Coming Out Month: My Coming Out Story (Reprise)

This post first appeared here on September 17, 2009.  In keeping with the Coming Out Month theme this October, on "This Gay Relationship," I thought I'd return to it, (as it turns out) edit the hell out of it, and present it once again. 

If you have yet to come out, I hope my story inspires you and gives you strength.  If you have come out of the closet, and want to share your story to help my readers on their own journeys, please email me by clicking on Send Mail at the top right hand side. 

I was invited to attend a New Year's Eve dance to be held on December 31, 1985.  The person who invited me was a customer of the branch where I worked at the time--a tall, huge man, with a face like Shrek and an ironic name.  Tiny.  Yet, despite his intimidating (even frightening) size and appearance, Tiny was sweet, gentle, and endearing.  Over time, I came to trust him.  Without question, he sensed how tough the struggle to accept myself as a gay man had been.          

For many weeks, Tiny kept working on me, extending the same invitation over and over.  And, consistently, I refused.  One of my colleagues, Sue, whom I'd told I was gay, was on Tiny's side. I'd confided in her how difficult being gay was.  So, every time Tiny came in the branch and tried to cajole me into attending, Sue supported him.  "You should go," she'd say.  "What do you have to lose?"  Thankfully, they both persisted.  Who knows where I'd be today if they hadn't?

The night of the dance, I was scared shitless.  The idea of two men dancing together, something I'd never seen before, made me uneasy.  I was convinced I'd see a freak show when I walked into the room.  Creepy, older, gay men, some of whom had come on to me over the years, would be there and approach me.  Open sex would be going on everywhere, and I'd be attacked and sexually assaulted.  Obviously, I didn't have a high opinion of gay people in general and gay men in particular.

I'm pleased to report nothing my wild imagination invented beforehand actually happened.  I arrived at the makeshift dancehall before everyone else, except for the bartender, Ross.  My interest was piqued the minute I walked in and saw him.  Ross couldn't have been more different from what I expected to see.  Not only was he young, but also he was cuter than hell.  I hoped I'd have the chance to meet him during the evening and get to know him better (alas, Ross was already partnered).  

Over the next hours, several customers I knew from the bank showed up, confirming, in some cases, suspicions I'd had they were gay, too, and, in others, shocking the hell out of and embarrassing me. I'm not sure who was more uncomfortable--them, when they saw the teller from the bank who processed their transactions, or me, because I'd have to serve them again in the future, and pretend like we'd had no contact with each other at a local New Year's Eve gay dance.  

The music was exactly the kind I loved and couldn't sit still to.  Many of the tunes I owned copies of in my own record collection, and many others instantly appealed to me because of their persistent beat and catchy melodies.  I was scared to death someone would ask me to dance, but, the way I was bopping around, I guess it was only a matter of time before someone would.  One thing was for sure:  watching two men dance together became not only natural but fun, and I began to breath a little easier.

I met the most amazing young man that night, who told me he was from Vancouver, which sounded exotic.  I have no recollection of his name, but he sure was attractive and into me.  We spent a good portion of the evening together, dancing almost non-stop.  Occasionally, we took a breather, returning to our seats and yelling at each other over the blaring music.  I'm sure the opportunity was there for me to take him home at the end of the night, but, gratefully, the subject never came up.    

The following day, I was invited to a family New Year's dinner at my aunt and uncle's, and, when I told my mother I'd gone out to celebrate the turn of the year at a dance, rather than stay home as usual and watch Dick Clark's "New Years Rockin' Eve," she was surprised.  But I couldn't give her any details about where I'd gone or what had happened, not while everyone was able to overhear our conversation.  So I told her if she was interested to give me a call after we both returned home.  

I was on a natural high following my experience at the dance.  For the first time ever, I didn't feel as negative about being gay.  The people I'd seen or met were not the freaks I'd thought they would be.  In fact, they were regular, everyday folks just like me, and, thrilled with how the evening had gone, I left the dance in the early hours, thinking it might just be all right to be gay after all.  Perhaps my future wouldn't be as bleak as I'd always expected it would be.    

