When I came out to my mother, she tore up my birth certificate and sent it to me.
I sat in my therapist’s office, clutching the shard, and muttered, “I can’t believe my mom is so passive-aggressive.” My therapist stopped, looked at me, and said, “You know what? Would this rather fall into the category of “aggressive-aggressive”? ”
I was completely new to therapy and obviously new to the concept of passive-aggressiveness.
When I made the decision to come out to my mother, friends wondered if I had underestimated her born-again Christian zeal. But I knew she diligently wore cute QVC outfits and perfect makeup for church every Sunday morning. And every Sunday night. Then Wednesday night (Bible study) and Thursday night (choir practice). She wore a lot of costumes from QVC and had a lot of love for Jesus. Moreover, he was strictly obedient to the moral binaries he believed his faith required: sinful and not sinful, bad and good, heaven and hell.
Even before I came out, our relationship wasn’t simple. I was born after a failed tubal ligation. The father was about the same number, some of whom were the last of five children, described by his grandmother as “a real first-rate stinker.” My mother had been raising children for nearly 40 years and needed easy-going, cheerful children, but instead she had me, a sensitive tomboy who insisted on calling her “Kelly Sam” instead of “Kelly Sue.” He found it for me.
My mother is also a person full of contradictions. She chose Husband of the Week over her kids many times, but for Christmas she made us seven different types of cookies, including fudge she made from scratch.
Like many women of her generation, my mother didn’t seem to benefit much from feminism because she had a bad husband and her options were limited. “We didn’t call it ‘me too,'” she told me with a shrug, “we just called it life.”
What did she think she was going to do? Paint your face rainbow colors, march with your PFLAG parents, and hand out free hugs at Pride?
But by my late twenties, I finally found allies in Philadelphia’s queer community, found love with my first serious girlfriend, and found purpose in my nursing career. I tried not to outright lie to my mother, but the invisible hand left a gaping hole in the conversation that could have conveyed more of my experiences of attachment, belonging, and meaning. It felt like it was separating us.
I was hoping that my revelation would bring us closer together.
The benefits of following Jesus were immediately apparent to my mother. She believed that the prayers of church leaders saved her from evil spirits, including a habit of smoking more than a pack of cigarettes a day. I left the church many years ago with just a little bit of guilt, but no regrets. Although my own faith journey took a different path, there was no doubt that her faith journey had given her something valuable.
Still, as I clutched that little piece of paper, I couldn’t help but think of her multicolored sparkly WWJD brooches. Each matched a variety of QVC ensembles. What would Jesus do if one of his disciples came to him? Would he have stopped feeding the 5,000, immediately wiped his hands on his robe to remove fish scales and crumbs of bread, and boldly torn apart the piece of papyrus that recorded his connection to his disciples? It was a little hard to imagine.
It was also difficult to imagine what my mother was trying to accomplish with that almost symbolic gesture. Destroying government-certified evidence of our relationship (even a notarized copy) does not mean someone is no longer your descendant. I felt a huge rejection, but I was also a little skeptical. If she was going to disown me, I would ask for additional documents.
Her response was meant to convey her feelings (or perhaps her beliefs) about homosexuals, but dramatically tearing up her birth certificate was exactly what I imagined a drag queen joining on stage. It was an over-the-top spectacle.
At the county office, I handed in my scrap and got a replacement. The clerk looked at me, handed me an expedited form with no additional charge, and said, Well, from people who look like you. ”
Sigh. My mother’s idea wasn’t as unique as she thought.
After that surprising initial reaction, neither of us mentioned coming out or exchanging birth certificate confetti. Until now.
Instead, we just kept talking. We had a quick phone call, a very short holiday visit, and a polite conversation. She never asked about my dating life – I guess she feared admitting it would be an admission of guilt – but she never asked about my pets or my health insurance deductible. I asked. And QVC once sent me a cat-shaped watch. The alarm sound escalated to “meow”.
Although we continued such a cautious relationship for six years, I came to believe that my true relationship with my mother was just a casualty of my journey to becoming myself.
Then my partner Heather, 38, passed away after a long battle with ovarian cancer. My mom may not have fully understood the depth of my grief, but she provided me with logistical support, including gift cards for food deliveries and gift cards for groceries.
Later that same year, my mother’s husband, then a retired Army colonel whom she only called “Colonel,” became terminally ill. I visited to help him get into hospice and prepared to return the week after he passed away.
“If you really want to come, let me buy you a ticket with miles,” she texted. “But please promise me you won’t come because you feel obligated.”
My mother had a loving church community around her. All of my siblings were cheerful housemaids from the Midwest who grew up in large families and were good at taking turns. There was no sense of obligation at all.
“I know you’re all campaigning for a place in the Midwestern conflict avoider hall of fame, but do you really think this is a good idea?”
My therapist was more direct. “So what’s your plan?”
There was no plan. And actually, I wasn’t convinced this was a good idea. But my mother opened the door and I walked through.
After the initial chaos of post-mortem procedures and funeral planning, my mother’s home became heavy and quiet. Every morning, I would sit on my mom’s bed and watch her put on what she called “face application.” I wanted to reassure her that everything was okay and that things would get better soon. But I knew that wasn’t true.
A few weeks after Heather passed away, I thought about my friend Stacey, who was sitting next to me on the purple leopard print couch. She rarely broke her silence unless I spoke first, but occasionally she would quietly make a suggestion. Did you want to take a shower? Or just change your socks? Would eating something other than spray cheese straight from the can make you feel a little less nauseous?
So for 10 days, I sat next to my mom on a plush leather sofa, mostly silent. we didn’t talk much. There was no need for that.
When I was about to go home, she hugged me so tightly that I thought her eyes were going to pop out.
“I’m so grateful you knew what to do. I’m sorry you lost your wife.”
Until then, she had only referred to Heather as my “friend.”
I wouldn’t have chosen the word “wife,” but I realized how much damage it caused her.
I made my mom a guide to stupid grief out of a black-and-white speckled composition notebook. Inside are cartoons, pictures of cute animals, and “Affirmations don’t have to be ambitious to be helpful. “Just today I’ll get out of bed” is a great start. ”
Source: BuzzFeed – LGBTQ – www.buzzfeed.com
