For me, my grandparents live in another plane
of existence from the other people who know
me. They are ignorant of the lows of my life.
They haven’t seen the darkness that sometimes
exists behind my smile. They love me for who
I am, but they don’t entirely know me. And if
this separation wasn’t enough, to me they still
exist in a land where problems can be solved by
cookies, hugs, dominoes, and stirring clarinet
solos.
Afternoons at my grandparents are practically
torn from the handbook on how to craft a fam-
ily sitcom from the 1950s. I might cut the lawn
or help my grandfather fix the car, but then
we’d always enjoy some snacks (typically cook-
ies with a glass of milk) and play dominoes or
card games. And that’s not some memory from
the past either. We literally did this when I went
back home last Christmas.
It’s not that I feel that I can’t talk to them.
They’ve never presented themselves as any-
thing aside from loving and supportive people.
My grandmother even cut out every article I
wrote in college and at my internship and saved
them in a book. She might even do it for my col-
umn if she knew. But aside from the aforemen-
tioned gaps and concerns, it feels like we live
in different worlds. It’s like that time I tried to
explain how email and viruses work. We’ll talk
ourselves in circles, get frustrated, give up, and
play dominoes instead. The idea of explaining
gradients of human sexuality to them, specifi-
cally, my sexuality, seems as simple as explain-
ing how black holes work. And where do you
even start with a conversation like that? And in
the interest of being honest, I’d have to explain
my previous detrimental behaviors. Just like
with my parents, I’m tasked with shattering
their ideal image of me and rebuilding it, and
there’s no simple way to do that.
Years ago, my grandmother once asked, “What
happened to you?” Her voice strained with con-
cern as she pointed at the scars on my forearm.
I looked her in the eyes and replied, “Oh, you
know me. I’m always so clumsy. I … fell down
that hill behind my apartment on the way back
from class.” I laughed and we accepted that as
fact.
Of all the lessons I’ve learned in my life, none
is more poignant than the lessons I’ve learned
about the truth — the truth is simple. It’s what
comes after the truth that is difficult. §
Scott MacDonald is an award winning young journalist
originally from Idaho. He writes The Simple Truth for Just
Out. Reach Scott at Scott@JustOut.com
November 2012
JustOut.com
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