A little less than five years ago I had a conversation with my mother that I had been dreading since I was 12 years old. You know the one I’m talking about, the conversation; the mom-I’m-gay conversation. It wasn’t something I ever wanted to tell her. And up until the moment the words came tumbling out of my mouth I honestly wasn’t sure of their sincerity. I had dated women, I had dated men. I even thought I loved some of them. But the moment I said those words I knew how true they were.
My coming out wasn’t perfect. My mom didn’t look at me knowingly and whisper that she had always known. We didn’t have a heartfelt talk about how we loved each other. We did cry, but it wasn’t the happy tears of bonding. It was a hard and painful conversation. But as imperfect as it was I felt relief the moment I had said the words.
It was a long time before my mother came around to the idea of having a second gay daughter. My sister and I grew up in a very religious family, but my mom had always been the liberal hippy. When my sister came out my mom just sort of smiled. To my sister’s mortification mom would comment on attractive women when they went out together. She was accepting and loving no matter what. But my coming out sort of threw a wrench in all that. She started telling my sister to tone down the gay, and blaming herself and her divorce for my sister and my sexualities. And she cried. She cried a lot.
One day I finally had had enough. I missed my mom. The mom that would talk to me about life and relationships. The mom that had always been open and honest with me about everything. The mom that would answer any questions I ever had, even those about sex. The mom that told me in 7thgrade that she knew my sister was gay even though she hadn’t told her yet and that she wanted me to know she would always be there for me if I ever felt the same. She had said those words, been that perfect mother, but now she was failing to live up to it.
The coming-out-follow-up conversation as I like to call it was in fact worse than the first. There was lots of yelling, a feat considering I had never raised my voice to my mother in all of my years, and lots of crying. My roommate ended up leaving the house because even in her room she could hear me yelling into the phone. After about 20 minutes of calling my mom out on all of the bigotry she had been exuding over the past few months I broke down. The truth was I just missed her being there. I asked her what was so different now. Why I couldn’t talk to her about my relationships now that the other party was a woman when before it had never been an issue. And most importantly, why she acted like she didn’t love me anymore.
About an hour after I got off the phone I got a call from my sister saying mom was holed up in her room. I’m not sure what it was about our fight, but after that things started to look up again. One day while discussing religion mom admitted that my coming out had made her reevaluate her faith and what it meant. She started messaging me when news would come out about new states passing marriage and civil union laws. Two years ago she even met my girlfriend I was dating at the time, the first ever time I introduced someone I was dating to my family.
Things are better now. I have my mom back. When my girlfriend and I broke up I called my mom for comfort. When I accidentally came out to my cousin at dinner, my mom just laughed. When my sister got a new crush, it was my mother and I that made fun of her for acting like a pre-teen girl.
So what is the point of me telling you all of this? I mean I’m not one that thinks every coming out story is worth telling, and I don’t really like to focus on the serious matters in life too much, contrary to what the latest post on this blog may suggest. But here’s the thing; I love my mom with all of my heart, but for about 3 months after my coming out I sort of resented her. Coming out is rarely ever perfect. Most people have to deal with a lot of negativity not only from family members but the world at large. And until you yourself go through it, either as the family member or the person deciding to be brave enough to accept who they are, you can’t know what it is like. My mom had all of these great ideals and beliefs, but when the time came she struggled to accept the truth. It’s just a part of life I guess.
There’s a lot of hate in today’s society. I honestly get scared sometimes thinking about what will happen if America’s current conservative swing keeps building momentum. I deal with bigotry in my life on a daily basis already, even from those I deem friends. I don’t necessarily look gay; I mean I’m not hitting homers in the local women’s softball league or anything. I don’t shout that I’m gay to everyone I meet because it’s really not a big deal. But I’m still faced with hate every day in some shape or form. And until someone knows what that’s like- to have men ogle you when you kiss your girlfriend, to have a friend repeatedly tell you to stop acting so gay or to stop being such a lez, to have a family member stop talking to you or look at you with disdain, to listen to politicians openly hate you because of who you fundamentally are, to work for a company that gives money to those politicians behind your back even though they promote the idea of equality in the workplace, to be told you just haven’t found the right dick yet- until you know what that’s like you don’t have a right to tell me what I should or should not be able to do. Because the truth is every minority group in the world deals with issues of bigotry and hate. We can be sympathetic, and at times perhaps even empathetic, but until you walk a mile in someone else’s shoes it is impossible to know what it is really like for them, for us, for me.
I’m a woman. I’m Irish and Native American. I’m southern. I’m a writer and an avid reader. I’m a college graduate. I’m often times shy. I love Pretty in Pink and Titanic. Mexican and Thai food are my favorite things to eat. The first day of fall is my favorite time of year. I’m obsessed with cute animals. I have a name no one can pronounce when they first meet me. And I’m gay. None of these things are more important than the other. They are all just aspects of me as a whole. If you’re gonna hate someone fine, but do it for a good reason, like they punched your 80 year old grandma in the face. Don’t hate someone because of something they can’t change about who they inherently are. I mean I hate to point out the obvious here, but that’s sort of what the Romans did to Jesus when they killed him for saying he was the Messiah, and look how that turned out…
