(written October 14th, 2008)
I was staffed with a five year-old boy at work the other day (I shall simply refer to him as "D"). Little D is hospitalized for "unmanageable" and "unsafe" behaviors. Some of these behaviors include aggression ---to himself and others. He also suffers from perseverations---he becomes fixated on electronic devices: fire alarms, light fixtures, sprinkler heads, and electrical outlets. On this particular day, D is obsessed with his nightlight. Nightlights on the psychiatric unit are secured behind a sheet of Plexiglas, which is secured to the wall with a metal frame and four industrial screws. D is trying to pry the metal frame off. He has successfully popped out two screws, and is now attempting to rip the remaining metal.
D wedges his tiny fingers between the frame and the Plexiglas, giving a strong tug. The frame snaps back towards the wall, pinching D's hand. He howls in pain and yells at the light fixture, "you bitch!" D attempts again, and again the metal frame snaps back, hitting his fingers. He cries, and then tries a third time. Snap! Over and over, D tries to remove the cover, and he continually fails. His fingers begin to bruise.
D is unique is his perseverance. The repeat injuries…they should cue the kid to give up. In fact, researchers have examined this in great detail (they term the learning process "operant conditioning"). In one study, a man named Martin Seligman subjected dogs to electrical shocks. Sometimes the dogs were provided with a "trap door," a way to escape the aversive shocks. Other pooches weren't so lucky---they were given shocks regardless of their behavior. In a later phase of the experiment, all the dogs were given a possible escape route. Those who had learned to escape did so. But the poor dogs in the second group, they just lay down and accepted the shocks. Martin termed this phenomenon "learned helplessness." He ascertained that it applied to humans as well, claiming it is the cause of many "motivation problems." Students fail in school, and never believe they can succeed. The heartbroken can use "learned helplessness" to explain their frequent, awkward social encounters. We are---supposedly---incapable of improving.
I continue to watch D as he steadfastly dismantles his nightlight. Despite the futility of his plight, and his resultant injuries, it is endearing to see. D certainly is not afraid to get hurt; in fact, he seems oblivious to the risks involved. I smile.
With tearstained cheeks, D turns to me and asks, "you bitch, why aren't you helping me?!"
Sunday, November 30, 2008
No Parking
(written September 17th, 2008)
“This is my life story,” I tell Ben. “Listening to Roxette and looking for parking on the hill.” The speakers blare: “…it must have been love, but it’s over now…” “That’s so gay,” he concludes. I continue to traverse the streets of Capitol Hill searching for legal parking spots, frequently deceived by driveways, white loading zones, and yellow ‘thirty-minute’ curbsides. “I should stop at a mini-mart to get cigarettes before I catch my bus,” Ben says. I had been planning on Ben spending the night with me. Thus far, the majority of our sleepovers, if you can call them that, have been at his house. I even prepared by cleaning my often-cluttered apartment and slipping on a skin-tight pair of Diesel boxer-briefs.
“You can stay with me,” I offer. “I think I’m going to go home,” Ben says. I pause for a beat before assertively asking “So, what’s the story?” “I kinda want to sleep in my own bed,” he says. “No, I mean what changed.” I suppose I was not explicit enough. “I dunno,” Ben begins. I have a pretty good idea of what he is going to say. I’ve heard this shit before. So I cut him off: “hey, a parking spot!” I begin to parallel park while Ben explains his “story.” “I feel like we have a lot in common,” he begins. I have definitely heard this shit before. “But we also are in different places and have a lot of different interests.”
There were definite differences. A week prior I had driven to his house after a double-shift at the hospital. Ben sat on his bed, engaged in a Play Station game. He greeted me with a kiss and a pat on the thigh. “I love this game,” he explained. “That guy, the one with the blonde spikes,” he said pointing to a collection of pixels on the screen, “he was my first video game crush.” I nodded, and then lay on the bed. Ben occasionally turned to pat me. “I’ll be at a stopping point soon,” he promised. My eyes were drooping. Video games are not like movies, and they never will be. There is no character development, poor plotting, and (in general) the special effects suck. I have no doubt Ben sensed my boredom; perhaps he even noticed a complete disregard for his favorite pastime. Now, as we walk to find cigarettes, I am being dumped because I do not like Final Fantasy.
