Dear Mama, I Wish You'd Known

Dear Mama,

First of all, I'd like to wish you a Happy Mother's Day. As a small child, it was always all about you. You were the sun I orbited around. Like for many only children, this was bound to happen. This remained true for our entire lives.

A late 1950s upbringing in our small town in the Deep South was what Americana was all about. We were a trio of mother, father, and child. We attended church every Sunday at the Baptist church in the middle of town. We went to mid-week services most Wednesdays. I enjoyed laughing and running around afterward, playing tag with the other little boys and girls. We had potlucks and picnics, baptisms and baby christenings. Our Southern lives were deeply rooted in tradition.

Pop worked hard at the mill. I feel that his place of employment wore him down like he did to the wood he cut daily. He was a hard man. I never felt like I knew quite where I stood with him.

I learned quickly to fly under his radar. I'd play a bit quieter when he arrived home from work. I learned to give him time to clean up and have a few beers or a couple of drinks before being too chatty with him. I've always been a perceptive person, even during childhood.

I remember Pop being a funny guy some of the time. He'd relax in front of our black and white TV, have a couple of well-earned drinks and laugh his head off at The Honeymooners and I Love Lucy. He'll yell at baseball games, quietly curse after a few too many, and take a bit more of an interest in me as the evening wore on.

You didn't need drinks to pay attention to me. You taught me so many things when I was a young child. I loved being able to read by the time I was five, going on six years old. I feel that I learned far more from you than I did during grade school. You played songs on our large radio in the living room and taught me to dance. We stepped, dipped, sang, laughed, and loved.

We cooked together, too. I loved learning to bake and reveled in getting to help you make suppers for the three of us. We had our wonderful bonding time alone each day before Pop would return home from the mill. I remember the first time you let me make a pie all by myself, with very little help, just supervision.

Pop had gone fishing that morning and I couldn't wait to show him my creation. I had waited impatiently for hours to present it to him. I must have been about 8 years old and patience was not a virtue I had much of. He sauntered through the door, about a six-pack into his weekend.

"POP! LOOKIT what I made for you!" I beamed, presenting my apple pie that was still warm. I almost tripped over your apron which was too long for me, but steadied myself to present him his pie.

He looked at me, with your apron on, showing him the thing I'd made for him that I was the proudest of at this stage of my young life.

"Whoa Boy, you're making pies now? In your mom's apron? When did you become a sissy?" He snickered like it was just some big joke. I didn't find it funny and couldn't tell if he was laughing with me or at me. I was destroyed as soon as his laughter subsided.

The tears welled up in my big blue eyes in an instant. I felt shame flush over me and disappointment. I caught your shocked look and ran to my room, the door slamming shut. My tears flowed like a flooded river.

I heard a sharp exchange in the kitchen and the front door slam. He left in a huff, not one to usually admit his wrongdoings or apologize for them. Good. I hoped he'd never come back.

You came into my room and consoled me. You held me in your arms and told me how proud you were of me and loved that I enjoyed baking with you. You explained the way things were in older days gone past when Pop was young like me. How hard he had to work on his parents' farm and do the work of a man, while yet still a child. He was raised in a different time.

I couldn't help but wonder, "Weren't you raised during those same, older times?" Why were you so wonderful, but he was so stubborn and moody? I never had to catch you in the right mood as I did him. You were always there, always friendly, always wonderful. I felt loved and protected while you held me during my disappointment.

He didn't apologize that night at supper. Not during the meal. Not while he helped himself to two large slices of the shame-pie I had baked. He didn't seem to notice his defeated son poking at his dinner, wishing that his father loved him like the way you did, Mama.

You were overly complimentary to try to compensate for the numerous areas he lacked in. You were doing double duty in the parenting department that night. As you did most days and nights. I'll always cherish you for this and a zillion other reasons.

Time went by, seasons changed, and I grew into my awkward, lonely, teenage years. Pop seemed to think I was a late-bloomer. I didn't get the impression that he felt I was a teenage Cassanova. He made frequent snarky comments about how I was always in my room writing and not chasing all the pretty girls in town.

I didn't give a damn what he thought. He was the last person I cared to impress. I had no such interests in romance or girls like most teenage boys did in our little shit-town. I had other interests that were far more of a priority.

