I had been rehearsing speeches that came out to my parents for over a year. “Hey, mom and dad, I think I’m gay.” Or, “I think I’m a lesbian.” Or, “I’m sure I’m odd.”
However, these approaches are too provocative and are arguing invitations. I had to be more direct.My fantasy was listening to them say. “Of course, honey, we were waiting for you to tell us. We know you are gay because you were a toddler. “I thought my father was on my side.
I flew from New York to Wisconsin over a long weekend to reveal my secrets. I was 25 years old and had been hiding for six years. It’s time to regain my crown of sovereignty. Time to stop lying.
My parents proudly smiled and wore polyester and welcomed me with a hug and kiss at Madison Airport. We drove to a nearby restaurant, discussed their retirement plans, shared news about my sister and their children, and prepared me for a conversation about the men of my life.
My dad was a butler butler of the Parish of Milwaukee. My parents were always dedicated to Catholics, but after the suicide of my siblings they became charismatic Catholics who spoke in tongues. I thought it was good for them. They looked happy, but I never bought it for the ceremonial façade of the church.
I waited until dinner was over and after biting my cherry cheesecake several times I squealed, “I need to say something to you.”
“What is that honey?” asked Dad.
“That’s why I’m gay.”
The silence filled the restaurant. When I spoke the word gay it seemed like every dish and chatter from the server stopped in a queue. My parents looked at each other and then avoided their gaze. I tried to stuff another bite of my dessert out of anxiety, but the taste of shame made the cheese worse. I have committed a physical sin… I will not be forgiven. Dad pushed his rice pudding away and gestured for a check. Mom looked down at her jelly and said, “How can we do this? I wanted to sink into a chair, slid under the table, pass through the earth, go back to New York and return to Diane’s arms.
“Well, I’ve been through a lot, but I can’t keep this a secret anymore.”
Dad grabbed his jacket and said, “Let’s go, we’ll talk about this at home.” When I was the most vulnerable, he still prioritized his ego. He didn’t want to know what I had said, none of the strangers around us. He worried what they thought of us as family. He as a father.
At that moment, I was sure that the expressions on their faces had lost their love forever.
I spent the rest of the weekend silently. Avoid all topics related to relationships. My visit to my sister was redemption when she informed me that she knew it and was OK. So I left Wisconsin and thought that my relationship with the most important people in my life, especially my father, was over.
I was saddened, lonely and confused about New York. Was this worth it? My girlfriend was the president of the Sirens at a Women’s Motorcycle Club in New York. We were a prominent couple. Usually black leather jackets and chaps, spiked hair, combat boots – Kinky, Dark, 80s style – join drug nights at Copacabana, lead the Pride Parade with Sirens, and perform at performance art venues in downtown.
My drug use escalated. Take a 60-mile street through Manhattan’s 9th Avenue and catch all the lights high in coke. It’s a fatal gamble. I wasn’t worried if I lived or died. I was already dead by my parents.
A year after I came out to them, they came to visit New York and were with my aunt who lived nearby. They reluctantly agreed to meet Diane. It was a disaster. They were sincere, but it was cold. She looked harsh, I gave them it – but so did I.
I drove them to LaGuardia, went home with their plane and stayed at the gate until the plane departed. “I have not been able to lift anything with my right hand over the past year,” he complained of wrist pain from an unhealing old dance injury.
They asked, “Why don’t you let it pray?”
I thought, Are you kidding me? And he said, “Oh, you don’t need to do that. ” But they pushed against me, and at the end I said, “Oh, I get it, I guess.”
I found a quiet corner near the gate. I felt embarrassed – I was too cool in the leather jacket, but that was my parents. I couldn’t refuse. I could never do it. Maybe this was the way they said they still loved me, or maybe they were really praying for me to be straight.
As I spoke in a language I had never heard of, they held my hands over my wristband. I repeated it silently while they said it. I think I believe because I scanned the airport for anyone I might know. The words I heard from them sounded like Scandinavian, French, Portuguese mishmash. It lasted about five minutes. I thanked him, and saw them fly into the sky, wondering if I had seen them again.
Two days later I tested my wrist pain. Nothing changed. It was still there. A day later I grabbed my bag off the floor, lifted it up to my shoulder, and realized that the pain had disappeared. I froze in awe. Other than my roommate who said, “Hmm, that’s wild,” he told anyone about the airport scene. It sparked something in the world, life, spirits, and God.
I continued to paralyze in the pot and fueled it with cola. I eventually parted ways with Diane and started going to AA meetings. Alcohol wasn’t about me, really, it was something I used to cure cotton trout and soften the effects of cola, but it was all a way to check out. A year of drinking led me to graduate school. That’s where I pursued a career as a therapist. My experience will benefit others.
The voice awakened me, saying, “Dad is going to die,” and I was taking a nap during my lunch break. I jumped up from the couch, looked at the pillow, and thought.What was it? Did I get hooked? Holy shit, I’m listening now. no way. “I paced my apartment and called a friend. Should I call him? No, Dad is fine. It was just a bad dream. What would I say if I called him? Have you heard someone say you’re going to die?
The next day, my oldest sister called Sobbing. She said her father had died that afternoon while she was taking a nap on the couch. I have tried to tell her about my illusion the day before, but she couldn’t take it in. We cried together. The next day I flew to Wisconsin.
It was mid-January that we celebrated his life. I was with my mother and slept with her in the next room, not her dad’s water bed. I don’t know why they slept in separate rooms, but I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to know.
The night before he woke up I woke up to the cool breeze passing through the room. The heat was shaking. Mom was asleep, and no windows or doors were open. I sat down and thought, Dad, is that? He was sure he came to visit to remind us of our connection. He was only 68 years old, mostly healthy, a little overweight, and had an afternoon nap just like he did the day before.
200 butlers attended funerals from the Parish of Milwaukee. When I saw the ritual flow of the robes entering the church, I felt a mixture of adoration and doubt about this religion. A small Irish priest came to me after the funeral and said, “I know you’re sad. It’s hard to say goodbye, but I think I can do more for you now than when he was alive.”
I went back to New York and returned to my life without my father. That spring we had several classes of alternative professors. The relief instructor who passed through the door to my classroom was the woman I was married and had been with for 32 years. I think Dad was behind our meeting. He accepted me after death about who I was.
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