“And I don’t want to jump the gun,” he continues. His ramble is plagued with bad-breakup clichés. “We just had a really intense week, and then I worked a whole bunch.” What Ben means by “intense week,” is nightly sleepovers, always at his house. The sleepovers always started with a movie (in a normal courtship, that is code for “let’s make out,” in Ben’s World it means “let’s watch a movie”). Then we’d retire to his room. Ben always left the door ajar, to accommodate his cat Gus-Gus, this despite a sleeping roommate across the hall. The first few nights were innocent enough, with spooning sessions and lots of making-out. It quickly became more “R-rated.” He was into me, and he let it be known. And while I reciprocated, I needed it to be “all about me.” I was rebounding from a crush on a slightly egocentric and overly aloof boy. Ben liked to touch me, and I relished the physical attention.
Then Ben became aloof. He was working more, all shifts he picked up “to get ahead on bills.” I was perplexed by the change in our dynamic, but decided to respond by giving him the space he seemed to need. “I hate the game,” I lamented to my girlfriends. “You have to play the game sometimes, you have to keep backing off” they reminded me. And I did. I refused to call him. I delayed all replies to the text messages he sent. He slowly seemed to reengage. Perhaps my ignoring was paying off. Or maybe it was The Beach Boys. Two weeks prior, I had received two free tickets and promptly invited Ben to be my date.
We reconnected on the morning of The Beach Boy’s concert. Ben initiated the contact. “What’s the plan?” he asked. I had planned to pick him up. I was going to wear my Diesel Boxers. Ben was to spend the night at my house. Things never go as you plan…
As we walk to find cigarettes, Ben continues to explain himself. “Maybe I just need time, I don’t want to say this, but maybe I’ll feel differently in a few days.” I wonder: would it be improper to bum a cigarette off of Ben? I had a spare one in my car’s glove box---it was a present from my friend Brent. I was saving it for an emergency such as running out of gas in Death Valley or a fender bender en route to work. Getting dumped by the boy that was supposed to be a fun distraction---this may qualify. “I think I should move my car,” I say, “I think I saw a construction sign where we parked.” “If you’re worried about it, you probably should,” Ben advised.
I kept mum while Ben purchased a pack of Camel Lights. “Are you going to Broadway?,” I ask. He nods. “You seem really annoyed. Are you okay with this?” he asks. He probably wanted me to validate his feelings, thanking him for his honesty. “Well, what’s there to say?” I ask rhetorically. “I mean, it is what it is. But I’m not going to sit around waiting for anyone to decide whether or not they’re into me. It’s not my style and I shouldn’t have to.” Ben nods and says, “yeah.” I continue, “I guess I just don’t get what changed. You seemed really into it.” I suppose I was looking for validation. There was nothing Ben could have said. I was well aware of our failings, our many moments of disconnect. “I just need time to work though my issues,” Ben surmises.
“That’s where I catch my bus,” Ben says, gesturing with a cigarette in his hand. “I’m going to go move my car,” I say. I need the cigarette, the drive, and a fix of eighties pop. “I want to keep hanging out,” Ben says. I nod, not in agreement, but in acknowledgement of his supposed remorse. We share a brief hug before parting. I again traverse the streets of the hill, looking for parking.
“This is my life story,” I tell Ben. “Listening to Roxette and looking for parking on the hill.” The speakers blare: “…it must have been love, but it’s over now…” “That’s so gay,” he concludes. I continue to traverse the streets of Capitol Hill searching for legal parking spots, frequently deceived by driveways, white loading zones, and yellow ‘thirty-minute’ curbsides. “I should stop at a mini-mart to get cigarettes before I catch my bus,” Ben says. I had been planning on Ben spending the night with me. Thus far, the majority of our sleepovers, if you can call them that, have been at his house. I even prepared by cleaning my often-cluttered apartment and slipping on a skin-tight pair of Diesel boxer-briefs.
“You can stay with me,” I offer. “I think I’m going to go home,” Ben says. I pause for a beat before assertively asking “So, what’s the story?” “I kinda want to sleep in my own bed,” he says. “No, I mean what changed.” I suppose I was not explicit enough. “I dunno,” Ben begins. I have a pretty good idea of what he is going to say. I’ve heard this shit before. So I cut him off: “hey, a parking spot!” I begin to parallel park while Ben explains his “story.” “I feel like we have a lot in common,” he begins. I have definitely heard this shit before. “But we also are in different places and have a lot of different interests.”
