Coming Out To My Parents

June 23, 2014
          Day 54/365

I can't recall the exact date I told my mom, but I'll never forget exactly when I told my dad. 

It'd already been seven or eight months since I first said the words "I'm gay" out loud to another human being.  And I'd since told my psychologist, my religious superiors, and a few close friends too.  So it was time to finally tell my mom. 

I was 22 years old, recently moved back home since leaving the religious life, and just starting to really think about what my new life would entail.  I had a brief three-month job as a clerk at GNC, and a freelance job helping a local businessman organize his files.  My first proofreading job in Manhattan was starting soon too at that point, and everything was slowly coming together.  My mother and I had always been very close, and she was as much my friend as she was my mom.  Keeping this secret from her just felt wrong.  Though I feared her reaction, I didn't doubt her ultimate acceptance.

So there we were, alone in the kitchen, my mom sitting at the table by the phone in her usual spot, and me pacing back and forth near the refrigerator.  Though I can't remember exactly what I said that day, I know it went something like this:

"There's something I need to tell you, and I hope you'll understand, and love me no matter what."

(Moms of GLBT kids today will tell you they always knew before their child told them, but I really don't think my mom suspected.  I'd been living as a monk for the past four years, had always been very "straight acting" as we say, and this was 1997, not 2014.  Yes, history watchers, things really have changed that much in the past 17 years.)

My mom sat up attentively, if not a little rigidly, waiting to hear what I might tell her, and noting how teary I had already become.  I was no longer ashamed of my sexuality at that time, but I was still very scared to reveal my secret each time I had to do so.

"I'm gay."

The silence that followed lasted for minutes, punctuated sharply by tears and even sobs.  I was crying, my mother was crying, and I imagine even the furniture around us started crying too.  The room was just crying, okay?  For crying out loud, the tears were frickin' everywhere!

When she finally spoke, she asked me if I was sure, and wanted to make sure my crushes weren't just that, attractions to other boys my age that would go away.  Though she didn't use the word "phase", it's what she was basically getting at.  But she wasn't asking me out of a desire to change me, only to help me be sure.  And then, once I assured her this is who I was, and that I was okay with it all, if not still scared, she stood up, walked over, and hugged me.  She planted a big kiss on my cheek and assured me she loved me no matter what. 

And then, a few moments later, she added, "I don't know if you should tell your father though."

Her words were different, I'm sure, but this was the general idea:  "I love you no matter what, it's okay, I'm here for you, but don't tell Dad." 

That was in the late summer or early fall of 1997.  A year or so later, my father was diagnosed with lung cancer, and we all knew early on that it was incurable.  He would suffer with this disease for another six months to a year maybe, and then it would kill him.

On August 26, 1999, my father died.  I had never told him.  I knew, especially in those last few weeks, that this was my last chance, but I chose not to take it. 

In the funeral parlor on the morning of his funeral and burial, we all lined up to say our farewells at the casket.  I knew this was my last chance to at least say it to his face.  When it was my turn, I leaned in close and whispered as softly as I could, "I'm gay".  I said my goodbyes as well, but I made sure to throw that statement in there too. 

Coming out to my mom was a day marked by many, many tears.  Coming out to my dad was likewise a day marked by many, many tears.  The experiences were very different, not least of all because in one case I was getting a hug and a kiss from my mom, and in the other, I was speaking to an inanimate corpse.  Different experiences, different settings, but both of them private, quiet, and real.  The tears that flowed on both occasions were tears of sadness.  Not tears of shame or of sorrow, just tears that honored the communication gap between a son and his parent.  They were tears shed for time forever lost, lies forever gone, and a relationship forever changed.