Although you'll be reading this column a week or two later, and although I am writing it on Father's Day, I find myself thinking about my mother, as well as my dad, probably because it was so recently that she died.
They were loving parents. They were caring parents. They were prejudiced parents. They never stopped loving me, but they never accepted, nor understood, that I am gay. When I told my mom that I was gay, her response was to say that she never wanted to speak of it again, that she never wanted to hear another word about it—so I never uttered another word about it for over 30 years! Where was PFLAG when I needed it?
Mr. gaydar tells me that, although he was not gay, my dad knew I was all along, and did accept it. What neither he nor my mom liked about it is that I never produced grandchildren for them. In fact, I, myself, sometimes wonder what it would have been like for me to have been a father, even though I have never had any reservations about my sexual orientation. Although they lived long enough to witness my having had two lovers ( the last of which lasted 33 years ) , they never thought of my partners as lovers. Dad never had any trouble with getting along with either T or G. To mom, G was just a friend and roommate of mine, one with whom she did not always approve, nor get along. Why she couldn't accept my happiness to have been sharing my life with someone I love is not quite a mystery to me, because I know that she was brought up in a very different, and less accepting, society from the one in which I came of age, albeit it was even less accepting than the one in which we live now.
It was not always easy for me to know that I couldn't talk to my parents about some things which were important to me, about my joys and travails in being gay, about my sadness at lost loves, and about my joys in successful ones. Then again, they grew up in times during which one didn't talk about his or her private lives. There were always hints about my dad's sexual escapades before he was married, but they were only hints, and I never heard one directly from him. Mom never told me about any of these things, except about one man who "begged" her to marry him. She didn't. Where would I be had she done so? Did she have sex before she got married? Although I doubt it, it's not often that one thinks about his parents as sexual beings. I never knew them to have had sex with each other even. I never "caught" them in the act, yet I know that they did so. Where would I be had they not done so? It must be that, for them, sex was something shameful and dirty. My education about the "facts of life" came in the form of an article in a magazine with questions and answers that children might ask their parents. "Here," they said, "read this." That was it. So they never wanted to hear about my sex life, either, I guess.
How much better things are today, thanks to the daring, courage and persistence of the Stonewall drag queens and the butch, the faggy vanilla guys, and the butch dykes. Thank you to all of you. Thank you for making it possible for all of us to feel proud of who we are. I wouldn't trade my life for any other I know ( well, maybe I'd like to have more money, or more fame, or more notoriety, or more intelligence, or more good looks ) , but I wouldn't trade the fun and fortune I've had in being gay, in being partnered with a man whom I loved and who loved me, in being physically intimate with other men, in accepting myself, even ( I hope ) in accepting my own mortality.
So thanks to all for making me the proud person I am today. Thanks to all who display your pride by marching and openly displaying who you are and how you feel. My generation may have paved the way, but you are the people who are flying the flag.
Knopf, Ph.D., is a gay psychologist who has been writing in the gay press in Chicago for 27 years. He may be reached at outlines@suba.com; fax ( 312 ) 565-1872.