There were definite differences. A week prior I had driven to his house after a double-shift at the hospital. Ben sat on his bed, engaged in a Play Station game. He greeted me with a kiss and a pat on the thigh. “I love this game,” he explained. “That guy, the one with the blonde spikes,” he said pointing to a collection of pixels on the screen, “he was my first video game crush.” I nodded, and then lay on the bed. Ben occasionally turned to pat me. “I’ll be at a stopping point soon,” he promised. My eyes were drooping. Video games are not like movies, and they never will be. There is no character development, poor plotting, and (in general) the special effects suck. I have no doubt Ben sensed my boredom; perhaps he even noticed a complete disregard for his favorite pastime. Now, as we walk to find cigarettes, I am being dumped because I do not like Final Fantasy.
“And I don’t want to jump the gun,” he continues. His ramble is plagued with bad-breakup clichés. “We just had a really intense week, and then I worked a whole bunch.” What Ben means by “intense week,” is nightly sleepovers, always at his house. The sleepovers always started with a movie (in a normal courtship, that is code for “let’s make out,” in Ben’s World it means “let’s watch a movie”). Then we’d retire to his room. Ben always left the door ajar, to accommodate his cat Gus-Gus, this despite a sleeping roommate across the hall. The first few nights were innocent enough, with spooning sessions and lots of making-out. It quickly became more “R-rated.” He was into me, and he let it be known. And while I reciprocated, I needed it to be “all about me.” I was rebounding from a crush on a slightly egocentric and overly aloof boy. Ben liked to touch me, and I relished the physical attention.
Then Ben became aloof. He was working more, all shifts he picked up “to get ahead on bills.” I was perplexed by the change in our dynamic, but decided to respond by giving him the space he seemed to need. “I hate the game,” I lamented to my girlfriends. “You have to play the game sometimes, you have to keep backing off” they reminded me. And I did. I refused to call him. I delayed all replies to the text messages he sent. He slowly seemed to reengage. Perhaps my ignoring was paying off. Or maybe it was The Beach Boys. Two weeks prior, I had received two free tickets and promptly invited Ben to be my date.
We reconnected on the morning of The Beach Boy’s concert. Ben initiated the contact. “What’s the plan?” he asked. I had planned to pick him up. I was going to wear my Diesel Boxers. Ben was to spend the night at my house. Things never go as you plan…
As we walk to find cigarettes, Ben continues to explain himself. “Maybe I just need time, I don’t want to say this, but maybe I’ll feel differently in a few days.” I wonder: would it be improper to bum a cigarette off of Ben? I had a spare one in my car’s glove box---it was a present from my friend Brent. I was saving it for an emergency such as running out of gas in Death Valley or a fender bender en route to work. Getting dumped by the boy that was supposed to be a fun distraction---this may qualify. “I think I should move my car,” I say, “I think I saw a construction sign where we parked.” “If you’re worried about it, you probably should,” Ben advised.
I kept mum while Ben purchased a pack of Camel Lights. “Are you going to Broadway?,” I ask. He nods. “You seem really annoyed. Are you okay with this?” he asks. He probably wanted me to validate his feelings, thanking him for his honesty. “Well, what’s there to say?” I ask rhetorically. “I mean, it is what it is. But I’m not going to sit around waiting for anyone to decide whether or not they’re into me. It’s not my style and I shouldn’t have to.” Ben nods and says, “yeah.” I continue, “I guess I just don’t get what changed. You seemed really into it.” I suppose I was looking for validation. There was nothing Ben could have said. I was well aware of our failings, our many moments of disconnect. “I just need time to work though my issues,” Ben surmises.
“That’s where I catch my bus,” Ben says, gesturing with a cigarette in his hand. “I’m going to go move my car,” I say. I need the cigarette, the drive, and a fix of eighties pop. “I want to keep hanging out,” Ben says. I nod, not in agreement, but in acknowledgement of his supposed remorse. We share a brief hug before parting. I again traverse the streets of the hill, looking for parking.
Because I'm Gay
(completed July 13, 2008)
I almost came out four times before actually doing it on Memorial Day of 2001. The first time was when I was only fourteen years old. It was dusk and my father and I were on a fishing excursion. I sat in back of our rickety grey row boat, holding my teal green fishing pole, while my dad explained the differences between Panther Martin and Daredevil brand lures and admired the passing scenery. "Just look at how smooth the water is," he exclaimed. "It's like a sheet of glass!" He was always doing this— commenting on the obvious while failing to notice the angst plastered across my face. The boat traversed back and forth on the small mountain lake before I finally began to talk. "I think," I began… " Sometimes I think, I might be… gay. Maybe." I was hunched into a ball in back of the boat. My dad, never one to react with emotion, just listened. I explained that "sometimes I have thoughts," and so on. Despite his assurance that "if I was gay it was ok," I got scared. I began to look for a loophole, an escape. In my head I went through the list of my failed grammar school dating attempts: Eliza Clarkson, Rebecca Green, Maxine Silverman, and Sarah Hanson. "But I don't think I am, it's just confusing sometimes," I added. My father lacks the emotional intelligence that my mother has blessed me with. Instead, he presents a calm reserve and a rational mind. He approaches all problems as if he is doing a mathematical proof. "I don't think you are either," he began. This was it: my escape-hatch. Whatever words of condolence or encouragement he may have offered were lost on me at the time. "Don't tell mom," I requested. My mother, ashore in our family's cabin, was, in all likelihood, watching us from the balcony with a pair of birding binoculars.
