What Do You Mean, I Can’t Be Gay?

When paying attention to your truth means more than the advice of "experts."

“I think I might be gay.” There. I said it.

I’d been wanting to tell Dr. Fein about this for a while. He was my child psychologist, which was a little weird because I went to school with his kids, my mother was friends with his wife, and we all went to the same synagogue. Ah, boundaries. Can’t get enough of them.

I’d already tried to talk to my guidance counselor Mrs. Ezersky and when I tell you it didn’t go over well, it REALLY didn’t go over well. She didn’t know what to do with that piece of information, stuttering and sputtering, and saying things like “female homosexuals are ugly women, Nancy. You’re not an ugly woman, you’re beautiful. You just need to make more friends, more friends who are BOYS. You’ll see. I know I’m right about this. I want you to promise me you’ll go to your 8^th grade dance. I bet you’ll meet someone nice and see the wisdom of my words.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I’d loved Mrs. Ezersky up until that moment, when she crushed every good feeling I’d ever had for her. Gone in a split second. I stayed in her office long enough to get her assurance that this was a private conversation and would go no further. She claimed she was a feminist. I guess she was a hetero-feminist. What a letdown. I hadn’t said anything to my folks yet.

Dr. Fein didn’t fare much better. After his own bout of stuttering and sputtering, he regained his composure a bit and swiveled back and forth in his tan leather egg-shaped office chair, as if it had a mind of its own. He kept crossing and uncrossing his long, skinny legs. He opened his mouth and this is what came out, “You can’t be gay, Nancy.” I asked him why. His answer? Brace yourself. “You can’t be gay, because if I were your age, I’d want to be your boyfriend.” How’s that for enlightened and professional? Dr. Fein was not fine, not at all.

I filed his absurd answer in my “adults are idiots” folder and then went on to my next disclosure, “I think my dad is gay.” This statement brought on crazier swiveling, and an oddly puzzling reaction…a deep scarlet flush to his neck and face. Hmmm. He quickly recovered himself, and urgently explained, “He can’t be gay, Nancy.”

Looking down at the orange, brown, and gold shag carpeting, the first question that came to mind was “who ever thought shag carpeting was a good idea?” I distract easily at times, but even at 14, I had excellent taste. That’s what comes of being raised by two very stylish parents.

Bringing myself back to the present moment, I responded with a tepid “why??” But I already knew that whatever he said next was likely to be stupid as well. And I was right. He said, “Because you’re here, aren’t you? If your dad was gay, how did you get here?” All hope was lost. He was clearly not someone I could talk to about this. After this bullshit explanation, I was sure our days were numbered. But still, I wasn’t finished talking about it, so I pressed on, though mostly about my father. I insisted he was gay. That’s what the kids at school were saying, using his occupation and his hobbies as proof of their assertion.

He’s a fashion designer, knows nothing about sports; he knits and does needlepoint, and sews the most beautiful clothing. He listens to Bette Midler, the Village People, Donna Summer, Barbara Streisand, and Broadway show tunes. Oh, and yes. Opera. He wasn’t like the other dads. Not at all.

I didn’t tell the doctor about the recent discovery I’d made. This, in addition to the input from my peers, likely proved my hypothesis. One night my dad asked me to go to his briefcase and bring him his extra pack of cigarettes. As I reached into his attaché for his Marlboro Lights, I saw a slim book poking out of an inside pocket. The cover read “Damron Gay Guide to the Midwest.” My dad traveled to St. Louis several days a week to go to the main office of the clothing company he worked for. I quickly went through the guide, locating the page for St. Louis and there were several bars with checkmarks and a couple of positive notes in the margin, written in my father’s distinctive handwriting. That information wasn’t something I was supposed to have access to, but Dad was careless. Or did he want to be discovered?

Dr. Fein told me I could bring Dad in with me, and we could talk about it. I said I wanted to do that, and when my dad picked me up, I asked him to join us at my next appointment.

The evening of the session, I was nervous, sweaty palms and all. I never got the courage up to ask him about it during the session; to demand point blank that he tell me what was going on. I just couldn’t. I was afraid. Afraid to make him angry, afraid to know the truth, and at the same time, hopeful that I’d come away with an ally. We talked about very general things instead, my difficulties with my mom, my loneliness, how hard it was for me to make friends, how sad I was.

Disappointed in myself for chickening out, we were in the car heading home, when I spit out, “Dad, are you a homosexual?”

Without waiting a beat, he gripped the steering wheel, clenched his jaw, and whipped his head at me and yelled, “NO!” My father wasn’t a person who yelled. I looked out my window with a sneer that was almost a smile. I had a bitter taste in my mouth. Yup. Gotcha. I thought to myself, what a coward. He’s a coward. It was a harsh reaction, but that’s how I felt.

We didn’t talk about it again; a couple of years went by. My feelings for girls were intensifying, and things were getting weirder at home. My dad and I were deeply bonded, and on the weekend, we used to go for rides with no destination in mind. It was a chance for us to talk about things. To share our stories of daily life without anyone else around. At the time, I was deeply in crush, or in love, or infatuated with a girl from my group of friends. I was quieter than usual, staring at the window, my heart tender, my longing deep.

She had no idea how I felt. I was almost positive she wasn’t gay.

Dad looked over at me, and said “Honey, you’re very quiet. What are you thinking about?”

I took a deep breath and answered, “I’m thinking about love.”

“Oh, are you in love?”

I waited a few seconds and replied, “Yes, but it’s not a guy.”

Dead silence for far too long. I asked him if he heard me. He said he did, and I said, “Well?”

More silence, a dark, brooding expression on his face, and staring straight ahead, this was his answer, “I don’t condemn it, and I don’t condone it.”

What the fuck was I supposed to do with that except let it go. I was struck by the same feeling I’d had a couple of years earlier in our last conversation about sexuality. I glared out my window, and wondered what he might have said if he weren’t so paralyzed by his secret, and his fear of being discovered. Why was he so afraid to declare himself?

A month or two later, my parents had the conversation. The one that ended the family that I grew up in. Dad came out, then moved out and we all moved forward, with a full complement of growing pains. He had tried to live his life in a conventional manner, but it just didn’t fit who he was. Once out, he was finally able to live the life he should have always lived. Had he done that though, I wouldn’t exist. I’m grateful he tried.

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