Writing took me to places that were far happier than our little home in the Deep South. Characters who were so much better than my father. Heroines who were based on you, Mama. All the brilliance, bravery, and kindness these women showed off in my writing was inspired by you.

As time passed and graduation drew closer, Pop became sick. Breathing in all the sawdust during the many years of working in that lumber mill caught up to his health.

The many packs of cigarettes he smoked during this time also contributed to the situation. People didn't fully realize how bad smoking was for your lungs back then. He was gone two months before I graduated.

We both felt numb, Mama. He had left us alone at far too young of an age, the both of us. As angry as I was at him for much of my upbringing, I never wanted him to die. I just wished for him to be different, to be a better man. To be more like you. I was scared for my future. I was especially frightened for yours.

We had planned for me to attend UC Berkeley that fall. My writing had won numerous contests locally and I had been able to write for the high school newspaper, then the small local newspaper after that. A full-ride scholarship was offered and I had triumphantly accepted it.

I gazed into your eyes after Pop's funeral and those same crocodile tears formed in my big blue eyes again. I wasn't going to leave you to be alone in the fall. I couldn't. You sensed what I was about to say. And you'd have none of it.

"Son, your mama is going to be just fine. I'm going to stay here in town where I belong, and you'll travel to Berkeley to become my famous writer-son, and that's that." You sounded so confident, it was apparent that you believed this down to the core of your being.

"But Mama, I..."

"Don't but Mama me. Your talent is far too vast to waste in this small, Southern town. You MUST attend college, as I will need to brag to my church ladies about all you're accomplishing in California. Plus, I know you'll write long, amazing letters to your mama." You smiled your lovely mama-smile and wiped away my tears.

I stammered, "I just don't know if I can. I detest the idea of you staying here alone. I feel like I should be here to take care of you."

You remained unbudged.

"Nonsense. I've lived here my entire life. Small town living among my extended family and friends will be just fine for me. You have bigger things to accomplish. I'll be cheering you on from here. And I'll be thrilled to hold a job for once. I'm excited to finally get out of this house after almost 20 years!"

We laughed and even though I felt tremendously guilty about leaving, I knew you were right. I had to break free and UC Berkeley was going to be the place to finally be the real me.

That's a big part of this letter, Mama. The part you don't know. The thing I must confess after all this time.

There was a reason I wasn't out chasing girls while growing up in our little town. The reason I spent so much time isolated in my room, writing stories and crafting my trade of journalism. I had no interest in them.

I started having romantic feelings around age 12, but not toward girls or women. I realized around this time that I was gay. I had no idea how to approach you both about it, it was quite confusing even for me.

Being raised in the very religious Deep South, I knew where everyone stood regarding homosexuality. I didn't want the people I knew to condemn me or hate me. I wasn't making a choice to be attracted to men. This was quite a terrifying, stressful time.

I certainly wasn't going to tell Pop about any of this. After being called a sissy that Saturday when I was 8 years old, I didn't need to give him another reason to tease me or to be angry at me. I feel he'd have disowned me and kicked me out of our home if he had found out.

I doubt you would have let him. But I wasn't convinced it would have mattered. We were a young family during the times when it wasn't ok to have a gay child. I still have no idea what would have happened had either of you known, in the backdrop of a small Southern town. It could have been disastrous for me, as well as for you both.

I indeed left to attend Berkeley and a whole new world materialized right before my eyes. It was the late 60s to early 70s during my college years. The sexual revolution was in full force. Gay acceptance was very much the norm in the Bay Area around this time. Free love, clubs, and friendships abounded during this wonderfully liberating time.

I came out as a gay man about halfway through my freshman year. It was so freeing and exhilarating to feel that I was living my best and most authentic life. My new friends were indubitably the best people I'd met in my 19 years on this planet. We had so much fun together.

As my social life and personal life became incredible, my writing flourished in large part because of this. I was blissfully happy. I had a column in the UC Berkeley student newspaper that meant everything to me and had so many ideas and thoughts to express through this new creative outlet.

Suddenly, it was the end of my freshman year. I knew I had to come home to see you for the summer. I wanted nothing more than to run to you and tell you all about the wonderful changes that had happened to me over my freshman year.

You were so excited to see me. We had sadly missed the holidays together, as it wasn't in our budget for me to travel home that first year. We spent so much time catching up while cooking and baking together. It felt so wonderfully nostalgic, that warmth and peace abounded.