I went further into the closet after my failed attempt to come out. I flipped through Playboy magazines, hoping to feel something—anything—for the centerfolds. I plastered my closet door with photographs of television starlets and cut-outs from People magazine. My parents ignored it, and I was grateful for this. The next time I almost came out was the summer after my freshman year in high school. We were on one of our many family RV trips. My sister Stephanie and I feigned maturity, as we "related" to Alanis Morisette's Jagged Little Pill while simultaneously fighting over the exact middle of the back-seat. While camping one night, my mom and sister opted for the comfort of the RV beds while my dad and I elected to sleep outside. "Just look at all the stars!" my father marveled. "It makes you think, how big the universe is; and how insignificant we are with our so-called 'problems'." It would have been the perfect time to say it again, to come out of that collage-plastered closet. I opened my mouth but said nothing, and soon enough he was asleep.
My sister Steph "came out" the following spring after attending her freshman year of college. She didn't technically come out; she never mustered the courage to say the two words I had failed to. Instead, my mom found a telling poem sticking out from under her mattress, next to a dust-covered copy of What's Happening to My Body Book For Girls. I was the last one in the family to know. For a long time there was discord and tension—my mother and sister fighting constantly—and I had no idea why. Though I did notice that Steph's college friends had gotten a lot less…feminine. Then, "Steph" became "Stef" and her own hair became significantly shorter. "I just don't get what's going on here," my mother would lament. Ignorant to the roots of her anguish, I would defend Stef. One night my mom blurted it out. "You really didn't know!?" she asked. It was more an accusation than a question. I really hadn't. And, it sure complicated things: now I was the second gay kid and my parents' last hope for a straight child. I maintained my straight façade, adding cut-outs of Sarah Michelle Gellar and Gwyneth Paltrow to my closet door. My parents confronted me on the matter twice, once after my mother discovered gay pornography on the family computer. "I hate it when random websites spam you," I told her and continued to deny it.
I expected things to change in college, but for a long time nothing did. I sorted my MP3s into two folders: one with alternative rock hits from Offspring and Fatboy Slim, the other with soft ballads by Sarah McLachlan and Sinead O'Conner. Spring of my freshman year I joined a fraternity, essentially padlocking the closet door shut. All the while, I kept the contact information for our campus Gay–Straight Alliance tucked snugly in a hanging file folder in the back of my desk. I was living two lives. And it was beginning take it's toll. Sophomore year I lived the life of frat boy by going to sorority dances and drinking every weekend. This is what college is supposed to be, isn't it? The time of your life!
Then I met Erin Miner. She was a freshman girl spending a Friday night at a frat party. She saw me as the sophomore guy trying to woo her with questions such as "What's your major?" and "Do you think you'll end up pledging?" Oddly, amid such niceties we happened upon a foundation for friendship. My fraternity brothers all assumed I was dating Erin, and I began to depend on the security these conceptions lent me. The topic of dating had come up between she and I before and I'd always told her "I can't be in a relationship… I'm afraid of the commitment." At the time, it was easier for me to be detached than openly gay. Eventually Erin stopped asking. While we grew closer in many ways, my unspoken secret was pushing us apart.
In 2000, on December 2nd, Erin and I found ourselves in the library of my fraternity. As it was the last place any of my 'brothers' would be on a Friday night, we were assured privacy. I lay on the carpet and stared up at the cycling ceiling fan. My head had finally stopped spinning from the shots of Monarch rum we'd shared a few hours earlier. I was attempting to discuss the distance between us without disclosing my sexual orientation. As I had all through high school, I got scared and my voice trailed off into silence. "Just say it," Erin said as she grabbed my hand. Did she know? How could she? I was quiet for a long time. "Lets go on a walk," I offered, finally. While Erin went to my room to grab her coat, I stood in the fraternity living room. One of my 'brothers' was watching Top Gun on our widescreen TV. "Fuckin' great movie!" he exclaimed. I nodded, enjoying the anthemic music blaring from the speakers. I was on my own mission. There was no turning back now.
