From: ry@cbnewsl.cb.att.com (ryerson.schwark)
Subject: Re: WANTED: coming-out stories
Organization: UNIX System Laboratories, Summit, NJ
Date: Tue, 12 Jan 1993 19:41:56 GMT


I've posted this coming out to my parents story before, so old-timers
can skip it.  I don't think I'd write it this way today, but for what
its worth.....

Ry
ry@usl.com



For those contemplating coming out to their parents, I thought
I would share my story....

I was in college at the time, rejoicing in the emotional maelstrom
of that first year or so of coming out, when the peaks and valleys
of life were so much stronger.	I always used to be a bit of a
maniac-depressive, and the pace and energy of the time made my life
a rich and brutal tapestry.  The birthing of myself as a whole human
being was well underway with lots of tears and laughter.

I had always been close to my parents.	You know the kid.  I was the
one who remembered their anniversary, got up at the crack of dawn to
make them Eggs Benedict.  The sensitive child.	I used
to love fishing with my father, the shrill buzzing of the line,
wondering what shiny delight was on the other end, delighting in
the catch, but really wishing that we could just throw it back,
having beaten it in our little game.  My father, a pediatrician,
is a gentle man, I remember well the agonizing long talks that I
got when I did wrong, wishing he would just spank me, and expiate
my guilt, but he refused, making me own my failures, and my triumphs
too.

But it was in these years of college that I had grown more and more
distant from them, for what could I say?  They asked me about my
life, how could I tell them that I had had a grand time marching
on the UN to protest the World Health Organization's stand on
homosexuality,	That I was in the middle of a mad ill-starred
romance with a man,  That their sensitive and loving child was a
raging homosexual pervert?  And the distance grew and grew.  They
mentioned it sometimes, hurt I could tell, but I brushed it off,
"gosh, you know, college is just so busy, but its not like there's
really anything special going on."  And I hurt from the lies, as
the list of things I could not tell them built up brick by brick
between us.

Christmas of junior year, my father had been transferred to Germany,
and I looked forward with tingling dread to spending Christmas so
far from friends.  I had decided that the time had come to speak
the secret.  The wall was high enough that if I did not break it
now, I wondered if I ever could.  I steeled myself, preparing for
the worst, should they disown me, I would survive, but let no one
say that I had not tried to heal the breach, that I had not tried
to break down the wall.	 If guilt there was to be, then not on my
head.  And so the days dragged by, waiting for the perfect time,
the ghost whisper of fear in my ear telling me "not now, not quite
yet" until it was time to go back to school.  I was a coward,
I could not speak the words.  I did not have the strength
to face the tears I knew would come, the endless whys.	Well I
thought, coward that you are, you'll do it anyway, if not face
to face, then you'll leave a letter.  Grabbing pen and paper
I wrote, and looked upon the few sentences in disgust.	How
could I hope to fit my hopes, and dreams, and loves, the volumes
of my joys and sorrows down through that narrow pen? The words lay
warped and stilted upon the page, sad mockeries of my cry for love
and understanding, cold unfeeling pins to burst the bubbles of my
parents' pride and their dreams for me.

My last words were "If you don't want me to speak of this again, I
won't, but I want you to know why I'm not sharing my life with you."
With this poor and stilted letter, I put a book "Now That You Know",
hoping it would say what I could not.  As we left for the airport,
I slipped back inside the house, my heart pounding, fear in my veins
like fire, fear that they would see, and read, and I would have to face
them before fleeing back across the dark Atlantic.  Better as a coward, I
thought, than not at all.  doubt remained.  I left the package on their bed,
and then ran to the car to catch my flight.

A few days later, I got two letters, one from my mother, and one
from my father.	 My mother said that she loved me, but she didn't
quite understand.  She said my father cried all the time now.  My
heart shrunk.  I'd meant to heal, not harm.  I opened the letter
from my father with trepidation, wondering what words he would
have for me, he who never wrote, he who never cried.  I don't
remember much of the letter now, except that he said he had suspected,
that and the simple sentence: "I will try to understand".  He
had underlined the word "try" three times.  I cried.  There didn't
seem much else to do.  I had struggled, now they had to.  I could
love them, but the demons were theirs to battle, win or lose.

I, of course, expected too much too soon.  Just like when I flung
open the closet door and leapt into the arms of my prince charming
(who must have dodged, because I landed on my face).  There were
rough times, my mother asking what had she done?  my father's
timid hugs.  My mother said that she read the book, and didn't
like it, it was too positive, she didn't give it to my father.
We fought about school, they were sure I was screwing up my
life.  I was sure that it was mine to screw up if I wanted to.
Tension.  I was sure that they would never understand, the breach
would scar, but it wouldn't heal.

It faded slowly.  it wasn't until a couple of years later,
just after graduation, that I realized how far they had come
as I sat out on my front porch with my father and listened to
him tell me how much he loved me, how much I had taught
him, how special I was to him, how he thought that I would make
such a wonderful doctor, I had the touch he said.  I told
him I loved him too, and that as much as we were different,
I bragged about him.  I felt a pang of guilt when my parents told
me, as we lingered in wandering conversation over dinner, that
I was most special to them.  Parents aren't supposed to have favorites
I thought, or at least not to confess them, but I knew the truth
when I heard it.  I was more the child of my parents than my brothers
ever would be.

I arrived home from spending Christmas with my parents to find
a letter waiting.  It was from my father.  He told me that
he loved me, and that he bragged about me.  His love settled
like a pleasant weight about my shoulders.  I called him and
we talked, just for a few minutes, there wasn't much to say, but
it was enough.	I realized that short letter years ago had done
more to make my father a feeling person than anything else
I could have done.

We're planning a fishing trip this fall.  Just him and me.
We used to talk about taking a float plane into the far north,
where the fish are so big and hungry that they practically
jump in the boat.  I know there will be some painful silences,
and some arguments too, but I know when I get back, I'll still
brag about my dad.