Home for the holidays: Please pass the
pillar of salt.
LADY
an d the
TRAMP
Deluxe Pet Grooming
B Y
M I C H A E L
’ ’
S.
R E E D
empathize with those who run screaming
from the Christmas frenzy. I join in the
cnorus of those who hate shopping and loathe
Christmas carols. 1 have been called a Scrooge, a
Grinch and all the other epithets reserved for
those of us who face the world with a reasonable
mind at this particular time of year.
Perhaps it is the sense of obligation that those
I
Salvation Army bell ringers clang into me while
they stand there, ringing for the poor, as I bustle
into Meier & Frank with my charge card squeezed
in my hot little hand. Perhaps it is the knowledge
that no matter how I try to budget, 1 will owe
enough after the holidays to feed a small Third
World country for a month.
Then there's family.
This will be the First year I bring a lover home
for the holidays.
I told my mother that my lover would be
coming with me to spend Christmas with our
family this year. Accustomed by now to my
habit of interjecting odd circumstances into her
life, she hardly batted an eye. In fact, she wanted
to know what kind o f gift would be appropriate
for him.
But then we began talking about the logistics
involved. Since my grandmother will be there
also. I wondered how to approach explaining
my lover's presence. Mother maintained that
Grandma needn't know anything, that my lover
could simply be introduced as my roommate
because Grandma is old and wouldn't under
stand. I theorized that maybe it was because she
was old that she just might understand. That
theory was received with one o f those small,
tinkling, skeptical laughs for which my mother
is renowned. It was, however, a laugh I re
sponded to by saying, “ It’s bad enough having to
keep a secret life to strangers. My family de
serves better than lies.”
And once again I realized a vast, hurting gap
between myself and my family.
She has said to me. “ You're growing away
from us.” I can only nod. I know. I know.
How much simpler everything would be if—
instead of bringing my beautiful man home for
Christmas — I was bringing a woman I was to
marry. We wouldn't have to face this gap. Or
would we? A fiancee could present a whole new
set of conflicts. The fiancee might very well
resent the place my mother holds in my heart. In
fact, it's a sure bet. My mother is a tough act for
most women to follow.
The gap becomes wider all the time because
o f my growing intolerance of those who cannot
accept me for who and what I am. Politics
aside, it boils down to self-respect. I want to
walk through this world with my head held
high. I want to forget fear. There's not enough
time to accomplish all that must be accom
plished. so there is no point in wasting precious
nmc by keeping secret that which is integral to
my identity. Especially with the family for
whom — according to my mother — the adage
o f blood being thicker than water is something I
should remember.
She has said that what goes on in my bedroom
is my business and she doesn’t understand why
it’s necessary to tell people.
I’ve heard the argument before. I’ve been
told, “ Well, I don’t go around telling everyone
that I’m heterosexual, why is it so important
that everyone know you’re homosexual?’’
I feel the need to tell people I am gay simply
because I resent the assumption that I might be a
heterosexual.
And the point isn’t what my partner and I do
in the bedroom. The point is, w e’re gay. which
is not simply a matter of sex. It is a matter of
love. To present my partner as my roommate is
an aching misrepresentation that devalues what
we mean to each other. It implies that what we
have is something to be ashamed of. to hide.
Why should my love for another man be
considered something from which “ innocent”
people must be protected? That’s all it is: love.
It's waking up beside him and the fact that his is
the first face I see in the morning and the last
face I see at night. It's someone with whom I
may dance, do laundry, fight with, and fix sup
pers for. It is. quite simply, someone with whom
my life can be shared.
My mother is a beautiful, intelligent, com
passionate woman. She has been there when I
needed her. She has asked very little of me, and
now she is merely asking for a peaceful Christ
mas. There is a part of me that wants to believe
it is a reasonable request. And although she is
not asking me to lie directly, she is asking me to
just omit certain details. She would like my
lover and I to behave as though w e're room
mates, not lovers (this, although specifically for
grandm other’s well being, would make her and
my father infinitely more comfortable).
That means — in order to keep up a good
front — we must kiss in secret, not hold hands,
and be careful what we talk about. I have be
come less adept at deception, especially when
my lover (who does not worry about these
things) touches me and — in order to keep up
the front — I move away. I do not like myself
much when I do that. It does very little for my
self-respect.
So the quandary I face, which continually
pulls me farther away from my parents, is that
— in order to be a dutiful son — I must provide
a pretense in a place where it shouldn’t be
necessary. It makes Christmas an event which
leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I hate to lie by
pretending to be something that I’m not.
But, I tell myself, at least my mother and I
still communicate. Many gay children do not
have that luxury with their parents. I tell her
how I feel, she tells me how she feels. Some
times we hurt each other with the things we say.
I place my gayness in a positive light. She
believes it is a weapon I wield to cause pain.
Neither o f us is willing to budge. It doesn't,
however, stop me from loving her. or her from
loving me. Like any long-term relationship, it
just makes the loving a trial sometimes.
So. I am tom. To be a dutiful child. I must
give up more than a little self-respect And I
cannot help but thinking that if I give this one
thing. I will be spending more than I can afford
It will mean I truly am a stranger in a place 1
once called home.
•
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Why should my love for another man be considered something
from which innocent people must be protected?
That's all it is: love.
‘ ‘
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