Outside it was pouring big, sloppy drops of rain—a sharp contrast to the drizzle that frequently plagues the Pacific Northwest. We walked through the college campus in search of a dry spot to sit down. "We have to talk," I announced. I spent an inordinate amount of time prefacing matters, describing my perceptions of our friendship. I elaborated on how "there has been this barrier keeping us from being closer." She held my hand, watching me from behind fogged glasses. And then I stopped talking for a moment. We were surrounded only by the sounds of traffic and falling rain. "I'm gay," I said. Erin smiled and began to cry. "I know honey! I'm so proud of you," she exclaimed, hugging me.
In the months that followed, I began to come out to my college friends one by one. "Open and honest," as Erin would say. Each time, it got a little easier and I began to preface the issue a little less. Eventually, I would simply blurt out "I'm gay." The responses ranged from shock, to an anticlimactic "ok," I learned that people have an amazing ability to surprise you, if you let them. As the school year progressed, I left my fraternity and moved into a house on campus with a group of practical-strangers. It was a new beginning for me. Now, I just had to tell my family.
I returned home for a couple weeks at the beginning of the summer. I planned to start by talking to Stef—she could give me the sibling support I would need to tell my parents. The conversation ended up taking place over a pile of greasy burgers and Coronas atop the roof of a home-town bar. I began describing my close friendships to the girls I had met at college. My sister was picking French fries off of my plate. She could not have been less interested. Couldn't she see how nervous I was? "But I can't see me dating any of these girls," I finally said. She squinted as she gazed over the rooftop balcony at the mountain view ahead. She took a swig of beer and asked, "Why is that Michael?" "Because I'm gay." She continued to stare off into the distance. "Well, there's a shocker," she stated flatly. Prior to coming out to her, or to any person, my brain would sift through the possible reactions, playing them out like a series of bad film outtakes. With Stef, I envisioned excitement, or perhaps surprise. Maybe she would share my fears of how this revelation would affect our parents. Congratulations guys! You're living the American dream, complete with a picket fence, a golden lab, a station wagon, and two gay kids! Stef eventually returned her gaze to me. "We're both gay," I observed. "Yep," she agreed. "But I think you're gayer than I am."
It seemed fitting to come out to my parents at the dinner table. I was having a mild anxiety attack, complete with rapid breathing, heart palpitations, and racing thoughts. I called Stef, to prepare. "You should take shots," she encouraged. She seemed almost as anxious as I was. "Call me as soon as you tell them," she said. I decided I would divulge my secret without the aide of alcohol. At the time, I thought certain experiences had enough of their own awesome intensity that they needed to be experienced with the clarity of sobriety. For this reason, I never drank at rock concerts. And I did not intend to do so when telling my parents I was a queer. By the time we all sat down for dinner, I'd lost what I was going to say (fortunately, it need not be complicated). I was overtly aware of every uncomfortable silence. My father sat reading an article in the New York Times. My mother's jaw clicked back and forth, a symptom of her TMJ. And I sought distractions where I could. That was the first—and likely last—time I became entranced by the plethora of colors in macaroni salad. I listened to the mixed CD I had put on for the occasion. (One must, of course, have an appropriate soundtrack for momentous announcements such as this one.) I observed the shadows my mother's kitschy folk art cast against her country-themed wall paper. And I chewed the same bite five times over. I was delaying the inevitable. Naturally, my mother picked up on my vacant state and asked, "You okay Mike?" "I'm fine," I lied. My dad flipped to the business section, oblivious. This continued for about five songs, perhaps twenty minutes had elapsed. The music had become my only gauge for the passage of time. "What's wrong?" my mother queried. I figured this was my chance. I didn't answer her right away, I just kept chewing. Then I asked, "Can we talk?" I had the attention of both my parents. I momentarily escaped into Bono's lyrics as the table fell into silence. Then I just said it. "I'm gay." Silence again. My moms eyes glazed—as I had expected. She tends to be very emotive, and more so after a glass of White Zinfandel. "So your gay, so what?" my dad stated blankly. "Do you have a boyfriend?" he asked. While my dad remained quizzical, my mom remained tearful. "I'm sorry Mike, its not you," she said.
