LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
My Queer Life: Wishful Thinking |
by Michael Thomas Ford |
I've discovered that my mother doesn't know I'm gay. Really, I think it might be more accurate to say she seems to have forgotten I'm gay, because I don't see how she could possibly not know. But she's pretending to. I found out when she called my sister and, during the course of the conversation, suddenly asked Karen if I was dating any nice girls. Karen, slightly confused, said no, she didn't think I was dating any nice girls. "That's strange," my mother said. "He used to have so many girlfriends." This part is true. I did use to have girlfriends. I even, briefly, got myself engaged to one of them. But we spent more time shopping together than we did making out, and even when I had my tongue in her mouth and my hand up her shirt I was thinking about how much nicer it would be to be doing the same thing with my baseball-player roommate. Anyway, that was a long time ago. I haven't pitched woo with a woman since college, and I'm sure my mother must have noticed that I passed into my third decade with no apparent wedding plans. Even if she didn't, I've written a lot of gay-themed material, some of which she's seen. So this sudden cluelessness thing baffles me. Perhaps she believes because so much time has gone by without me actively seeing anyone that I've forgotten I'm gay, and if no one brings it up I'll start dating girls again. She did the same thing when I was a kid and announced that I was going to be something outlandish when I grew up, like a rodeo clown, or one of the Rockettes. She just smiled and nodded. Eventually I would forget all about it and move on to something else. I think she's hoping I've moved on yet again. No one in my family ever talks about anything personal, so it's really not shocking that this subject has never come up before. But the thing is, I was sure that we had addressed it in our own special way. Besides the books I've written, there was a conversation my mother and I had about religion, during which I am sure that I outed myself. I've even written about it, for heaven's sake, so it must be true. But not to hear her tell it. Despite all the evidence, she still seems to be waiting for me to settle down with a nice woman. Now I'm in a quandary. Part of me is thrilled that I have a chance to out myself to a major figure in my life. I've never really gotten to do that before, primarily because no one I know really gives a rat's ass about such things. My father certainly didn't. None of my friends did. I guess my girlfriend in college was a little upset when she found out, but only because she said she hated it when her mother was right about her boyfriends. Now I have an opportunity to surprise someone. I've dreamed about such a moment for years. But now that it's here, I don't really care anymore. In fact, I resent having to come out at all, to anyone. Why is it any of their business what I am or what I do? Why do gay people get stuck having to explain ourselves to the people in our lives? They don't have to justify to us why they love the people they love. Why should we? So I think what I'm going to do is not say a word. Sure, it would be fun to call mom up and say, "Hey, I hear you were asking after my girlfriends. Well, guess what? I have a boyfriend now. How do you like them apples?" But I know what she'd do. She'd pretend I didn't say it. That's our family's way. A friend of mine calls it Baptist Selective Memory. That's where you look straight at the obvious and insist it isn't there. "It's too bad about uncle Henry being such a raging alcoholic," you might say, and mom will smile and reply, "Oh, honey, he just acts that way because he was struck by lightning during that big storm in '65. You know that." "Too bad about the Porter girl getting knocked up and having to go away for an abortion," is countered with, "Isn't it wonderful that little Lou-Ann can be an exchange student to France this summer? I asked her to bring me back a beret." You can't fight this kind of mental illness, so you might as well join it. I used to think that when I settled down with the man I loved I would want to take him home just to show the family I could do it, that gay men period could do it. But now that I have him, I see no reason to subject Dave to being called "Mike's special friend" and being asked if he is seeing any nice girls. Instead of trying to explain to my mother, or to anyone else in my family, that I happen to be a man who loves men, I think I'm just going to let those who don't want to acknowledge it keep wondering. Or, even better, they can make up their own reasons for what they see as my ongoing bachelorhood. "Is Mike gay?" someone will ask my mother eventually. "Oh, no," she'll say. "Don't you remember that big storm in '82?" Michael Thomas Ford is the Lambda Literary Award-winning author of Alec Baldwin Doesn't Love Me and That's Mr. Faggot to You. He welcomes e-mail at Shopiltee@aol.com or in care of Letters from CAMP Rehoboth. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 10, No. 1, Feb. 4, 2000. |