Tongue in Cheek
|
Tongue in Cheek Homo Interruptus |
by Kevin Isom
It
was a case of homo interruptus. My holiday season, that is. I didn't even
have time to think about best-of-2003 zingers, because I was too busy
dodging holiday hoo-hah. First there was the non-gay and non-family related
part. My sewer line failed. Yes, I always knew I was full of crap, but
I have conclusive proof now. Two days before Christmas, the tree roots
that have been feasting off the sewer line of my 50-year-old house (I
bought it when the realtor described the 1950's ranch as "mid-century")
finally blocked it in perpetuity. Suddenly, I found myself with no facilities
- and a new friend in the form of a plastic cup (any relations of a heavier
nature I saved for my morning Starbucks run before the office). I did
at least get to trickle-shower - that kind of clear water would simply
soak into the soil in the huge hole in my pipe made by Roto-Rooter. Being
the cost-conscious gay man I am, I immediately sought quotes, so as not
to pay the highway-robbery rates of the first plumber who discovered the
root infestation and who must have felt he had me over a barrel (or perhaps
I should say, over a cup). Being the resourceful gay man I am (I offered
finger foods), I managed to get three quotes before I'd left town for
home on Christmas Eve. And did I mention that the sewer line runs under
the driveway? I'd planned to replace it with Queer Eye for the Straight
Guy approved stained concrete, but not quite this soon.
When I flew home, there was a drama of a
new sort awaiting me. My dad, who has a certain something that women cannot
resist (not his six-pack abs, I can safely guess), was hosting Christmas
day, and we were all going to his house, including my mom. Until, that
is, we discovered that he was inviting his fiancée, and that his
second wife was getting his house ready. (We had thought she was on the
other
end of a divorce case, but apparently, we were wrong.) My mother immediately
refused to go. My aunt followed suit. And I wondered if I should tell
the fiancée that wifey was there the night before (my sister and
I did just that). I also wondered if I could book my dad as a juggler
with Barnum & Bailey.
Still, supreme get-his-tail-out-of-a-crack
artist that he is, he managed to smooth things over with fiancée,
and we all (including my boyfriend, who flew in the day AFTER Christmas
- hmmm... he flew out of Atlanta just as the plumbing festivities began
- do I detect a trend?) met for dinner and drinks and everything was reasonably
hunky dory.
At the other end of the spectrum from my
dad's personal soap opera (but at the same end of the moral spectrum)
is my boyfriend's family. While my family is very gay-affirmative, his
family is bigoted. They are part of the Christian nutcase homophobe portion
of society - the kind that is actually willing to reject a child because
that child is gay. In other words, these are people I don't think deserve
to have
children.
My boyfriend had told them (when they made
clear again that I was not welcome any time any place) that if they did
not accept him as a gay person and treat him with the same degree of respect
that they accord his heterosexual siblings, then he would not be seeing
them again. This was a very tough, principled stand for him (one which
I made years and years ago - "I don't have room in my life for anyone
who thinks I'm a disappointment because I'm gay," followed by hanging
up the phone was, I think, my meek and mild way of getting that point
across - and which had the desired effect. But then, my parents have always
believed that you love your child. Period. So it wasn't the extended pain
that many gay folks have to endure.)
After months of him hearing nothing from
his parents, I had sent them a letter myself. I couldn't stand by and
watch them hurt him. Having grown up Southern Baptist, I knew how to co-opt
the terms ("May God's grace touch your minds and hearts"), and
more importantly, I wanted to quietly point out that they were choosing
to lose a child, and that doing so was the least godly choice they could
make. Not to mention the most wrong-headed. There was, from them, a resounding
silence.
Until Christmas, when they sent him a box
of cookies and a card, with notes like "Come home any time"
and "We'd love to see you over the holidays" - but nothing about
the issue that was preventing him from doing just that. My sister, even
more direct than I if you can imagine it, suggested a note in reply saying,
"I won't be seeing you until you accept me as a gay person and stop
being bigots. Thanks
for the cookies." But he replied with the more diplomatic, "Has
something changed?
If so, let me know. If not, then I will
not be seeing you. I am spending Christmas with Kevin's family, where
both Kevin and I are accepted and welcomed." (And where there's a
soap opera at no extra charge if Kevin's dad has been getting busy. Okay,
so he did not add that last part.)
Upon my return home, the plumber replaced
my sewer line, I said goodbye to Mr. Cup, and I ate the delicious cookies
sent by a homophobe (hope they weren't poisoned). Then I promptly made
a year's worth of appointments with my therapist to discuss a serious
case of homo interruptus.
Kevin Isom is the author of It Only Hurts When I Polka and Tongue in Cheek and Other Places, available at bookstores and online. He may be reached at isomonline@aol.com or www.KevinIsom.com.