"That's what I ate, slept and breathed, and that's what kept me alive. Rehearsal and theater and acting and writing poetry, and I look back on all that now, I'm thankful that I didn't give up because I have so much to offer."
I learned that being gay is an inborn trait no different than height and hair color. After all, if it weren't, don't you think centuries of fervent efforts to rid humanity of it would have shown at least some modicum of success? Yet here we are.
"Some parents get sad and angry when their kids are gay. They have a really hard time with it." "Yeah," he said, "but why is it hard?" I struggled. "Not all mommies love their babies the way I love you."
We all know how this script is supposed to go: Gay kid gets teased and bullied. Gay kid feels demeaned and ashamed. Gay kid maybe gets beaten up. Gay kid runs off to lick his wounds and feel horrible about himself. Gay kid feels alone. But not this time. This time the gay kid, my gay kid, fought back. And the bully ran away.
Sure, by the numbers, assuming people are straight is a safe bet. Most people are. But assumptions are dangerous. This particular assumption implies to my son that there is something wrong him for being other than straight. And there's not. He should be exactly who he is.
My son needs to see kisses like this one, kisses of celebration between two men in love. There are too few of them in front of his eyes, and he needs to be able to see more. He needs to be able to see that his future will one day include kisses between him and a boy he likes, and one day a boy he loves.
Sometimes I did try wearing my mom's skirts or dresses, but getting them off quickly when I heard the car pull into the driveway proved less than advantageous.
Once I knew everything about my children from their sleep habits to their favorite foods. Now I stand on the periphery watching them change and grapple with adulthood.