As one of the unique rites of passage for lesbians and gays, “coming out” has become more celebrated, more common, but unfortunately has not become any easier. Most of the humor that accompanies “coming out” to our parents is not fully appreciated until years later. My mother, who has not had any theatrical training, presented one of her best performances the day I told her I was gay. All of the intense drama, the ranting and raving, the cursing and swearing, I am still in awe that she was never nominated for such a performance.
Maybe awards should be presented for “coming out” performances, some examples of honors that could be bestowed on parents: Most Threatening “You’re Not My Son/Daughter Anymore” Speech, Most Creative Use of Biblical Curses and/or Religious Props, Record for Consecutive Days Without Sleeping/Eating, Best Impromptu Exorcism, Best Un-Supporting Role, and finally, Most Perverse Explanation of Homosexuality.
Of course there would also be awards given to the courageous individuals who came out to their parents: Longest “Its Not a Phase” Explanation, Best Incorporation of Words from a Drag Song, Best Effort to Remain in the Family Will, and a Pink Heart to any physical injury incurred while coming out. The Best Use of a Recreational Drug award must go to my friend Gary.
After Gary told his mom he was gay, she began to flail her arms in the air, as if shooing an invisible fly, then made the obligatory gesture of putting her hand on her forehead, and finally fell to the floor in a heap. Gary, who was inebriated and had just returned from the bars, revived her by waving under her nose his handy bottle of “poppers”.
One of my favorite “coming out” stories is from my roommate Troy, who, at the tender age of seven, sort of “came out” to his second grade classmates and his Cub Scout Troop. He was at an age when many of us were stealing our sister’s Teen Beat magazine and secretly wishing we would grow up to be Marlo Thomas (okay, so maybe I was the only one who wanted to grow up to be That Girl). A time when we had hidden crushes on other boys that looked like Peter Brady. The year was 1968.
“Mrs. Asbury was my second grade teacher,” Troy explained, “a large amorphous woman in my seven-year-old eyes. Our classes were held in those old barracks and I don’t remember much about my teacher only that the loose floor boards always squeaked and complained whenever Mrs. Asbury walked by.
“We had just finished some tedious story about a girl and a handsome prince. I can’t remember the whole story, 
or even the plot. I can only remember the heroine was a young delicate thing, with long, curly blond hair, large, dark eyes, a mole on her chin, and she wore a lot of rings.”
Oddly enough, this description could describe Troy, as well.
“The teacher wanted to congratulate us for getting through such a lengthy story,” he continued, “so a party was planned and she brought some various items from home in order for us to dress up as characters from the story.”
“I quickly raised my hand and went up to the front of the room. I surveyed all of the the items: an axe, a stick horse, bunny ears, a blond wig and some other bits and pieces from old costumes. Since the girl was the heroine and was rescued by the handsome prince, I wanted to be the princess, so I carefully placed the blond wig on my head.” Perhaps he was reacting to some kind of primal drag queen instinct long suppressed by some of us.
Mrs. Asbury was probably terrified that Troy would break out into a drag song like “This Is My Life” and start taking his classmates’ chocolate milk money for tips. Troy remembered his teacher shaking her bouffant hair form side to side and trying to persuade him into choosing another character, but he was adamant.
To the dismay of Mrs. Asbury, Troy refused to take off the wig and, to the horror of his Scout Master, he wore his new ‘do to his Cub Scout meeting after school.
Troy remembered his fellow troop members purposely ignoring the wig. A nervous Scout Master made it one of their shortest meetings ever.
My friend’s fledgling career as a female impersonator was cut short when his mother drove up in their blue Impala station wagon, shaking and white as a sheet.
For that performance, he was awarded several years of therapy and he didn’t even earn a merit badge.
Compared to other stories, my “coming out” story was fairly routine.
It was 1980, I can’t remember the day or date or even the type of bell bottom jeans I was wearing.
The day seemed predestined; every piece seemed to fall into place. Earlier that fateful day, my mother had asked to borrow my car to run some errands since her car was in the shop being repaired (if only she had bought a dependable foreign car instead of a Dodge). I had a love letter that was written to me stashed in the sun visor (if only I had hid the letter in the glove compartment, if only I hadn’t been such a sentimental fool). When my mom went to position the visor to shield her from the sun, the letter fell right into her lap (if only the day had been cloudy, if only her lap wasn’t so big).
She read the letter addressed to me, as any mother naturally would, and it was signed by my lover – another male.
She entered my bedroom just as I turned down Donna Summer on the eight track tape player. She questioned me about the letter. She said she knew the author of the letter was “that way” and then asked if I was also “that way”.
I could have lied, I could have pretended to lose my hearing, I could have started singing the nonsensical lyrics to “MacArthur Park” or created any number of simple diversions, instead I looked at her straight in the eye and said, “yes”.
She stared at me for a second, waiting for me to follow it up with something…anything like…"but I’ll change," or "I’m only kidding," or "but now I’m celibate, I’ve decided to become a priest…", anything to keep the facade alive. Instead, there was complete and awful silence.
Suddenly, she didn’t know how to react. She became very animated, I believe she muttered a faint, “oh no”, walked a couple of steps to the bedroom door, then stopped, then walked a couple of steps closer to me. All of this incredibly fast, as if she were a wind-up toy.
Next, she started crying and pleading to every saint she knew, and some names I’m sure she was making up. I then found her in the hallway, clutching some religious icons and squirting holy water at me from a plastic bottle. Then she let out this huge wail, dropped all of the religious items and darted towards the living room. I never knew my mother was so agile or athletic.
My father was sitting in the living room and she went to tell him. I had to pass through the living room leave the house. They were both sitting in the living room, staring at me silently, as I slithered through the room. The door felt like an eternity away. My parents looked at me as if I were an alien from another planet, as if a stranger now inhabited the body of their son.
Later that evening, I returned home ready to pick up my belongings and build my new life around those few possessions: a few polyester disco shirts, disco records and my blow dryer. To my surprise, my mom was miraculously over her seizure. In fact, both my parents seemed to be over the initial shock. She came over, held my hand and said, “I just want you to know that we still love you and we will always be here for you.”
Years after this incident, karmic justice gave me the unique experience of having a close family member come out to me. I was out to my family for about six years when my youngest sister decided to tell me she was a lesbian.
When she told me, I had to stop myself before I said the same lines I had heard others use: "Are you sure?" "Are you just trying to be trendy?" "How do you know it’s just not PMS?" I felt so awkward. I felt like putting by my hand on my forehead and pretending to faint!
The problem was that I honestly did not feel happy for her. Instead, I felt apprehensive and concerned. After living a gay lifestyle for eight years, I had first-hand experience on how difficult this lifestyle could be. I knew that homophobia and prejudice still presented a real danger to any gay or lesbian. I worried about her safety from an ever menacing straight world.
And honestly, it seemed fellow members of the gay community were not always supportive either. I’ve seen some of the most horrendous deeds committed against gays and lesbians perpetrated by others in our community. The gay world can be very superficial, leaving many of us struggling with low self-esteem. As a lesbian of color, she would have to face even more obstacles than I did. What about the high rates of substance abuse in our community? And the high suicide rates? As well as the other health and socioeconomic issues that disproportionately affect our community?
No, I was not happy she was a lesbian, life would be easier for her if she were straight.
Ultimately, I knew none of what I thought mattered. I knew she was destined to live her life as a lesbian regardless of my concerns. I held her hand and said, “I just want you to know I still love you and I will always be here for you.”
Maybe not an award winning performance but definitely one worth repeating.
to spin the shameful event from this weekend and cannot believe their laughable excuses: 
