Memories of Coming Out - My Third Child

With my third gay child, I actually knew she was gay before she knew it.  In fact, I was worried that she might become like some people I've known through my life.  They can't accept that they are gay for whatever reason--societal scorn, religious beliefs, whatever--and they have this hole in their life where self-acceptance and perhaps a meaningful companion should be.  When my third gay child was in high school, I talked with my oldest daughter about my concerns.  She advised me to just leave it alone and trust that it would take care of itself.

I watched my youngest struggle with dating boys and I watched her talk about platonic girlfriends with that tone of voice that only comes with infatuation.  After she graduated and moved out of the house, there came a period in time where she kind of dropped off my radar screen.  There had been no drama.  She just didn't come around for a few months.  I wondered about it but just dismissed it as a cutting-the-apron-strings rite of passage.

Then, one day in the fall of the year, she came over for a family gathering with a "friend" in tow.  I was so glad to see her and we were all enjoying one another's company.  She found me alone in the kitchen and said she had something to tell me.  She asked me what I thought the worst thing she could tell me might be.  When we determined that she hadn't dropped out of college, lost her job or murdered someone, I couldn't think of anything else that she could tell me that would worry or upset me.

"Well," she said hesitantly, "I'm gay."  Oh, my goodness, I threw my arms around her and hugged and kissed her and felt this burden lifted from my soul.  Within minutes, I was calling my oldest daughter who lived out of town and reporting that her sister had finally come out.  What a wonderful revelation that was to me that night.

One of my straight daughters commented, "Only in this family would the mother get the news that one of her kids is gay and start calling people to tell them."

Later I asked this my youngest lesbian daughter why she thought telling me, of all people, would be that hard. She smiled and said she feared the family had reached the gay/lesbian quota with her two older siblings.

I am proud of all six of my children, three of whom are gay.  Please do your part to let our gay and lesbian brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, nieces, nephews, sons, daughters, friends, acquaintances, co-workers, neighbors, and all the rest feel that they can be who they were meant to be.  This is LGBT pride month.  Make every month LGBT pride month.

Memories of Coming Out - My Second Child

My youngest son was the next one of my children to come out.  Officially, he came out while in high school in Pasadena, Texas.  I had grown up not too far away in Houston where Pasadena had always been known for its conservative outlook on life.  So, when he fiercely and fearlessly refused to suppress his wonderful gayness, I was a little fearful for him.  Certainly, he endured his share of harassment and bullying but he never backed down from who he really was.

Even as a small child, there was certain behavior that led us to think he might be gay.  I remember Halloween when he was 6 or 7 years old and I made him this awesome black and red satin Dracula cape.  Now, this wasn't a cheesy type cape that you buy at the cheap costume store.  This was a luscious full circle real satin cape.  He spent hours in the front yard twirling around and around watching that cape billowing in the wind--foreshadowing of his love of color guard to come in high school, eh?

I remember a funny story that happened, again, when he was 6 or 7 years old.  The television happened to be on a beauty pageant.  I hardly ever watched beauty pageants being a women's libber of the 60s and 70s.  But that day, one was on and he was watching it.  As I walked into the room he said, "Mom, look, isn't she wearing a beautiful dress?"  I can remember thinking, "Well, if he were gay, he wouldn't be admiring beautiful women."  When I told him that story years later after he came out, he laughingly commented, "Yeah, I was probably wishing I had the dress for myself."

Memories of Coming Out - My First Child

I have three gay children.  This is how I remember when my oldest came out to me.  If she has a different version, I would trust hers.  It was 1989 or 1990 and she was out of high school.  She was living away from home and came back to visit one day.  As we sat in the living room, she said she had something to tell me.  She was obviously a little distraught when she finally said, "Mom, I'm gay."

Now, I don't remember feeling much of anything at all--not shock or dismay or disappointment.  I think part of the reason was that my life was full of other responsibilities with my teenage son who was her brother and their four half-siblings all under the age of 7 years.  The youngest of the second four had just been born with Down syndrome not too long before this revelation.  So, I was quite overwhelmed by life, in general, in those days.  I don't remember my exact response but I remember thinking kind of like Scarlett O'Hara.  What was it that she said?  Tomorrow's another day.  I'll think about that tomorrow.  Something like that.

Surely, this was an important issue and I, indeed, thought about it very soon.  I can remember feeling like I didn't quite know what to do in the situation and, so, I began to examine how other people handled this same scenario--a gay offspring.  The most drastic approach wasn't even considered since I couldn't imagine cutting one of my children out of my life all together.  What if she needed me and I had banished her from my life for something that was as natural for her as breathing?  Nope, banishment was not an option.

