shut.”
“What could he possibly say?”
“That he sleeps with his two daddies? That he sometimes walks in on us while we’re having sex because you refuse to lock the door because he gets scared sometimes? That his dad likes to walk around the house naked?”
“Oh, please!”
“Just tell him to keep his mouth shut.”
“We haven’t done anything wrong!”
“They can twist things, Wiley. That’s the point. You might find yourself standing in front of a judge trying to explain why your son knows you have a tattoo on your ass. Trust me. You do not want to go down that road.”
“I don’t have a tattoo on my ass!”
“We have to head this off at the pass so they have nothing to report.”
“Well, there is nothing to report, so what’s the big deal?”
“Have you considered what being reported to the DHS might do to our chances of one day adopting children?”
Actually, I had not.
“I love you, Wiley,” he said earnestly. “And I love Noah like he’s my own child. He is my child now, and I don’t care what happens between us. I’m always going to be his papa whether you like it or not. And I don’t care if we don’t adopt other children, because you guys are my family and you’re plenty. But I know you want to adopt, so I’m trying to protect what’s mine, and I’m not going to let some people from the government walk into our home and screw us over. ’Cause they will. Give them an inch and they’ll be shoving a telephone pole up our asses. So talk to him and tell him to keep his mouth shut so he doesn’t get his two daddies in trouble. If they don’t like what they see, they can remove him from his home. They could take him away today and put him in foster care until they complete their investigation and take it before a judge. It could be months before you get him back.”
“They’re not going to take my son away from me!”
“You wouldn’t be the first parent who believed that.”
“They have to have evidence.”
“That’s right. And if there’s a ‘preponderance’ of evidence in their favor—in some states, it’s fifty-one percent of the total consideration—they can immediately take him into custody.”
“What possible evidence could they have?”
“Don’t be naïve, Wiley. Honest to God! You wrote a book, and you went out there and told the whole goddamn world that you were smoking meth when Noah was conceived and that you might be the reason he’s handicapped. You also told them you were gay. And not just gay, but Super Gay, as in having sex in public places, or skinny-dipping with your boyfriends, or having anal sex at the swimming hole, or having sex in the bathroom at the mall. What do you think a Baptist judge down here in Jesusland is going to make of all that? You told them about taking Noah to gay rights marches and protests. You told them about family dinners and how you sit there and talk about your penis. You told them how his mother rejected him and ran off with her meth-head boyfriend like a piece of white trash! Jesus! Get a clue!”
“You were the one who told me I needed to write my story!”
“I didn’t know you were going to put all that crap in there. Then you told the whole world that your boyfriend was a drug addict! I’m lucky I haven’t been fired because of your goddamned book!”
I fell into an embarrassed silence, wishing to God I had never written Crack Baby and knowing I would never again write about myself or my family that way.
Jackson issued a heavy, exasperated sigh.
“Point is,” he said, “I’m trying to help you here, Wiley. I’m trying to make you see. This is serious business. Keep your mouth shut. I don’t want to hear anything about Hillary Clinton’s uterus or Mitt Romney’s anus or gay rights or the joy of fisting or anything else. No politics. No jokes. No Southern bullcrap. As far as the DHS is concerned, we’re boring dads who go to church on Sunday and thump our Bibles like everybody else. Have I
“What could he possibly say?”
“That he sleeps with his two daddies? That he sometimes walks in on us while we’re having sex because you refuse to lock the door because he gets scared sometimes? That his dad likes to walk around the house naked?”
“Oh, please!”
“Just tell him to keep his mouth shut.”
“We haven’t done anything wrong!”
“They can twist things, Wiley. That’s the point. You might find yourself standing in front of a judge trying to explain why your son knows you have a tattoo on your ass. Trust me. You do not want to go down that road.”
“I don’t have a tattoo on my ass!”
“We have to head this off at the pass so they have nothing to report.”
“Well, there is nothing to report, so what’s the big deal?”
“Have you considered what being reported to the DHS might do to our chances of one day adopting children?”
Actually, I had not.
“I love you, Wiley,” he said earnestly. “And I love Noah like he’s my own child. He is my child now, and I don’t care what happens between us. I’m always going to be his papa whether you like it or not. And I don’t care if we don’t adopt other children, because you guys are my family and you’re plenty. But I know you want to adopt, so I’m trying to protect what’s mine, and I’m not going to let some people from the government walk into our home and screw us over. ’Cause they will. Give them an inch and they’ll be shoving a telephone pole up our asses. So talk to him and tell him to keep his mouth shut so he doesn’t get his two daddies in trouble. If they don’t like what they see, they can remove him from his home. They could take him away today and put him in foster care until they complete their investigation and take it before a judge. It could be months before you get him back.”
“They’re not going to take my son away from me!”
“You wouldn’t be the first parent who believed that.”
“They have to have evidence.”
“That’s right. And if there’s a ‘preponderance’ of evidence in their favor—in some states, it’s fifty-one percent of the total consideration—they can immediately take him into custody.”
“What possible evidence could they have?”
“Don’t be naïve, Wiley. Honest to God! You wrote a book, and you went out there and told the whole goddamn world that you were smoking meth when Noah was conceived and that you might be the reason he’s handicapped. You also told them you were gay. And not just gay, but Super Gay, as in having sex in public places, or skinny-dipping with your boyfriends, or having anal sex at the swimming hole, or having sex in the bathroom at the mall. What do you think a Baptist judge down here in Jesusland is going to make of all that? You told them about taking Noah to gay rights marches and protests. You told them about family dinners and how you sit there and talk about your penis. You told them how his mother rejected him and ran off with her meth-head boyfriend like a piece of white trash! Jesus! Get a clue!”
“You were the one who told me I needed to write my story!”
“I didn’t know you were going to put all that crap in there. Then you told the whole world that your boyfriend was a drug addict! I’m lucky I haven’t been fired because of your goddamned book!”
I fell into an embarrassed silence, wishing to God I had never written Crack Baby and knowing I would never again write about myself or my family that way.
Jackson issued a heavy, exasperated sigh.
“Point is,” he said, “I’m trying to help you here, Wiley. I’m trying to make you see. This is serious business. Keep your mouth shut. I don’t want to hear anything about Hillary Clinton’s uterus or Mitt Romney’s anus or gay rights or the joy of fisting or anything else. No politics. No jokes. No Southern bullcrap. As far as the DHS is concerned, we’re boring dads who go to church on Sunday and thump our Bibles like everybody else. Have I
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