Note: I was so concerned about the rapture on May 21, that I failed to post last Monday. Now I realize that when they said “rapture” all they really meant was that Oprah was ending her show and Chicago’s mayor is no longer named Daley. You can totally interpret such events as the end of the world. Anyway, I finished what should have been last week’s blog and posted it here.)
True story: Although the maternal side of my family knew, I didn’t tell my biological father that I was gay until (quite literally) the day of my sister’s wedding nearly year ago, just before he was about to walk her down the aisle. What began as an incredibly awkward moment involving me in
drag a dress and makeup and weird conversation before the wedding, resulted in an embrace and my father’s loving (for him) utterance of “We deuces,” to let me know that we were still cool by the time we were taking post-nuptial photos; he even took the time to tell my girlfriend she was welcome to visit anytime. It was a tremendous relief. Sure, I probably should have done it much sooner, but procrastination is a tough drug to kick. Besides, I had never hidden anything from my dad or ever talked to him about relationships, so the idea of me sitting him down and telling him that he could add dating women to the list of things he and I had in common seemed really forced and inauthentic. Although it has always felt as if coming out was a ritual reserved for privileged white folks and Logo series, once I figured out that my dad inquiring, “So you cut your hair again, hunh?” wasn’t a euphemism for “Are you gay?” I knew I had to say something.