So, the next less drastic step might be to say, "Okay, you're gay but we'll pretend you're not.  I don't want to see any evidence of it when you're around me or the family."  I quickly dismissed that concept since that would easily mean she could choose to be with her gay family and leave us out of her life.  That just wouldn't work.  As well, that would mean condoning her pretending to be someone she isn't when she's with the family--a place where, by all rights, one should be able to completely be oneself.

Next response to be considered was to say, "Okay, you're gay but I don't want you bringing any of your friends around."  I did not like that option either because I wanted to know my kids' friends.  You get to know your kids better when you see them around their friends.  As well, banishing friends, again, might lead her to have to choose and friends usually win out over family.

Lastly, the best option was to embrace her and all out accept her as she was.  Something in my heart told me what the scientists hadn't quite proven in the early 90s and that is that being gay is hardwired.  It's not a choice or a lifestyle or an alternative way to live.  It's as natural for gay people to be gay as it is for straight people to be straight.  I thank God for whatever I had in me that allowed me to go against much of the teaching of my youth and accept my daughter's gayness, unconditionally.  Because she was just the first wave of a delightful family trend.

Sights of Autumn

Late this afternoon, I was driving home through a less populated part of the county.  I had an open view of the November sky.  Up ahead of me from an open field, a small flock of geese took flight.  They flapped frantically and zigzagged across the highway ahead of me as they made their way heavenward in a helter-skelter fashion.   When they reached their desired altitude, they suddenly spread their collective wings with a graceful elegance and formed themselves into one leg of the chevron, their well-known configuration.

The line slowly undulated as the leg of the chevron switched from left to right and back again.  They would flap their wings again but not in the wild way they did in the beginning.  Then, they would spread their wings and ride the upper level air currents and the wake created by their flock mates.  Watching that supple line going up and down and back and forth, I found myself mesmerized by the beauty and poise of their movements.   As I overtook them and they fell behind me, I realized that a flock of geese flying in formation was one of my favorite fall sights.

Then, I remembered a funny story involving another flock of geese.  About 20 years ago, my parents had come to visit us and my dad was in the backyard barbequing with my husband.   This is the story my husband told me later.  As they stood by the BBQ pit, my dad nudged my husband with his elbow and pointed to a flock of geese flying overhead in that age old pattern.

“Do you know why one side is longer than the other?” Dad asked Armando.  Now, Armando knew my dad came from country folk, as did Armando’s parents and grandparents.  So, in anticipation of hearing some words of country wisdom, he solemnly responded that he didn’t know why one side was longer than the other.

“Because there’s more geese on that side.” 

Armando realized he had been had and I’m sure Dad was delighted that he had sucked him in.  Armando had a good laugh about it when he told me the story later that same night. 

Dad always loved a good joke.

The Diner Cup

A while back I put away my cup and saucer collection because my daughter and her 2-year-old came to live with us for a few months after they lost their husband/daddy in a tragic accident almost two years ago.  This morning I decided that it was time to bring them out again.  My daughter and her son have been back out on their own for quite a while already and he is almost four.  He now understands about leaving certain things alone.  So, I got the step stool and brought my friends out of their hibernation in the upper shelves of the kitchen.

As I soaped them up, rinsed them off and dried them, I enjoyed the different textures, weights and shapes from fine china to handmade pottery.  As I arranged them on the window sill and counter, I thought about how this little collection started and I reminisced about each set as I prepared it for display.

For example, this one was a gift from one of my daughters-in-law.  It's handmade which makes it highly respectable in my eyes with a rugged beauty about it.



This one was purchased at Williams Sonoma (well, la-tee-dah) on sale, of course, because it was square and on sale.

But of these and all the rest, here’s my favorite today as I arrange these pairs in my home—the diner cup.  I bought it at an estate sale at an old home in Navasota, Texas, several years ago.  I would imagine that if it could talk, I would hear some interesting tales.

As I looked at it, I began to ponder why it appealed to me.  It’s not pretty, at all.  No interesting shape or pattern here.  It’s plain and simple, ah, but oh so durable with a good heft to it.  That’s it!  That’s what draws me to this duo.  This cup and saucer were probably thrown into many a bus boy’s tub and, then, callously dumped into hot, soapy dishwater or thoughtlessly loaded into many a dishwasher without even chipping.  Today it says to me, “Sure, I’ve had a tough life and I may be a little stained but I’m still serving my purpose and I’ve brought countless people comfort over time.”