Feeling emboldened, I moved headlong into telling my mother, the most important person in my life, the one whose love I valued and needed the most, that her son was gay.  As much as possible, I tried to steer her to that realization.  I did everything I could to get her to say the word so I didn't have to, including telling her I'd gone to a place where gay people were.  I prayed she'd say something like, "So, you're gay then?" Instead, she said, "Why did you go there?" She wasn't making this easy for me.      

I hemmed and hawed for a long time, trying to draw from her what I couldn't say myself.  But she didn't budge.  It's like the thought was completely beyond her.  Finally, I blurted it out. "Mom, I'm gay."  The word I loathed caught in my throat.  It sounded so leaden, so consequential, so final.  Once uttered, it's impossible to take back.  The tone of my voice was impatient, as if to ask, how could you not get this?  I gave you all the hints I could.  Why did you make me say the word?

"Oh, Ricky," my mother whispered, finally.  She began to cry.  As a kid, watching my mother cry was one of the most difficult things for me.  I'd seen it happen many times when I was growing up.  My mother spent most of my early childhood alone with me and my sister, waiting for her husband to return from work, from being out with friends, from drinking at the Legion.  I swore I'd never hurt her, or make her cry, the way my father had.  But, here I was, doing exactly what I said I wouldn't.

"Didn't you know?" I asked her then, all the positive feelings from the night before draining from my body, desperate for her to say she'd had her suspicions over the years.  It's not that I'd never given her or my father any clues--as a boy, I'd played with dolls, gravitated to my mother in the kitchen rather than my father in the living room, never dated a single girl, couldn't play sports, wore the latest fashions and hair styles, had effeminate mannerisms, and spoke in an affected way. How could she not know?

"No," my mother answered, "I didn't know.  I had no idea."  Even more upset now, she cautioned me between sobs not to say anything to my father; she didn't know how he'd react to the news that his only son was gay.  As it turned out, I didn't have to say anything to him.  Over the next several days, my mother was so upset that my father asked her repeatedly what was wrong.  Finally, she told him.  When I asked her what he'd said, she told me his response was, "At least he's not in trouble with the law."

It's no overstatement to say that, at the time, I thought the world as I'd known it was over.  When I got off the phone from talking with my mother, I was as upset as I'd ever been.  I was certain my relationship with her would never be the same.  In tears myself, I turned to the only person I could:  Tiny.  He'd given me his phone number prior to the dance, just in case I needed to talk to someone.  Gratefully, he was available to support me while I went through the most difficult time of my life.      

In the end, my family didn't turn their backs on, reject, or disown me--by this time, my mother had told my aunt (her sister) and my grandmother (her mother)--although some time passed before I felt welcome to return home for our usual Sunday dinner.  In retrospect, I'm stunned at how quickly, relatively speaking, my parents assimilated the news about my sexual orientation. I'd struggled with it for years; in a matter of weeks, circumstances between us felt like they might get back to normal.

But I don't want to paint a completely rosy picture.  For some time after my parents knew, I felt ashamed around them.  I couldn't help but think I was a disappointment.  At the time, there was no hope of me being a father, so I thought they were concerned the family name would end with me.  Plus, while my mother and I became increasingly comfortable talking about my homosexuality--even going into detail about my first lover, Adrian--my father and I didn't bring it up until over twenty years later.  

For some time after I came out, I treaded carefully around my parents.  I always wondered what they thought of me now that they knew, if they saw me the same way.  I also worried I might antagonize them in some way, and they'd use my being gay against me, making me feel worse than I already did.  But that never happened.  If anything, I think we were more careful around each other.  I believe they knew how difficult coming out had been for me and, in their own ways, wanted to show support.  
  
Over the following months and years, I learned the coming out process never ends.  Some time after my parents knew, I had to consider how to tell my sister, who was half way around the world in Saudi Arabia, on a two-year work program at the hospital there.  While I could have told her over the phone, I decided to write a letter instead, partly because telephone conversations were difficult with signal delays, and partly because I thought she would not have as much difficulty with the news.

Oddly, her reaction was not at all what I expected.  When I didn't receive a return letter within a reasonable period, I suspected something was up.  So, early one morning before work, I called her on the phone and was greeted by anger.  My sister wasn't angry that I was gay, or that I'd written to tell her that.  Rather, she was angry my revelation had upset our mother.  My sister didn't want our mother to be hurt anymore than I did.  In time, though, she came to accept me as everyone did.