I had been rehearsing my coming-out speech to my parents for over a year. “Hey, mom and dad, I think I’m gay.” Or, “I believe I’m a lesbian.” Or, “I’m pretty sure I’m queer.”
But those approaches would be too provocative, an invitation to discuss. I needed to be more direct. My fantasy was to hear them say, “Of course, honey, we’ve been waiting for you to tell us. we’ve known you’re gay since you were a toddler.” I thought my dad might step up. He had always been my ally. As a kid, we bonded over Radio Mystery Theater. Once a week, we sat in the car eating chocolate-covered raisins, listening to that week’s murder mystery.
I flew to Wisconsin from NYC for a long weekend to reveal my secret. I was 25 and had been hiding it for six years. It was time to reclaim my crown of sovereignty. Time to stop living a lie.
My parents, smiling proudly and dressed in polyester, greeted me at the Madison airport with hugs and kisses. We spent the drive to a nearby restaurant discussing their retirement plans, sharing news about my sisters and their kids, and priming me for a conversation about a man in my life.
Dad was an ordained deacon with the Milwaukee Diocese. My parents were always devoted Catholics, but after my brother’s suicide, they’d become charismatic Catholics who spoke in tongues. Good for them, I thought. They seemed happier, but I never bought into the ceremonial facade of the church.
I waited till dinner was over and, after a few bites into my cherry cheesecake, blurted out, “I need to tell you something.”
“What’s that honey?” my dad asked.
“So, I’m gay.”
Silence filled the restaurant. It seemed every clink of dishes and chatter from the servers stopped on cue when I spoke the word gay. My parents looked at each other, then averted their gazes. I tried to stuff another bite of my dessert out of anxiety, but the taste of shame soured the cheese. I had committed a carnal sin…unforgivable. Dad pushed away his rice pudding, gesturing for the check. Mom looked down at her Jello and said, “How can you do this to us? We’ve been through so much.” I sank into my chair, wanting to slip under the table and through the earth to be back in New York, in the arms of Diane.
I tried to muster a response, “Well, I’ve been through a lot too, Mom, but I can’t keep this a secret any longer.”
Dad grabbed his jacket and said, “Let’s go. We’ll talk about this at home.” When I was at my most vulnerable, he still prioritized his ego. He didn’t want any of the strangers around us to know what I’d said. He worried about what they would think of us as a family. Of him as a father.
At that moment, I was certain I had lost their love forever by the look on their faces.
We spent the rest of the weekend in silence. Avoiding all topics related to relationships. A visit to my sister was redeeming when she let me know she was aware of it and was okay with it. So, I left Wisconsin, figuring that my relationship with the most important people in my life, especially my dad, was now over.
I returned to New York sad, lonely, and confused. Was this worth it? My girlfriend was president of the Sirens, the NYC women’s motorcycle club. We were a conspicuous couple. Usually sporting black leather jackets and chaps, spiked hair, combat boots – kinky, dark, 80s style—attending drag night at the Copacabana, leading the Pride Parade with the Sirens, and making appearances at downtown performance art venues.
My drug use escalated. I’d ride my motorcycle across 9th Street in Manhattan doing 60 MPH, high on coke, catching all the lights—a lethal gamble. Whether I lived or died was of no concern. I was already dead to my parents.
A year after I came out to them, they came to visit NY and stayed with my aunt, who lived nearby. They reluctantly agreed to meet Diane. That was a disaster. They were cordial but cold. She was tough looking, I’ll give them that—but so was I. The only redeeming quality in their eyes is she came from a catholic family.
I drove them to Laguardia to catch their flight back home and stayed with them at the gate until their plane departed. I was complaining of wrist pain from an old dance injury that wouldn’t heal, saying, “I haven’t been able to lift anything with my right hand for the past year.”
They asked, “Why don’t you let us pray over it?”
I thought, are you Frickin’ kidding me? And said, “Oh, you don’t have to do that.” But they pressed, and finally, I said, “Ah, okay, I guess,” as I internally rolled my eyes.
We found a quiet corner near the gate. I felt embarrassed—I was too cool in my leather jacket, but it was my parents. I couldn’t refuse; I never could. Maybe this was their way of saying they still loved me, or perhaps they were really praying for me to be straight.
Speaking in a language I had never heard, they held their hands over my wristband. While they said it, I repeated it in silence; I believe, I believe, I think as I scanned the airport for anyone I might know. The verbiage I heard from them sounded like a mishmash of Scandinavian, French, and Portuguese with the guttural sounds of German. It lasted about five minutes. I said thanks and watched them fly into the sky, wondering if I’d ever see them again.
Two days later, I tested the pain in my wrist. Nothing changed. It was still there. A day later, I grabbed my bag off the floor, lifted it to my shoulder, and realized the pain was gone. I froze in awe. I didn’t tell anyone about the airport scene except my roommate, who said, “Huh, that’s wild.” It stirred something inside that made me question the world, life, spirits, and God.
I continued to numb myself with pot and fuel myself with coke. I eventually broke up with Diane and started going to AA meetings. Alcohol wasn’t my thing, really, just what I used to cure cottonmouth and temper the effects of coke, but it was all a means of checking out. A year of sobriety led me to graduate school, where I pursued a career as a therapist, thinking that my experiences would benefit others.
I was napping during winter break of my second year when a voice awakened me, saying, ‘Dad’s going to die.’ I jumped up off the couch, looked at my pillow, and thought, ‘What the fuck was that? Have I gone crazy? Holy shit, now I’m hearing voices. No way.” I paced the apartment and called a friend. I thought, should I call him? Nah, Dad is fine. It was just a bad dream. What would I say if I called him? I heard a voice that said you’re going to die?
The next day, my oldest sister called sobbing. She said Dad had died while taking a nap on the couch that afternoon. I tried to tell her about my apparition from the day before, but she couldn’t take it in. We just cried together. I flew to Wisconsin the next day.
It was mid-January when we celebrated his life. I stayed with my mom and slept with her instead of on Dad’s waterbed in the next room. I’m not sure why they slept in separate rooms, and I didn’t ask; I didn’t want to know.
The night before his wake, I woke to a cool breeze streaming through the room. The heat was blaring; Mom was asleep, and no windows or doors were open. I sat up and thought, Dad, is that you? I was sure he came to visit to remind me of our connection. He was only sixty-eight years old, mostly healthy, a bit overweight, and just taking an afternoon nap, just like I had the day before.
Two hundred deacons attended his funeral from the Milwaukee diocese. I felt a mix of awe and doubt about this religion as I watched the ceremonial flow of robes entering the church. A little Irish priest came up to me after the funeral and said, “I know you’re sad and it’s hard to say goodbye, but I think he can do more for you now than he could when he was alive.”
I returned to New York, to grad school, to my life without my dad. That spring, we had a substitute professor for a few of our classes. The relief instructor who walked through the doors of my classroom is the woman I married and have been with for thirty-two years. I’d like to think that Dad was behind our meeting. That he posthumously accepted me for who I was.
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