KNOWING BUT NOT SAYING: BEING GAY IN THE FAMILY
TED KERR / ted@vueweekly.com
Growing up gay you learn how to record your life in two ways: an edited version that you can share with everyone and a second one that is the truth, full of excitement and shame.
The first version is the one you share with your family, it is your way of protecting them from the things about yourself that scare you the most.
All children pick up signs that tell them what is acceptable in the world around them, what will cause grief, what will bring joy. As a gay kid you are even more sensitive to signs and signals, especially to things around gender and sexuality. You might not know what the words mean, but your ears perk up when you hear the word faggot, your heart drops when someone says the word sissy. You fear deep down that you are these things so you do everything in your power to distance yourself from the words and the feelings. In the process you push people away, creating a moat of unspoken words and Swiss cheese stories.
I think about all this now, almost a week after my Grandma died. She survived the depression in rural Europe, a bombed out London during WW II, endless winters on the plains of Alberta, the death of her only child at a young age, the loss of her husband in the bed right beside her and yet under the childlike guise of wanting to protect her I couldn’t bring myself to tell my Grandma that I was gay—and now it is too late.
I was close to her. Really, I was my Grandma’s only living relative and she was my last connection to a past. I was her precariously last genetic link on this chaotic planet of strangers. We were each other’s past and future. I see now how I kept parts of myself from her as a way of preserving our bond, a misguided attempt at protecting her, when really it was me that was afraid.
I would visit her at least once every two months at her home in Innisfail, staying the weekend, collecting the stack of Reader’s Digest books and MacLean’s magazines she had saved for me, spending the Saturday night talking about history, current events, politics and the plight of celebrities. I would call her about once a week, listen to what was new in town and then tell her about work and friends, nothing more.
Last week, as I sat in palliative care watching my Grandma sleep into death, I realized that the time had passed in which I could tell her about who I really was and whom I loved. I knew that I was not going to play out a cliché, self-serving scene of confession where I got to feel better by unloading my baggage on to her soul that was preparing to move on up.
She didn’t deserve that. She had never tried to stop me from telling her I was gay and I had never attempted to tell her. I knew I was gay, I was pretty sure she knew I was gay and the silent, shared knowing was going to be the closest we would come to acknowledging it in this lifetime.
By not asking about girlfriends, relationships, marriages or the prospects of great grandchildren she was communicating to me that she knew I was different. By keeping the silence I was confirming to her that yes, indeed I was.
Although I could blame a culture that supported this unspoken agreement as an excuse to why I never felt secure enough to talk to my Grandma about me being gay I must take responsibility for my actions. It was me who chose not to break through the comfortable impasse we had reached and thus robbed us both of an opportunity to grow and transcend a little in this lifetime.
By not “coming out” to my Grandma I gave life to the culturally inherited, wrongly held, internalized homophobic belief that says people will not accept you, that loved ones will turn their backs. I didn’t give her an opportunity to prove it wrong and I didn’t give myself a chance to be accepted by her.
Earlier this week, after seeing my Grandma laid to rest, my boyfriend took photos of me in my Grandparent’s old neighbourhood. Standing there paralyzed by posing for the camera I remembered pacing those streets convincing my 11-year-old self how easy it was going to be to keep my gayness a secret for the rest of my life, resolving never to get married to a lady and just keep my feelings about other dudes to myself.
Of course the resolution was not to keep. I “came out,” got involved, made friends, had sex, found myself in relationships with men, all without sharing it with my Grandma. It was what I knew to do.
Sitting on her couch one Saturday night a week or two after she saw Brokeback Mountain in the Innisfail Theatre, my Grandma mentioned how sad she was that the two cowboys never got to walk off into the Alberta sunset together.
It was a tender, small, giving moment that I let pass. In all her generosity and kindness she crossed the moat and I chose to remain uncomfortable and silent. I see now that by saying that, in her own way, my Grandma had said it all for both of us.
No comments:
Post a Comment