In 1990s San Francisco, my mothers joined a small but mighty group of queer women making history by embarking on the journey of motherhood. Nearly three decades later, I recognize that my upbringing was a gift, maybe even my superpower.

From the moment I became conscious of myself and the world around me, I was aware that I had two loving mothers and a cool older brother. Nothing about my conception was ever a mystery to me — my parents were lesbians, and my biological father was a sperm donor who I would never have a relationship with. One of my moms gave birth to me, and the other gave birth to my brother. When I turned 18 years old, I would learn more details — the sperm donor who made my birth possible also donated to other queer moms, leading to the birth of a dozen of my half siblings, who share my DNA and a similar backstory. But that is a tale for another day.

When my brother and I were very young, my moms explained that our nontraditional family was not at all a source of shame, but rather of absolute pride. We learned that diversity is inherent to our humanity, and that our differences give us strength. At the same time, we also became aware of the hatred and intolerance directed toward our community.

In 2004, San Francisco Mayor Gavin Newsom facilitated the first same-sex marriages in the United States. My moms — who had already been together for over 20 years at the time — were one of the lucky couples to tie the knot. Shortly after, same-sex marriage was once again banned, and my parents’ marriage license was voided by the California Supreme Court. In 2008, California Proposition 8 passed, a constitutional amendment intended to ban same-sex marriage for good. I distinctly remember being 12 years old, feeling so positive about the outcome of the upcoming vote while marching against it — only to be crushed when it passed days later.

Through it all, I had a wonderful and privileged childhood. On the surface, I was just another White, heterosexual, cisgender male from an affluent Bay Area community. I mostly avoided direct discrimination and was never forced to question my identity or change how I presented in order to feel safe. But on the inside, I felt different.

I was part of the queer community and wasn’t afraid to say it. For me and my older brother, “Queer Spawn” was our rallying cry, and the school grounds were our battlefield. When homophobic epithets were hurled toward vulnerable youth in our community, we often stood up to the bullies, even if we weren’t the ones taking the brunt of it.

From middle school to high school, at college and into my adult life, I have always proudly identified as a feminist and a member of the queer community in my own way — an “inside man” existing in a world still largely controlled by straight, White males. My privilege allows me to blend into straight, male-dominated spaces and vocally advocate for LGBTQ+ and gender rights, while coming from a uniquely informed background. My unusual upbringing has given me a purpose, my very own superpower with which to view and impact the world.

As I look back on my journey, I am filled with gratitude for the trailblazing women who showed me the way. I thank my moms, and all the queer moms out there, for taking on the patriarchy with remarkable courage and influencing lasting change within mainstream society. Their legacy will live on in many ways, including in the hearts of their children. I thank me for giving us our very own superpowers.

Sam Waterstone grew up in Marin. He is a local writer and nonprofit communications professional. This essay is an abridged version of his foreword for “Boyhood Reimagined: Stories of Queer Moms Raising Sons,” a newly released anthology highlighting the experiences and ambitions of lesbian mothers — including his own mom, Robin Lowey.