Last weekend, having neglected my friend
Laurie as of late due to my increased hours at work and spending long
hours sewing silver string beads onto a bodysuit, I took her out to
dinner at one of my favorite ethnic restaurants. With its colorful
tapestries, soothing music, and spicy smell, you’re taken to Morocco
as soon as you pass through the thick velvet curtains at the entrance.
The female belly dancers don’t do much for me, although I greatly
admire their dedication to their art, and I wouldn’t mind having a
couple of those sparkling outfits so I wouldn’t have to spend my
Saturday nights sewing string beads onto a body suit.
Seating at the
restaurant is very cozy, and on a busy night, you’re likely to be
bumping elbows with a stranger as you dip your fingers into the
delectable three-salad appetizer platter. (Apparently, Moroccans feel
that silverware is for wimps.) Not long after I had pinched a hunk of
stewed eggplant between a piece of pita bread, in walked the perfect
nuclear family, and they sat down right across from us, close enough
that I could hear almost every word they said. At first, it was like a
Norman Rockwell painting or a modern-day American Gothic.
Dad, Mom, a brother,
and a sister on their night out to sample some fantastic food. I kept
wondering where they were hiding the dog and the .5 child.
Everything about the
family struck me as classic Americana. Dad was polite and jovial,
interjecting a slightly off-color joke from time to time, going on and
on about his workday, then, occasionally, withdrawing into himself and
silently contemplating, looking slightly irritated. Mom was demure and
docile, laughing quietly at her husband’s jokes, sharing a short,
quaint anecdote now and then, correcting the children when Dad hadn’t
noticed that they were chewing with their mouth open or plucking each
other’s ears. Little sister, all of about six years old, was curling
her mouth at some of the spicier food, coyly batting her eyelashes at
big strong Daddy, twirling her long blonde hair between two fingers,
squealing occasionally in the way many little girls are prone to do.
And big brother was
setting off my gaydar like a dozen church bells.
This very tall,
slightly lanky teenager, with his short dirty blond hair and ruddy
cheeks, stood out from his family, and not only because he was at least
six inches taller than either of his parents. (Watching him play with
his sister almost reminded me of The Jolly Green Giant and Sprout.) At
the risk of sounding narcissistic, considering what a handsome young man
he was, he reminded me of myself at his age (aside from his remarkable
height). As I sat and observed the dynamics of this living portrait of
an American family, I felt I’d been given a chance to see myself
twelve years ago, as if transported by the ghost of Closet Past.
I don’t think he
spoke a complete sentence throughout the seven-course meal. Just as I
had at his age, he’d figured out that the less you open your mouth,
the less chance you have to put your foot in it. From the few words he
did speak, I could tell that his slightly effeminate voice was not
exactly the thundering boom of a future drill sergeant, and his quick
cadence and soft lisp were probably anything but music to his father’s
ears. He wasn’t being sullen because it was in his nature. In fact, he
tickled and poked his little sister throughout the meal.
It seemed that the rest
of the family was used to his silence, his guarded body gestures, and
his one-word responses to questions.
Just as I had at his
age, he had learned that a frequent, stellar smile makes everyone think
you are so happy that you just don’t need to talk. This young man was
the epitome of manners and courtesy and agreed with everyone else all
the time. I quickly diagnosed him with what some psychologists call
“the good boy syndrome.” Gay males often find great shelter by
trying to become the best little boy in the world—the smartest, the
least disagreeable, the most polite—in a vain attempt to become
“good enough” and win love and respect. Then, as many things in
nature have a tendency to become their opposites, one day, the “good
boy” rebels with a vengeance and becomes every bit as bad as he used
to be good. If he’s lucky and he’s young enough to still change his
habits, the pendulum swings back toward the middle and he’s a pleasant
mix of angel and devil, as most well-adjusted people are.
As
Laurie and I nibbled on the honey-drenched baklava and I watched this
American family trickle out the door, (with the best little boy in the
world holding open the door for everyone, of course), my head and my
heart were overwhelmed with questions. Would he ever come to terms with
his true self and come out? If he did, would he find in his family the
same unwavering love and support I’ve found in mine? How much would he
have to rebel to release all those painful memories of holding his
tongue, wrestling his desires, and sitting silently through family
dinners as he obsessed about his worth as a human being, and would his
pendulum swing back to center? I licked the sticky honey from my
fingertips. In an effort to erase these questions from my mind, I lost
myself in the soothing sounds of the exotic music and a mesmerizing
rainbow-colored wall tapestry.
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