“Your hands are cold,” says my mom, squeezing my fingers in her hand. My parents have come to visit me in Paris. They’ve been here a week and they think tonight’s dinner is just another another indulgent French meal out out on town. They have no idea that it’s tonight that I have chosen to tell them that I am gay.
It wasn’t the first night that I had chosen to come out to them. In fact I had also chosen the night about two days before that, and the night before that too. But I totally wimped out. Two days before I had even talked to my French roommate’s friends--lesbians both-- about it. I said I was nervous, that I wasn’t sure how they would take it and all that. They were nice and said that just as long as I wasn’t an only child (as they both were) it should be fine.
I agreed with them and told them how I’m close with my parents. We share interests and get along great. I enjoy their company and only occasionally find my father’s pedantic speeches on the history of Rock‘n’Roll tiresome. This is not the case for my brother, who for a lot of complicated reasons does not enjoy their company. I can tell he finds it boring and irksome to spend much time with them. But then he does live in the same house as they do whereas I live six time zones away. The Atlantic Ocean does wonders for a strained parental relationship. So I had no desire to rock the boat and tell them anything that would upset them-- And they would be upset. Not heartbroken or angry. We’re not religious, nor can I tell that my parents have any particular expectations for my marital future. But upset in a general sense, as in confused, perturbed, sad and surprised.
These are all the thoughts that went through my head later that night as I sat across from my parents that night at dinner on the first night I chose to tell them. We had just arrived at the restaurant and gotten complimentary drinks. Champagne! They were excited. We had been there before and the Boeuf Bourgignon was excellent. Nothing gets our family excited like Boeuf Bourgignon. It gives my mom a chance to show off her knowledge of Julia Childs--both of her recipes and, inexplicably, of the details of her personal life--and it gives me and my dad the chance to ingest a huge amount of warm deliciousness accompanied by a good red wine. When we got there, I thought: We’re not drunk enough. I would wait until they had finished their complimentary champagne to ruin their evening. Then I thought: I should wait till we order. It would be so awkward if the waiter came over just as I was blurting out that I always preferred Catwoman to Batman. We ordered our food, plus bottle of wine. Suddenly I thought: Well, now we’re too drunk. Why ruin a nice buzz and a great meal with a discussion about my sexuality?
So that’s how I wimped out on the first night I chose to come out to my parents.
I was determined not to do the same this time. We had spent the previous night at my Godmother’s New Year’s Eve party and she spent the entire night talking about setting me up with eligible Persian bachelors (She’s Persian). Normally, I laugh this sort of thing off. But that night it seemed like a glaring sign flashing alternatively “You’re a liar.” and “You’re a coward.”
So the next night, January 1, 2010, I was not going to be a liar or a coward. I was not going to act like I am ashamed of something that is nothing to be ashamed of. As a principle, I firmly believe that every one has the right to choose how they live their life and to be open and honest about it if they so choose. Now, that’s a principle. And as we all, know, everything gets more difficult in practice.
So I’m not ashamed of being gay, nor do I think it will make my life worse--although it is harder to meet gay women than straight men. But, anyway, I like challenge. But I was still worried for all sorts of reasons. Would my mom be mad? She has a temper. Will my dad be sad? He wants grandchildren. Will they yell? Will they disapprove? Will they still love me? I wasn’t just worried. I was scared. And my fear made me break out into a cold sweat, which brings me right back to where I started...
“Your hands are cold.”
“Well, I’m a little nervous,” I say and add a shaky chuckle. I’m going to vomit.
I receive questioning stares from both my parents.
“I actually have something to tell you guys.” Ease them into it with a laugh. Make a joke. Give a good delivery. “Last night, when Dori kept saying that she would set me up with a Persian lawyer guy, it was, well...” You’re blowing it. “it was kind of funny.” I look up from the table at my dad then my mom. “It was funny because I haven’t actually dated men for about a year.” I glance at my dad then watch my mom’s face. First, there is confusion. Then her face hardens. She removes her hand from mine, “You prefer to date women.”
“Yeah.”
I keep looking at her. Please be okay with this. Please be okay with this. Her eyes water and she just stares at me.
“Well, that’s fine.”
I don’t remember who spoke first, my mom or my dad. But someone said, “Whatever makes you happy.”
Thank god.
Then my dad went off--as he does, slowly and deliberately verbalizing his ever-complex thoughts--saying that as long as I was happy they were happy. “And I’m sure I speak for your mother as well when I say this doesn’t change a thing.” But he doesn’t speak for my mother. He never has. And she wasn’t saying anything. She took out a tissue, wiped her eyes and sniffled.
I couldn’t tell what she was thinking. I knew her angry face and I had seen it. I know I had. All the dyke jokes and jibes she ever made ran through my head. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe I underestimated her, because the next thing she said was: “Of course, all that matters is that you’re happy. It’ll be an adjustment is all.” Then she put her hand back on mine, and it was warm, and said, “Im just sorry you had to keep this all in.”
And that was it. That’s how I came out to my parents. I’m still a little in shock. I don’t know what to think. I can’t believe how lucky I am that I have such understanding parents. It went better than I ever could have imagined.
Of course the rest of dinner was awkward. My dad kept on wanting to know who else knew. “Is this something we can tell people?” “Of course, Dad, it’s not some shameful secret.” Not any more.
It felt great to be able to talk to them about it and about how I felt alone that past year at school and how it was hard for me to admit it to myself and the people I loved. (Hell, I was hooking up with a girl and didn’t even admit to myself that I was gay. Denial.) I even broke the tension with a few jokes.
Like this one from an episode of Ellen. She’s talking to her gay best friend about coming out to her parents and he says to her, “Telling people is always, hard. I remember when I first told my parents: I sat them down and I said, ‘I have struggled with this for a long time, but this is who I am and I only hope you can be happy for me. And the next year when I entered kindergarten they were 100% behind me!”
That got a laugh. You know what didn’t get me a laugh? Talking about how I tried to hit on the caterer at their friend’s Christmas cocktail party. I thought my mom was going to cry again when I broke out with that one. Like she said, it’s an adjustment. I guess it’ll take a bit of time for everything to really sink in. In the meantime, they’re back to the states today. They both gave me especially tight hugs and were sure to say that they loved me. So, overall, coming out of the closet wasn’t so bad. And now it’s official. Weird.
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