After dinner, I offered to wash the dishes, still looking for a diversion. I spoke briefly with my dad while we cleaned. "Go talk to your mother," he requested. My mom was sitting in an adjoining room, calm but crying. I gave her a hug. "How do you know, if you've never dated girls?" she asked. She knew the answer to this. A series of other rhetorical questions followed. But, my parents had known I was gay prior to my big revelation. I had been fighting to keep a secret that wasn't a secret at all. "I mean, you used to try on my shoes," my mom pointed out. I did not remember this early cross-dressing, but did recall spending summers making smoothies. I would beg my mother for a flamingo swizzle stick, adding to the collection we had started for my juice bar. We would spend our Saturday nights watching the estrogen-saturated soap opera Sisters. On sunny summer days, I would ask my mother to take me shopping at Target. It was an atypical childhood for a little boy. Most kids my age were trying out for soccer teams. These things I loved to spend time doing, seemingly trivial, made me close to my mom. I know that she values them as much as I do.
As the years have passed my mother has gotten more comfortable with her two gay children. Still, she has never attended a PFLAG meeting, and our bookshelves continue to proudly display framed, seemingly-heterosexual photographs from school dances. She may never let those images go. It had been my goal to come out ever since that fishing trip when I was fourteen. Despite my fears and reservations, I was optimistic that it would change my life in unimagined ways. And it did. I gained self-confidence and became closer to my friends and family members. I could talk openly with my parents. I no longer had to wrangle with what details to divulge and worry about what people would assume. The "thing" I never wanted to say isn't even a "thing" anymore. I acclimated to my life as an openly gay man in a big city, where being gay doesn't really seem to be that big of a deal. I've had the same problems my heterosexual friends do: jobs that pay too little, ever-climbing rental costs, and a dating population that I've found disenchanting. The biggest change was this: When I had my first genuine experiences with heartache, I called home. My mom offered me the same advice she had throughout my childhood: "Get above the problem!" I am still learning how to do that. I guess it's what I did when mustering the courage the say those two words over a plate of pasta salad.
I almost came out four times before actually doing it on Memorial Day of 2001. The first time was when I was only fourteen years old. It was dusk and my father and I were on a fishing excursion. I sat in back of our rickety grey row boat, holding my teal green fishing pole, while my dad explained the differences between Panther Martin and Daredevil brand lures and admired the passing scenery. "Just look at how smooth the water is," he exclaimed. "It's like a sheet of glass!" He was always doing this— commenting on the obvious while failing to notice the angst plastered across my face. The boat traversed back and forth on the small mountain lake before I finally began to talk. "I think," I began… " Sometimes I think, I might be… gay. Maybe." I was hunched into a ball in back of the boat. My dad, never one to react with emotion, just listened. I explained that "sometimes I have thoughts," and so on. Despite his assurance that "if I was gay it was ok," I got scared. I began to look for a loophole, an escape. In my head I went through the list of my failed grammar school dating attempts: Eliza Clarkson, Rebecca Green, Maxine Silverman, and Sarah Hanson. "But I don't think I am, it's just confusing sometimes," I added. My father lacks the emotional intelligence that my mother has blessed me with. Instead, he presents a calm reserve and a rational mind. He approaches all problems as if he is doing a mathematical proof. "I don't think you are either," he began. This was it: my escape-hatch. Whatever words of condolence or encouragement he may have offered were lost on me at the time. "Don't tell mom," I requested. My mother, ashore in our family's cabin, was, in all likelihood, watching us from the balcony with a pair of birding binoculars.
I went further into the closet after my failed attempt to come out. I flipped through Playboy magazines, hoping to feel something—anything—for the centerfolds. I plastered my closet door with photographs of television starlets and cut-outs from People magazine. My parents ignored it, and I was grateful for this. The next time I almost came out was the summer after my freshman year in high school. We were on one of our many family RV trips. My sister Stephanie and I feigned maturity, as we "related" to Alanis Morisette's Jagged Little Pill while simultaneously fighting over the exact middle of the back-seat. While camping one night, my mom and sister opted for the comfort of the RV beds while my dad and I elected to sleep outside. "Just look at all the stars!" my father marveled. "It makes you think, how big the universe is; and how insignificant we are with our so-called 'problems'." It would have been the perfect time to say it again, to come out of that collage-plastered closet. I opened my mouth but said nothing, and soon enough he was asleep.
