Home For the Holidays With a Side of Awkward.

(written on December 20, 2006)

I'm was back in Colorado for a good ten days, visiting my parents, relaxing, and vaguely celebrating Christmas. One of my primary goals while in Boulder, was to spend as much time as possible with my ailing grandma. She has the onset of dementia. As a result of her poor neurological functioning, we have a series of live-in caretakers. All of the caretakers are Jehovah's Witness' --- my mom contacted them VIA our cleaning lady, who is also a Witness. The "girls," are great at what they do, and aside from their religious affiliations they seem to be a fairly diverse group.

The other day, when I was having a morning coffee with grandma I had the chance to meet the latest hire, Nikki. Nikki is a beautiful African-American woman in her mid thirties, supposedly she was a model at one time. As I sat drinking my coffee, my grandmother repeatedly exclaimed that my hands "were the most beautiful hands she's ever seen," thanks in large part to my "straight, long fingers and soft skin." You see, my grandmother also has pretty bad arthritis. Nikki was somewhat bemused by this, but once my grandmother repeated it her fifth time (dementia) I tried to change the subject. I told the two of them about my job and my life in Seattle, comparing the dusting of snow the Northwest gets to the two feet Colorado tends to (and that is dropping as I type). It was a pleasant visit on all accounts, and I enjoyed Nikkis sense of humor and style --- we spent a good five minutes comparing Razr phones.

Fast-forward to 9:30 PM. I'm sipping on a beer while my parents and I argue about how to properly thread twinkle lights onto a tree. The phone rings, and my dad answers. After a brief conversation he hands the phone to me: "it's for you." "Hello?" I ask. The voice on the opposing end is practically inaudible. "Hello?" I repeat. "Hey, this is Nikki, from grandma's." Any conversation that starts with that is bound to be uncomfortable. "Hey," I reply. Awkward silence. It's funny, as much time as I have spent with socially-challenged teenagers, I still have not found ways to bridge these silences. Or maybe I just don't care too. "What are you doing?" she asks. "Decorating the tree," I reply. "Oh. Is that fun?" she asks. "I guess," I reply. "Cool," she replies. "You're awake?" she asks. "Yes." "I didn't wake you?" she ask. "No, we're all awake," I say in reference to my parents, who were in the adjoining room. Another pause. "Um, so I have a question," she states quietly. Now I am the one taking the pause. "Ok.." I finally say. "Um, well, are you gay?" Quickly, without any hesitation, maybe to stop the quiet, I say "yes." I almost added, 'but don't tell grandma!" yet decided against prolonging this matter with what was essentially a rhetorical statement. She spoke first anyways, "Oh, you are? I guess that's all then." I don't remember how the conversation wound down. I'm assuming we said goodbye. I know I chugged the rest of my beer. The whole thing seemed so out of place, giving me the queasy butterflies-in-the-stomach-feeling I used to get when I had to come out to my family members for the first time. But, I suppose it wouldn't be Christmas without moments like these