houses,” like the House of LaBeija, where Crystal LaBeija was named Mother, becoming a chosen mother to those living in the house. These houses were families, chosen families, that together formed and shaped a massive part of LGBTQIA+ culture. (For more context on ball culture and chosen family, check out Paris Is Burning.)

For me, it took a few decades longer to experience chosen family.

I was born to a Colombian mother and a French father. They both immigrated to the United States in their mid- to late 20s and decided to put roots down in Miami, Florida. They were dependable and courageous individuals who set out to create a life of their own. They were living the American Dream™ in our two-story house in a gated, palm-trees-waving-in-the-wind community.

I experienced two lives: one in my house, where I had the pressure of being a high-performing student, and one in the streets of Miami, where you would have called me a “git” (aka a shitty little teenager).

For the first time, I wanted to explore different kinds of relationships. I stripped my mom and dad of their responsibility to be loving caregivers in my life, and my friends became more than just fellow gits at school. They became my people. We would laugh, cry, create, argue, then resolve.

Most importantly, we would love.

I could dedicate a whole book to my definition of love and what being loved means to me. But I won’t. What I will say is: my friends became my backbone… my introduction to a rainbow road with butterflies and Lana Del Rey. At the end of the day, I didn’t want to go back to my parents; I wanted to go back to my family.

Ten years later, I came out to my mom. There was a painful silence that felt like eons. Then she told me, “No one needs to know.” (To this day, no one else in my biological family knows.) I decided that my biological family meant diddly-squat and that I was on my own. Heartbroken but reborn, I was ready to choose my family.

Defining family is different for everyone.

It could be members of your biological family, someone you’ve known your entire life, like Steve from kindergarten, or someone you’re going to meet next week.

When looking for family, I might ask myself: Can they keep up with the thousands of ideas constantly running around in my mind? Are they supportive of who I am as a person? Do they listen to me when I ramble on and on about Paul Hollywood and who could ever replace him? Can they cook? Are they even nice? If “no” is the answer to even one of those questions, they’re probably not my family. Not only did I find people with all of these qualities, but they keep expanding my definition of family every day.

We are far too precious as individuals to be surrounded only by those who cannot see us. If you’ve ever had to hide your true identity, I see you, I love you, and let’s make pumpkin pie.

This holiday season, let’s cheers to the people we choose to spend time with. Cheers to the people who care for us and only ask questions out of love, not judgment. To the ones who would be an emergency contact in the blink of an eye.

From my family to yours (or yours-to-be), happy holidays.

→ But for real, here’s the pumpkin pie recipe I’m using. Let me know if you give it a try as well!