Mom and dad think I'm straight, not sure how to tell them.
It's not like they're bad people. They're not religious fanatics or anything. They're just... normal. They voted for the gay guy on that baking show. They have a lesbian couple who lives two doors down and they say "hello" to them while they're gardening. They think they're open-minded. They think they've done everything right. And that's the problem. They've built this whole image of me in their heads, and it doesn't have room for this.
They talk about my future wife in the hypothetical. "When you get married, you'll have to..." or "Your wife is going to be so lucky..." Every time it happens, I feel this little crack form inside me. I smile and nod, and I'm a coward. I let them build this fantasy life for me, brick by brick, with every "she" and "her" they use. My mom still puts up my high school girlfriend's picture on the mantel at Christmas, right next to my college graduation photo. I look at it and I see a ghost. A lie.
How do I do it? Do I just blurt it out over dinner? "Pass the potatoes, and by the way, I like dick." Do I sit them down on the couch like I'm about to tell them I have a terminal illness? "Mom, Dad, we need to talk. There's something you should know about me..." I can already see the looks on their faces. The confusion first, then the polite, forced smile. The "Oh. Okay. Well, we love you no matter what," that sounds like a line from a bad after-school special.
And what if it's worse? What if it's the quiet disappointment? What if my dad gets that look in his eye, the one he gets when the Falcons lose, but a hundred times deeper? What if my mom's first thought is "no grandchildren"? What if it changes everything? What if every hug from then on feels a little tighter, a little less natural? What if I lose them, not in a dramatic, disowning way, but in a slow, quiet erosion of the warmth and pride they've always had for me?
I see the life they want for me, and it's a good life. It's safe and it's warm and it's full of their love. And the life I want for myself... it's just mine. It doesn't look like their picture. And I'm so terrified of telling them that the picture they've been loving for twenty-five years is not a portrait of their son at all. It's just a very convincing forgery.
It's not like they're bad people. They're not religious fanatics or anything. They're just... normal. They voted for the gay guy on that baking show. They have a lesbian couple who lives two doors down and they say "hello" to them while they're gardening. They think they're open-minded. They think they've done everything right. And that's the problem. They've built this whole image of me in their heads, and it doesn't have room for this.
They talk about my future wife in the hypothetical. "When you get married, you'll have to..." or "Your wife is going to be so lucky..." Every time it happens, I feel this little crack form inside me. I smile and nod, and I'm a coward. I let them build this fantasy life for me, brick by brick, with every "she" and "her" they use. My mom still puts up my high school girlfriend's picture on the mantel at Christmas, right next to my college graduation photo. I look at it and I see a ghost. A lie.
How do I do it? Do I just blurt it out over dinner? "Pass the potatoes, and by the way, I like dick." Do I sit them down on the couch like I'm about to tell them I have a terminal illness? "Mom, Dad, we need to talk. There's something you should know about me..." I can already see the looks on their faces. The confusion first, then the polite, forced smile. The "Oh. Okay. Well, we love you no matter what," that sounds like a line from a bad after-school special.
And what if it's worse? What if it's the quiet disappointment? What if my dad gets that look in his eye, the one he gets when the Falcons lose, but a hundred times deeper? What if my mom's first thought is "no grandchildren"? What if it changes everything? What if every hug from then on feels a little tighter, a little less natural? What if I lose them, not in a dramatic, disowning way, but in a slow, quiet erosion of the warmth and pride they've always had for me?
I see the life they want for me, and it's a good life. It's safe and it's warm and it's full of their love. And the life I want for myself... it's just mine. It doesn't look like their picture. And I'm so terrified of telling them that the picture they've been loving for twenty-five years is not a portrait of their son at all. It's just a very convincing forgery.
No comments yet.