My sister Steph "came out" the following spring after attending her freshman year of college. She didn't technically come out; she never mustered the courage to say the two words I had failed to. Instead, my mom found a telling poem sticking out from under her mattress, next to a dust-covered copy of What's Happening to My Body Book For Girls. I was the last one in the family to know. For a long time there was discord and tension—my mother and sister fighting constantly—and I had no idea why. Though I did notice that Steph's college friends had gotten a lot less…feminine. Then, "Steph" became "Stef" and her own hair became significantly shorter. "I just don't get what's going on here," my mother would lament. Ignorant to the roots of her anguish, I would defend Stef. One night my mom blurted it out. "You really didn't know!?" she asked. It was more an accusation than a question. I really hadn't. And, it sure complicated things: now I was the second gay kid and my parents' last hope for a straight child. I maintained my straight façade, adding cut-outs of Sarah Michelle Gellar and Gwyneth Paltrow to my closet door. My parents confronted me on the matter twice, once after my mother discovered gay pornography on the family computer. "I hate it when random websites spam you," I told her and continued to deny it.
I expected things to change in college, but for a long time nothing did. I sorted my MP3s into two folders: one with alternative rock hits from Offspring and Fatboy Slim, the other with soft ballads by Sarah McLachlan and Sinead O'Conner. Spring of my freshman year I joined a fraternity, essentially padlocking the closet door shut. All the while, I kept the contact information for our campus Gay–Straight Alliance tucked snugly in a hanging file folder in the back of my desk. I was living two lives. And it was beginning take it's toll. Sophomore year I lived the life of frat boy by going to sorority dances and drinking every weekend. This is what college is supposed to be, isn't it? The time of your life!
Then I met Erin Miner. She was a freshman girl spending a Friday night at a frat party. She saw me as the sophomore guy trying to woo her with questions such as "What's your major?" and "Do you think you'll end up pledging?" Oddly, amid such niceties we happened upon a foundation for friendship. My fraternity brothers all assumed I was dating Erin, and I began to depend on the security these conceptions lent me. The topic of dating had come up between she and I before and I'd always told her "I can't be in a relationship… I'm afraid of the commitment." At the time, it was easier for me to be detached than openly gay. Eventually Erin stopped asking. While we grew closer in many ways, my unspoken secret was pushing us apart.
In 2000, on December 2nd, Erin and I found ourselves in the library of my fraternity. As it was the last place any of my 'brothers' would be on a Friday night, we were assured privacy. I lay on the carpet and stared up at the cycling ceiling fan. My head had finally stopped spinning from the shots of Monarch rum we'd shared a few hours earlier. I was attempting to discuss the distance between us without disclosing my sexual orientation. As I had all through high school, I got scared and my voice trailed off into silence. "Just say it," Erin said as she grabbed my hand. Did she know? How could she? I was quiet for a long time. "Lets go on a walk," I offered, finally. While Erin went to my room to grab her coat, I stood in the fraternity living room. One of my 'brothers' was watching Top Gun on our widescreen TV. "Fuckin' great movie!" he exclaimed. I nodded, enjoying the anthemic music blaring from the speakers. I was on my own mission. There was no turning back now.
Outside it was pouring big, sloppy drops of rain—a sharp contrast to the drizzle that frequently plagues the Pacific Northwest. We walked through the college campus in search of a dry spot to sit down. "We have to talk," I announced. I spent an inordinate amount of time prefacing matters, describing my perceptions of our friendship. I elaborated on how "there has been this barrier keeping us from being closer." She held my hand, watching me from behind fogged glasses. And then I stopped talking for a moment. We were surrounded only by the sounds of traffic and falling rain. "I'm gay," I said. Erin smiled and began to cry. "I know honey! I'm so proud of you," she exclaimed, hugging me.
In the months that followed, I began to come out to my college friends one by one. "Open and honest," as Erin would say. Each time, it got a little easier and I began to preface the issue a little less. Eventually, I would simply blurt out "I'm gay." The responses ranged from shock, to an anticlimactic "ok," I learned that people have an amazing ability to surprise you, if you let them. As the school year progressed, I left my fraternity and moved into a house on campus with a group of practical-strangers. It was a new beginning for me. Now, I just had to tell my family.
I returned home for a couple weeks at the beginning of the summer. I planned to start by talking to Stef—she could give me the sibling support I would need to tell my parents. The conversation ended up taking place over a pile of greasy burgers and Coronas atop the roof of a home-town bar. I began describing my close friendships to the girls I had met at college. My sister was picking French fries off of my plate. She could not have been less interested. Couldn't she see how nervous I was? "But I can't see me dating any of these girls," I finally said. She squinted as she gazed over the rooftop balcony at the mountain view ahead. She took a swig of beer and asked, "Why is that Michael?" "Because I'm gay." She continued to stare off into the distance. "Well, there's a shocker," she stated flatly. Prior to coming out to her, or to any person, my brain would sift through the possible reactions, playing them out like a series of bad film outtakes. With Stef, I envisioned excitement, or perhaps surprise. Maybe she would share my fears of how this revelation would affect our parents. Congratulations guys! You're living the American dream, complete with a picket fence, a golden lab, a station wagon, and two gay kids! Stef eventually returned her gaze to me. "We're both gay," I observed. "Yep," she agreed. "But I think you're gayer than I am."
