 I'm
Coming Outby Jeffrey L. Williams |
| Jeffrey L. Williams, as you might recall
from previous issues of this newsletter is a non-fiction writer who has
written the first part of "From
Kenya with Love" and "Bryce
in the City." This is his own coming out story. Please write to let Jeffrey know what you thought of his article. He will be glad to hear from you |
It was one of the
coldest days that winter. The windows were brisk with ice growing on
the inside. The walls were freezing to what appeared to be well below
normal and for some odd reason, the lights in my bedroom flickered on
and off as if to give me a message of sorts. When the lights flickered,
all I could think of was my fear of the dark when I was a young boy. I
would sleep with a night light on and always underneath the cover to
not expose any part of my body to “monsters” or “restless spirits”.
Though I attribute most of my fears to the program I used to watch
before bed, Unsolved Mysteries, it still took me until the age of
seventeen to break out of the habit of totally covering myself under
the blankets before falling asleep. The cold was also a sign to me. One
day when I was a young boy—my best guess is the age of eleven, I was
asked to go outside and play with my friends. The winter had been a
particularly bad one in Rochester, NY but I had dressed appropriately
for it; so I thought. Since I was outside playing in my friends’ yard,
my Mom decided to go do a little food shopping at the Wegmans
supermarket. Within the first half hour of playing, I began to feel my toes freeze up and harden almost as if I was a piece of meat in a deep freeze. As the pain grew I began to panic. My mother was gone and she had mistakenly left the door locked. My friend’s tried to walk me back to their home but my feet hurt so badly that I couldn't move. I didn’t want to move. I was afraid of them breaking or something. So I just sat there on the steps of the front porch waiting for her swift return. When mother finally arrived, she had in her hand three heavy bags of groceries that she dropped at the first glimpse of her nearly frozen son. When asked why she hadn’t returned home, mother replied: “I didn’t know you’d be stupid enough to leave your keys in the house. That was your choice and you made it” From that day forward, I guess I learned that my mother was pretty harsh, though loving as well. I knew that in my suffering, she may not be totally comforting and may assume that whatever mistakes that are made in my life, all were as a result of a bad choice, even if the “mistake” wasn’t a choice at all. That cold winter day in January of two thousand one, I had been sick suddenly. My nose was stuffed and my head was aching like never before. The pain felt as if I had been run over by a NYC taxi cab as they are speeding dangerously for their next fare. That is when it all happened. My stupid mistake had cost me unimaginable scrutiny and embarrassment. My mother stormed into my bedroom and demanded answers. She wanted answers to questions immediately but she hadn’t asked any. “I want answers and I want them now! No fucking bullshit, Jeff. Answer me honestly or I will make you!” After several unsuccessful tries to calm her down, she finally explained to me calmly what she was referring to. “OK, let me calm down and ask you this rationally. Are you a fag?” My jaw dropped for two reasons, 1. If she thought that was rational, she was sadly mistaken. She was as rational as Ricky Ricardo drinking Absinthe while tripping on acid. 2. My deepest darkest secret and number one fear had been realized. She found out I was gay. Only one question remained: how? Before I could ask that question, mother went into her pocket and pulled out a letter that was addressed to me from a former fling of mine. His name was Eddie Bellissimo. He was a training chef from Italy and a fabulous kisser. We had met in Central Park after a-would-be date called and cancelled on me. After a few dates, Eddie went back to Italy and promised me that he would be in touch. I’ll be damned if he didn’t keep his promise. The letter never got to me. Mother dear opened it up when she saw that the letter was addressed to Dearest Jeff and from a male names Eddie from Italy. That was enough to arouse her suspicion and prompt her to open the letter. When she read the terribly romantic letter, it enraged her. Mother began throwing things onto the floor of my room from the dresser and yelling to me that I cannot be gay because I was her son and that gays are often forms of Satan. Yes, she is one of those terribly religious hypocritical types that I tried all my life to avoid. Now here it stood tall loud and proud while condemning her gay son. After reading the letter with my mother looking over my shoulder crying, I began to cry too but not for the same reason. Mother was crying because of her gay son, I cried because of my dear Eddie and his beautiful letter. When her tears began to fall onto the paper and nearly rub away the ink, I folded the letter up and put it in my pocket. Then I stood up and looked my mother straight in the eye and said to her just as loud, and proud as she had spoken to me: “Mother, I am gay.” Mother was always over dramatic as she passed out onto my bed uttering over and over the eternal question with no answer: Why? I didn’t comfort her though. I knew that she was crying because she wanted me to be something that I am not. She was crying because I was something bad in her eyes and I couldn’t, therefore, try and comfort her. I didn’t want her to feel that in her bigoted tears for me, I would just try and come up with excuses as to why I am the way I am because I have none. I am what I am and I gave her the choice right then and there to either accept it or not. I told her to like it or love it but I am not going to apologize, make excuses or ask for forgiveness because I believe that I am the way I am for a reason. I may have to adapt to a straight world but no more will I have to pretend to be something that I am not. No more did I have to have my “girlfriends” or female friends, (as I now refer to them) call my house pretending to be girls that are interested in me. No more did I have to pretend to go on dates with girls and no more did I have to suffer the humiliation of having girls meet my mother and kiss me on the cheek to make things more convincing to her. Dear god how uncomfortable that was for me and my friend Sharon. I was finally free and happy. I knew what I wanted to do with my life. I had a goal, plans and determination. I have the driven force within me to be anything I wanted and that is what hasn’t changed about me. Those things are what are really important. Confidence, will power, determination and strength are some of the most important things that define a person. Not their predetermined internal mechanism called homosexuality. My mother is still learning that lesson. She is still coping with my sexuality but on her own terms. I respect that as long as she keeps her promise to me by letting me live my life on my own with absolutely no input from her. That, believe it or not, is difficult for any mother to do whether she is the parent of a gay child or not. |