LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
Weekend Beach Bum: (Gay) Children Should Be Seen and Not Heard |
by Eric Morrison |
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 worldthe smartest, the least disagreeable, the most politein 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. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 13, No. 4, May 2, 2003 |