It seemed fitting to come out to my parents at the dinner table. I was having a mild anxiety attack, complete with rapid breathing, heart palpitations, and racing thoughts. I called Stef, to prepare. "You should take shots," she encouraged. She seemed almost as anxious as I was. "Call me as soon as you tell them," she said. I decided I would divulge my secret without the aide of alcohol. At the time, I thought certain experiences had enough of their own awesome intensity that they needed to be experienced with the clarity of sobriety. For this reason, I never drank at rock concerts. And I did not intend to do so when telling my parents I was a queer. By the time we all sat down for dinner, I'd lost what I was going to say (fortunately, it need not be complicated). I was overtly aware of every uncomfortable silence. My father sat reading an article in the New York Times. My mother's jaw clicked back and forth, a symptom of her TMJ. And I sought distractions where I could. That was the first—and likely last—time I became entranced by the plethora of colors in macaroni salad. I listened to the mixed CD I had put on for the occasion. (One must, of course, have an appropriate soundtrack for momentous announcements such as this one.) I observed the shadows my mother's kitschy folk art cast against her country-themed wall paper. And I chewed the same bite five times over. I was delaying the inevitable. Naturally, my mother picked up on my vacant state and asked, "You okay Mike?" "I'm fine," I lied. My dad flipped to the business section, oblivious. This continued for about five songs, perhaps twenty minutes had elapsed. The music had become my only gauge for the passage of time. "What's wrong?" my mother queried. I figured this was my chance. I didn't answer her right away, I just kept chewing. Then I asked, "Can we talk?" I had the attention of both my parents. I momentarily escaped into Bono's lyrics as the table fell into silence. Then I just said it. "I'm gay." Silence again. My moms eyes glazed—as I had expected. She tends to be very emotive, and more so after a glass of White Zinfandel. "So your gay, so what?" my dad stated blankly. "Do you have a boyfriend?" he asked. While my dad remained quizzical, my mom remained tearful. "I'm sorry Mike, its not you," she said.
After dinner, I offered to wash the dishes, still looking for a diversion. I spoke briefly with my dad while we cleaned. "Go talk to your mother," he requested. My mom was sitting in an adjoining room, calm but crying. I gave her a hug. "How do you know, if you've never dated girls?" she asked. She knew the answer to this. A series of other rhetorical questions followed. But, my parents had known I was gay prior to my big revelation. I had been fighting to keep a secret that wasn't a secret at all. "I mean, you used to try on my shoes," my mom pointed out. I did not remember this early cross-dressing, but did recall spending summers making smoothies. I would beg my mother for a flamingo swizzle stick, adding to the collection we had started for my juice bar. We would spend our Saturday nights watching the estrogen-saturated soap opera Sisters. On sunny summer days, I would ask my mother to take me shopping at Target. It was an atypical childhood for a little boy. Most kids my age were trying out for soccer teams. These things I loved to spend time doing, seemingly trivial, made me close to my mom. I know that she values them as much as I do.
As the years have passed my mother has gotten more comfortable with her two gay children. Still, she has never attended a PFLAG meeting, and our bookshelves continue to proudly display framed, seemingly-heterosexual photographs from school dances. She may never let those images go. It had been my goal to come out ever since that fishing trip when I was fourteen. Despite my fears and reservations, I was optimistic that it would change my life in unimagined ways. And it did. I gained self-confidence and became closer to my friends and family members. I could talk openly with my parents. I no longer had to wrangle with what details to divulge and worry about what people would assume. The "thing" I never wanted to say isn't even a "thing" anymore. I acclimated to my life as an openly gay man in a big city, where being gay doesn't really seem to be that big of a deal. I've had the same problems my heterosexual friends do: jobs that pay too little, ever-climbing rental costs, and a dating population that I've found disenchanting. The biggest change was this: When I had my first genuine experiences with heartache, I called home. My mom offered me the same advice she had throughout my childhood: "Get above the problem!" I am still learning how to do that. I guess it's what I did when mustering the courage the say those two words over a plate of pasta salad.
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