From booking flights and hotel rooms to coordinating restaurant and show reservations, my mom and I plan every detail of our family’s annual Las Vegas vacation. My dad mostly goes along for the ride, happily showing up to a perfectly planned trip. 

On our last two trips, he had one very important request. He didn’t care what we did in Vegas, as long as we went to a drag show. 

Most recently, he specifically wanted to return to Hamburger Mary’s, the drag brunch we’d taken him to the year prior, because RuPaul’s Drag Race Live had disappointed him the last time. So, at my dad’s request, we went back, and he laughed—a lot. At one point, I texted my boyfriend from the table, “The drag queen touched my dad’s chest lol,” as my dad passed dollar bills to the queens. 

My dad is a stereotypically masculine man in his mid-60s from a conservative town on California’s Central Coast. In a year when six states have laws that explicitly or potentially restrict drag performances, the only thing he asked for on vacation was to see another one. 

I didn’t know what my adult relationship with my parents would look like after I came out, but attending drag shows together was nowhere on my bingo card. 

I came out to my parents as a high school senior, about 15 years ago, in a town where 51% of people voted for Trump in 2024. In the years since, they’ve told me they support me more times than I can count, but more importantly, they’ve also shown me that they do, over and over, in ways I didn’t always notice at the time. 

The older I get, the more I understand that true LGBTQ+ allyship lives in what my parents do, not just what they say. 

Nearly a decade ago, my parents invited my then-boyfriend and me to join them at Disneyland for their anniversary. I was touched that they had chosen to spend their anniversary with us, but I was also incredibly nervous, since it was the first time my boyfriend would meet my dad. 

And that wasn’t all. My parents booked one hotel room for the four of us, with a bed for them and a bunk bed for us, as if my boyfriend was just another member of the family. 

We all posed together in front of the giant Christmas tree on Main Street, and my mom said that if we needed a Christmas gift idea, we could print and frame the photos of our day in the Magic Kingdom. We did, and she displayed the collage proudly in their living room for many years. 

Around that time, my mom started introducing us as “the boys.” My dad did too, though with family friends, he’d often call us “the girls.” He said it lovingly, and we both knew it. 

Their support also shows up every time I publish something personal. 

In September, I shared an essay I’d written for Queerty about the stereotypes gay men get asked about, and my mom responded, “I love this. I’m proud of you.” My dad wrote, “Good and informative article. Keep being you.” 

Earlier this month, I sent them my latest essay, published in LGBTQ Nation, about why I take my rawest stories to queer publications. My mom wrote, “Amazing article. So proud of you!” My dad simply said, “Awesome.” 

Every time, without fail, they show up and celebrate with me. 

Their support doesn’t stop with me. My parents also cheer for Iván. 

The four of us have a group text chain, and on June 1, my mom texted, “Happy pride month!” In July, I let them know Iván was giving several presentations at work in both English and Spanish and asked them to send good vibes. 

“You got this!” my mom replied. 

“Good luck,” my dad wrote. 

That afternoon, my dad checked in again and texted, “How did your presentations go. Iván?” When Iván said they went great, my dad replied that he sounded like a natural and might have found his true calling. 

When Iván was offered a new job in HR, my mom replied, “We’re proud of him.” When he went home sick from work, my dad wrote that he hoped Iván felt better soon, and my mom added, “Poor baby. Working too much.” 

Reading those texts, I realized my parents had folded Iván into the family without ever announcing it. 

Shortly after we started dating, I flew to Mexico to spend time with Iván’s family and explore his country. 

From the moment I landed, every one of Iván’s family members hugged me and treated me like family. His cousin even picked me up from the airport well after midnight. 

When we arrived at his mom’s house in Querétaro, luggage in tow, she opened the door and I said, “Hola, me llamo Kyle,” in my broken Spanish. 

She laughed hysterically, smiled, and pulled me into a giant hug. She told me, in Spanish, that of course she knew my name and who I was, and that she was so happy to finally meet me. 

She didn’t blink at the two of us sharing Iván’s bed that night. Neither did his cousin and her husband, who gave us their young daughter’s bed when we stayed with them. 

My family and Iván’s family say they support us, but then they also prove it. They ask to go the drag brunch. They book the single room. They frame the photo collage. They ask how his presentations went. They open the door and pull us in. 

Saying you’re an ally takes only a second, but allyship isn’t a word or a one-time action. It’s what you do, day in and day out, when nobody is asking you to prove anything.