On Christmas Eve, 1988, I was home from college for winter
break. Like every other Christmas Eve, I was
gathering inspiration and ideas to begin my holiday
shopping. Yes, begin. My mom turned to me and
asked, "How are things going at school?"
Though innocent enough, this was the kind of
question that only seemed subtle. I could
sense something was up, I just didn't know what. I
replied, "Great, why?" Quickly, the subtle was
no longer so, when she said, "Your father has
been worried about you. He tells me you seem more and
more distant when you two talk."
I felt my stomach flip, then sink. I think I know
where this is headed.
Testing the waters, I responded with, "Well what if I am
just choosing to share less, because I don't feel like dad
will approve of what I am doing, or what I have to say, even
if there's nothing wrong with it?" Unrelenting,
my mom asks, "Like what?"
Suddenly I feel as though I am driving full-speed ahead toward
an innocent animal trying to cross the road. Gripping
the steering wheel, eyes closed, I pray that no one gets
hurt, including me. I swerve, asking, "What if I am
dating a man who is not Caucasian?" Knowing
that she would not have an issue if this were true, but my dad
might, I give her yet another out, another path to safety for
both of us. I explain, "I don't think dad would
approve, but there's nothing wrong with it, so why would I
want to share that with him?"
Is the road clear? You know that feeling, like
you've done your best to avoid the vulnerable animal,
with the lingering guilt of not knowing. Persisting, my
mom says, "Are you dating someone of a different
ethnicity?" Afraid to look in my rear view mirror,
I move forward, feeling as though I may just vomit. I
muster up the courage to blurt out, "What if I am not
dating men at all?" There. I said it.
Sort of. Please let her know what I am saying because I
can't say those three words, I can not say, I am gay.
The dance is over. My mom has managed to position
herself perfectly to ask me the question she really
wanted to ask when she started this conversation. Without the
slightest change in her demeanor, she simply asks me, "Are
you gay?" And I begin to cry. Still
unchanged, her silence is kind and patient, inviting my
response. Eventually I managed to say, "Yes,
and I'm sorry. I am so sorry. I never wanted
you to know, and I am so sorry to disappoint you."
Etched in my mind, nineteen years later is her most amazing
response, and I quote: "Michele, you have
nothing to apologize for. You have done nothing
wrong." I have my mom to thank for
helping me unwrap the gift of freedom that Christmas.
A gift I'll never exchange.
Happy Birthday, Mom. (October 10th, 2007)