However, I only told you half-truths and omitted so much about my first year at school. I wanted to so badly tell you about my other life. My newly authentic, honest, wonderful new life as a gay man. But I didn't. I couldn't.

I could not risk the enormity of possibly losing the one person I loved more than anyone in this world. I calculated the risk every night while trying to fall asleep. It's not that I thought you'd likely disown me, but I wasn't prepared for our relationship to suddenly change for the worse if you were not ok with my news.

I covertly endured this mental anguish all summer. When I attended church with you, I sat there in shame while the pastor condemned homosexuals. It hurt me badly to know that I was not being true to myself and wasn't being honest with you. I loathed myself for my lack of courage.

Summer ended and tearful goodbyes were said. I'd miss you so terribly, but I was ecstatic to get back to my newfound wonderful existence during my sophomore year of college.

I met someone shortly after the start of the school year. Mark was one of the rare people in life you get the joy and privilege of knowing, and I immediately knew he would play an important part in the story of my life. I wanted to phone you immediately after our first date. I picked up the receiver and thought, "This is it. Time to fess up."

But I didn't. I couldn't bring myself to be honest with you. I slammed down the receiver so hard, that I thought I had broken the phone. Good. I was broken, as well.

Invariably, the holidays proved too difficult for us financially for me to fly back home. I assured you that I had wonderful friends and places to go during Christmas break. You seemed relieved to hear that. I know it broke your heart not to see me at Christmas for the second year in a row. I felt that disappointment, too.

Mark insisted that I spend Christmas break with his parents in Tahoe. They were just delightful. Mark had been out to them since he was fifteen and there couldn't have been two more loving, caring, and supportive parents for him to come out to. I loved that for him and was yet so envious of their family dynamic.

We skied, we ate, we drank, and I had my first romantic experience with another man. Not just any man. The man I was growing to love. It was truly the best holiday ever. I thought of you on Christmas morning and hoped you were not heartbroken by not having me there with you.

I came to visit again that next summer, determined to let you know what your son was up to and who I actually had become. I decided it would be too much of a time commitment to be there all summer like before. I needed to have my summer with Mark and our tribe. I also needed to hone my craft of writing.

We decided on a two-week visit so that I'd be able to return to Berkeley and work more during the break. I had some writing workshops I signed up to attend upon my return. I'd also be able to work more and save some money, in hopes we might spend Christmas together for the first time in three years.

Two weeks back in town with you wasn't enough time. It went by in a blink. Regrettably, I still couldn't bring myself to tell you. The thought of how you might react still scared me to death. I'm sure losing Pop so young played a part in the absolute terror of thinking you'd possibly reject me and I'd be somewhat of an orphan.

I'd had friends in California who told tales of being disowned for coming out as gay. This was still not an accepting time in the early 70s. Especially for my buddies whose parents lived in the South, The Bible Belt, and other conservative areas.

One of our buddies committed suicide the next school year for this very reason. He and I had discussed how his father angrily told him that gays were doomed to burn in Hell, shortly after he had come out to his family. We tried to console him and be there for him, but that's not an easy thing to live with, knowing your loved ones are ashamed of you and think of you as an abomination. They hadn't spoken to him in a couple of years.

His death changed me. I felt even more despondent about hiding what I'd hidden all those years from you. People who aren't part of the community cannot fully understand how scary it is to come out to the world and especially to their loved ones. It's no wonder the suicide rate is so high in the LGBTQ community.

As bad as I felt about not coming that next Christmas, I was reeling from his death. I was in no position to be around family and friends back home. I was a mass of nerves, a ball of hurt. I told you I couldn't come due to my finals being so demanding at the end of the semester. That was a lie. Yet more guilt I had to deal with around the holidays.

I did appreciate how wonderful you were about it. You've always been my support, my strength, my rock. I knew I'd make it up to you soon and I'd be able to be honest with you. There were so many incredible things about my other life I wanted to share with you.

I set a target in my mind that I'd be out to you and we'd celebrate together before I graduated from college. I imagined and played out in my head how wonderful of a feeling this would be. I pushed all the negativity out of my mind about the situation and tried to focus on being positive about the outcome.

