8 Lessons I Learned From My Alternative Parents

People have a hard time wrapping their head around my parents' relationship, because it’s pretty unusual to meet divorced people who are also best friends. And by best friends, I mean really best friends. My mom, my dad, and my dad’s girlfriend went to Napa, CA, together for my father’s 50th birthday. My dad took my mom and I to Hawaii for her 40th birthday. When my dad broke off an engagement, he moved in with my mom and I for a few months. For me, this was normal and fairly logical — just because they didn’t want to be married anymore, didn’t mean there was any reason to not be in each other’s lives. Early on, my parents made it clear that there is no “normal” when it comes to love — that there is no golden standard for relationships and that you don’t need to be in love to love each other.

My parents own approximately . . . well, nothing. They don’t own property, they rent their vehicles, and we recently discovered that 90 percent of my mother’s furniture was gifted to her. We didn’t have a childhood home, with my height measurements etched into the doorframe and a golden retriever lounging on the porch — but we had experiences. I have traveled across Europe, attended more Broadway shows than I can count, and eaten at The French Laundry. We’ve always been a family of few possessions and fewer complaints, because the trips, adventures, and meals we’ve experienced together have taught us more about ourselves, our relationships with each other, and the world around us.

I have never not loved school. I mean, I was the kid that wrote extra (non-assigned) book reports for fun. And though some of this can be attributed to my own Type A nature, most of it can be credited to my parents and their outlook on school — that it’s both a privilege and genuinely a pleasure. My mom, a professor herself, used to bring me to the coffee shop to “work” with her on weekend mornings: while she worked on her dissertation, I would "study" picture books. Later, they’d start taking me on college visits before I even hit high school, showing me what was in store for my future. They challenged me with work games, didn’t scold me for reading under the table during dinner, and brought me out into the world to supplement my classroom lessons with hands-on learning. It wasn’t that they put pressure on me to succeed — I often took care of that for the three of us — but that they simply showed me that school was not only inevitable but enjoyable.

When I was in first grade, my favorite song was “Sour Girl” by the Stone Temple Pilots. Anything by Oasis was a close second. And while I still enjoyed me some Britney Spears (what would life be without embarrassing home videos of dancing to “. . . Baby One More Time”?), one of my most memorable childhood heartbreaks was when Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan died. Some of my fondest childhood memories are of waking up to a household filled with Simon & Garfunkel or making up my own words to songs by the Violet Femmes. My mom used to play bass in a punk rock band in London, so it may seem obvious that my childhood was filled with alternative music — but that being said, I loved that I felt like she gifted me with this sense of music appreciation. Plus, her vintage band tees are, like, way cooler than Forever 21’s copycats.

For many of my birthdays throughout my childhood, my father gave me pieces of art. From paintings by local artists to photographs from across the world, my art collection grew as I got older — as did my affinity for various mediums. Even though I may not have always understood the art (or why my earliest memories are sitting in a stroller, being wheeled through art exhibits), I’ve come around. Today, I think it’s pretty great that I’ve owned art for the vast majority of my 24 years, had visited most major museums by age 10, and as a teenager could chat about everything from Giacomelli photography to Chihuly glass sculpture.

As a white, blond-haired young girl, I didn’t have much trouble finding dolls, celebrities, or models that looked like me. But just as it’s important for children from other cultures to be shown toys and influencers that reflect their reality, it’s also important for those of us that are privileged to learn an appreciation of other cultures — especially from an early age. Growing up, two of my favorite stories were The Rough-Face Girl by Rafe Martin and Mufaro’s Beautiful Daughters by John Steptoe — each a “Cinderella story” that offered a kid-friendly look at Native American and African cultures and traditions, respectively. This wasn’t unusual in my childhood home — and these stories were not presented as “alternatives” or in a way that felt either forced or patronizing. Instead, these types of books sat alongside Disney picture books, just as my favorite American Girl Doll, African-American Addy, sat alongside lighter-skinned dolls.

As anyone that knows me can now attest to, I’m not exactly the type of person that shies away from speaking my mind — sometimes to a fault. But at the heart of this tell-all quality is an important lesson that my parents taught me early on: my thoughts matter. My parents never spoke to me in baby talk, never ignored or dismissed my questions, and never invalidated the way I felt. Instead, they encouraged me to speak my mind, to pursue my curiosity, and to contribute not only to the smaller conversations but to the world. As a society, we often teach kids that they are less than, simply because they haven’t had the time and experience to mature into adults — but instead we should be encouraging younger generations. By investing in the thoughts, hopes, dreams, and opinions of our kids, we’re building a stronger future.

Above all, my parents taught me that it’s OK — and dare I say cool — to be weird. As an awkward middle schooler (and sometimes an ornery child . . . or adult), I often would complain that my parents were "not like other parents.” They stood out — for being loud and liberal in a conservative community, for preferring art galleries to rounds of golf, for not knowing a damn thing about sports. And their answer was always the same: "Would you really want to be like everybody else?" And they're right. I wouldn’t.