So, I gathered inspiration from this humble little cup and saucer and vowed to do a better job of standing strong in the face of life’s challenges and continuing to serve my purpose as it unfolds.    

The Piano

In 1977 with my first marriage ending and because I was moving from a house into an apartment, I had to get rid of my piano.  Quite honestly, I don’t really remember much about that piano now.  I know it was an upright and would certainly be an antique by now if it wasn’t already one then.  However, I remember vividly the scene as it was wheeled out of my house and down the street to a neighbor’s house.  That event made me sad but, then, there was a general sadness at that time that pervaded my life making nuances of sadness imperceptible.

Over the following years, I longed for another piano but, with a young family, there never seemed to be enough money for that “luxury”.  From time to time, I would price pianos to see how far out of reach one remained.  When there was still a piano store in the mall (you know, right there on the main corridor), I would wander in and run my fingers over the keys raising the hopes of the salesman which wasn’t too cool on my part.  But I couldn’t help the longing.  Then, when I got laid off in 1995 in a corporate downsizing, I took a portion of the money and insisted on buying an electronic keyboard. 

I was naïve to believe that an electronic keyboard with its circuit boards, shorter keyboard, smaller keys, and whatever else it had could effectively imitate the organic feel of wood and felt as those strings were physically struck and silenced, the sound vibrating through the instrument, through my body and out into the air around me.  While  the electronic keyboard with all the bells and whistles was a lot of fun, it didn’t satisfy the yearning for a piano.

But, you know, time has a way of slipping by and we forget those things that once were so important in our lives as we learn to live without them.  We don’t allow ourselves to linger on what can’t be.  Then, about a month ago, I’m sitting with Armando and from nowhere I say, “I sure wish I had a piano.”  I can’t tell you what prompted that comment.  I don’t remember what we were doing at the time but I had a sudden longing for a piano in my life.

A couple of weeks later, I got a call from an old friend.  Her former mother-in-law had passed leaving a piano that no one in the family wanted and the family had contacted her to see if she knew anyone who would be interested in having a piano.  Having remembered over the years that I had wished I could have another piano, she called to see if we could line up some piano wranglers and get the piano from where it was to where I was.  From that moment until the piano was safely installed in my house a few days later, I lived with an active undercurrent of energy that I couldn’t turn off.  The first thought upon waking and the last thought before sleeping and most of the thoughts in-between were about THE PIANO.

I was out of town on the day the piano had to be moved which is probably a good thing.  My perverted visions of it careening from the back of the pickup truck and splintering on I-45 while I watched helplessly from another vehicle in the piano delivery caravan would have probably triggered some sort of infarction or such.  So, I was a couple of hundred miles away while some wonderful men in my life saw to it that my new gift was carefully brought to me.

Until I saw the piano in my home and sat down at it for the first time, I couldn’t really believe it was true.  Then, over the first few days it was a part of our household, I would be surprised by its presence and in awe of its being there.  It wasn’t just a piece of furniture.  It was a being, an entity, a force, an energy.  I would run my hand over its smooth cabinet and virtually caress the keys.  I’d like to report that playing again was like picking up where I left off in my teens after many, many years of formal study.  But I’ve grown rusty and stiff.  I can see that I’m going to have to loosen up and relax into it.  Fortunately, the theory side of the process came back almost completely (thanks to Mrs. Barfield who insisted on teaching theory to a reluctant student who just wanted to make music).  I just need to loosen up the old digits and shoulders.  I’m getting better every day and I don’t need anyone to remind me to practice like I did as a teenager.

So, I say all this to encourage each who reads this to stay the course with whatever it is you’re praying for or manifesting or wishing for.  I’m living proof that never giving up means ultimate reward!

1978 and an Omelet is Born

So, I'm up early listening to Pandora radio.  Bob Seger starts wailing We’ve Got Tonight and I’m thrown back to 1978.  For a few minutes I am that young woman again reliving the feelings I was having when that song was a regular on the playlist that was the soundtrack of my life that year.  As I listened today, I remembered the bad feelings—my life taking a turn that seemed to nullify everything I’d ever been taught or had believed in; and the  good feelings—new love discovered.  I took some radical steps in the eyes of friends and family in the summer of ’78.  I wish I hadn’t hurt loved ones.  But what’s that saying about omelets and breaking eggs?  Yeah, that one.  It’s true.

So, here I sit listening to Bob Seger and reliving those feelings from those days and seeing with much greater clarity the reason for so much that went on.  All in all, it’s been a pretty good omelet.