When you had your stroke halfway through my senior year, it brought me to my knees. I immediately flew home and my heart sunk when I saw you weak and frail. I knew better than to bet against you, and believed that you'd be fine, just as you told me you'd be. I prayed to a god that I no longer believed in that this would become true.

You gained some strength and your recovery was underway, yet you were in no shape to travel to California to see me graduate. As much as I wanted my Mama there for this incredibly proud moment of mine, I guiltily felt some relief. How could I introduce you to my mainly-gay circle of friends without you finding out?

Mark and I settled into our life together after graduation and got involved with the San Francisco gay community. You and I kept in touch, mainly through many lengthy letters. I'd call once in a while when Mark was away for work. He had become a flight attendant and traveled worldwide, so there were times I would call and we could catch up for hours.

You sounded well and you seemed happy. You were pleased that my "roommate" Mark and I were the best of friends. You mentioned it was fortunate how he traveled so much so that I had privacy and time alone to work on my writing and journalism. And so that I could have lady friends over for dates, and cook for them, as well. Oh, Mama. If you only knew.

Years passed as they tend to do so quickly, and life was busy. I wrote for a number of San Fransisco-based newspapers and publications. You continued recovering from your stroke and trying to work as much as you were comfortable. I was able to send you money despite your protests, but visits were brief and rare.

Mark encouraged me to set the record straight with you. He knew I'd regret the time wasted by keeping you in the dark about our secret life together. I didn't want to hear those lectures. Believe me, I knew he was right. The shame and guilt I lived with every day of my life was ruining me, and the self-loathing about the situation was becoming unbearable.

Mark first became sick in the early '80s. AIDS had become an epidemic and unbeknownst to me at the time, Mark hadn't been faithful while traveling the world. As devastated as I was to learn of his infidelity, I was even more shaken and scared about his long-term health prognosis.

I wasn't emotionally available to communicate with you much during this horrific period of my life. I made excuses, blamed my career, and told you how sorry I was that I was absent for long periods of time. I'm sure it broke your heart, Mama. I live with that guilt daily, on top of everything else.

Mark died in my arms in the fall of 1985. He was a skeleton, looking nothing like the man I fell in love with many years prior. He was just 35 years old. His parents were crushed. I was ruined. To have to bury your first love, your only love, and do it without your parent's support and knowledge of the situation is just brutal and surreal. I don't recommend it to anyone.

My circle of friends swooped in and quite literally saved my life. I had started drinking and taking pills to kill the pain of Mark's death. I also did it because of the situation between you and me. I have no doubt I had been close to death a number of times during this darkest period of my life.

After deciding to get straightened out and go into a rehabilitation center, I started to finally feel some hope. I learned so many wonderful lessons during my 30-day stay. And not just about my addiction, but about my life in general. The pathology of what led me to this moment in time was both predictable and sorrowful, indeed.

I was bound and determined to live my most authentic and truthful life. Once I was able to go back to work, the writing flowed. I knew it would not take long to get set financially once again. The first thing on my list was a visit home to tell you the secret that had been wracking me with guilt for so very long.

I got the call on that rainy Sunday afternoon, about a month later. There had been a second stroke. Things weren't looking good. I booked the quickest flight I could, stammering through the tears over the phone. I didn't hesitate for a second, your little boy was coming home to you.

I hadn't seen you in so long. You were hooked up to so many machines, your eyes closed, and you seemed so tiny. I cursed at myself quietly, not unlike Pop during those baseball games on TV so many years ago.

I prayed for your eyes to open. I begged for you to have a moment of clarity, so I could tell you all the things I had neglected and procrastinated to tell you. I wanted you to know the REAL me. I needed to know who I was. I wanted to laugh, cry, share, and take whatever words you had coming to me, even if they were your last.

I never got the chance I pleaded with you for. You never opened your eyes. I slept next to you that whole night and by late morning, you were gone. You were finally at peace. Hopefully, you were with Pop somewhere wonderful. Wherever you believed that good people go after death. I hope it was a throne, you deserved that.

So on Mother's Day, this letter will have to suffice. I now no longer have a choice in the matter. These 4000 or so words will have to sum up the things I never had the courage to tell you in person.

I love you, Mama. I should have given you more credit and trusted that you'd be accepting of my secret. I'm so sorry you didn't get to hear these words from my own mouth. I hope with all my heart I'll be able to tell you face-to-face someday.

Your loving son