The English language has not caught up to the nuances of blended and chosen families.
“What do I call you?” the 7-year-old asked through a mouth full of pizza, staring at me curiously across the table.
It’s a question I’m asked frequently these days. My partner’s child, who uses they/them pronouns, is trying to figure out what word summarizes our relationship.
I’ve yet to find a suitable answer, much to their dissatisfaction.
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For someone in first grade, still learning the scope of our vast vocabulary, it no doubt sounds like a simple inquiry; there’s an assumption that words exist for everything. Their brain is rapidly picking up new descriptors for objects and concepts — even if those sometimes get scrambled, like when they call the liquor store two blocks from our house the “licorice store.”
When describing our relationship, however, we hit a wall. The English language has not caught up to the nuances of blended and chosen families. Our lexicon falls woefully short.
My partner, who is trans, is this kiddo’s dad. They also have a mom, who has a girlfriend. Collectively, we refer to ourselves as “their grownups,” like a middle-aged punk rock band. With some of us coming from single-parent homes, we bask in the luck of this child at having four adults to dote on them.
Yet there aren’t terms to explain the nuances of our family. For example, when I pick the kiddo up from school and one of their friends shouts that their mom is here, how do they correct them?
“That’s my dad’s girlfriend,” refers only to my connection to their father. It’s an inadequate summation of my relationship with this child, whom I cook for and read to and learn to love more each day.
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“Stepmom” is not a word I want to take on. First used in Middle English, a language that existed from 1066 until the last of the 15th century, it’s had a bad reputation for centuries, and I’ve never been a fan. The story of “Cinderella,” I’ve learned, isn’t just a Disney movie, but has variants around the world; Greece, Korea and China all share similar tales. One common thread: an evil stepmother. For me, it’s also inaccurate; stepmom implies marriage, and I am not married to my partner.
I felt completely stuck answering the kiddo’s question of what they should call me. So, I turned to an expert: Kirby Conrod, professor of linguistics at Swarthmore College.
“It’s so classic that it’s a 7-year-old interrogating you about this,” they told me. “That age is when you’re learning about how social relationships work. It’s a question of ‘what are you to me’ as much as ‘what do I call you.’ ”
Conrod didn’t have any suggestions of what title I could use in this scenario.
“There isn’t a clear word for what you are,” they told me.
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However, Conrod did provide some helpful advice. This is an opportunity to reappropriate another word, combine two existing words or create something new from scratch.
This is apparently how language works.
“There are new words all the time,” Conrod said. “If you pick a noun and it works well and people start using it, that’s where new words come from. If it is meeting a need and people like it, it will spread.”
The solution may lie in simply sitting down with this kid, brainstorming new words and picking one that feels right. It can be our word that we choose to define what we are.
Kids are particularly good at this, Conrod told me. “Children are still forming their concept of the world. You have an opportunity to have conversations about how there isn’t an existing word for everything. I think it’s a good reminder that language is made up.”
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It’s not like this is totally uncharted territory for my family. Choosing new words to explain identities is common for the queer community; frequently we’re trying to describe something, like a gender identity, that hits the limit of the English language. If there isn’t a word, we reclaim an existing one, or we make up our own. Speakers of any language to do this, but right now, queer people have to do it a lot.
Back to that conversation over pizza, where the kid stares expectantly at me across the table, waiting to learn a new word that describes who I am to them. My suggestions so far — such as words in other languages or a nickname like Nunu — have not landed.
“That’s weird,” they say, scrunching up their nose.
They’re right; it is weird. All of language is weird, like when you say the same word over and over again until it loses its meaning, and its intonation seems ridiculous.
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For months I felt frustrated that, despite our best efforts, I still couldn’t put words to my relationship with this child. It was demoralizing. Perhaps, I sometimes thought, there isn’t a word because our relationship doesn’t merit one. That was a tough pill to swallow.
That narrative is slowly changing for me. We have power here; we’re not held captive by language, but rather, we wield it. We can create new terms and expand our vocabulary to define who we are and how we relate to one another. It won’t happen overnight, but slowly, over time, perhaps a new word will emerge that encapsulates what it means to be in a relationship with this child.
I can’t wait.
Reach Nuala Bishari: nuala.bishari@sfchronicle.com
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