The Wedding: A Family's Coming Out Story (6 page)

After the doctor’s diagnosis and his
encouragement to adopt, we finally told our parents the truth. “We don’t know
why. There doesn’t seem to be any medical reason, but we’re having trouble
having a baby. We’re putting our name down for adoption.”

It was such a relief. And once we knew we had
this other avenue, we could put it out of our minds and relax. Once we’d
publicly announced our plans to adopt, the outside pressure practically
disappeared, as if cut off by a secret edict. It’s true that adoption bore its
own stigma in those days, but it was nothing compared to the sin of childlessness.

It didn’t take long before we’d adopted
Mitchell. What happened next was an enormous surprise at the time. Almost
exactly eight and a half months after we adopted Mitchell, our first daughter,
Debbie, was born. After years of hoping and praying to conceive my first child,
suddenly I became fertile, and with a vengeance. After Mitchell’s adoption, my
next three children, first Debbie, then Bonnie, and last, Andrew, were born in
less than five years.

SHELDON   
I had never faulted
Roslyn for our situation. Neither did I feel any shame. I knew she was anxious
about having a baby. So was I. I remember her being tested by doctors. I was
tested too. I know Roslyn doesn’t remember it like this, but I recall one
doctor telling us she was not infertile, and could conceive, but because of
some chemical or acid in her system, her potential was not the greatest. He
added that if we were thinking of adoption, we should go ahead. We were, and we
did.

When we found out about Roslyn being pregnant, I
was doubly thrilled. First, for having Mitchell, and secondly for the baby on
the way. I felt so lucky to have two healthy babies of our own. And let me add
this thought, sincerely felt: From the day we took him home, I never thought of
Mitchell any differently than my other children. I never gave any thought to
the fact that he was adopted. He’s mine and that’s it. I love all of our four
children fully and equally.

ROSLYN   
You may have heard an
infertility story like ours before. A woman struggles to conceive, then fails,
turns to adoption, and suddenly she’s pregnant. Maybe it happens because all
the external pressure women feel to conceive makes it even harder for some
women to do just that. I think the relief I felt after admitting my infertility
and deciding to adopt may have actually helped free me to bear children. My
experience with the shame of infertility helped me identify with the societal
pressures Andrew was surely feeling. And this gave me an advantage that Sheldon
didn’t have. When I told Sheldon that Andrew was gay, he had handled it, though
it obviously wasn’t easy for him. Now it was time for Andrew to tell Sheldon
himself.

ANDREW   
Even after I’d told my
mother the truth about my sexuality, for months that revelation was still,
effectively, a secret. I finally felt forced by my mother, and compelled by my
impending departure for New York, to speak with my father. With just a few
weeks remaining before I would leave for graduate school, my mother was
hounding me more than ever, “Have you told Daddy yet?”

I had just returned from a week’s vacation in
Provincetown, with my friend Lorne. It was an appropriate setting for the first
trip I’d taken since coming out to myself. For the first time, I saw men and
women openly showing affection to members of their own sex, arm in arm, holding
hands or kissing, unashamedly, on the beach, in restaurants, on the street.

With one foot in Provincetown, the other
half-way out the door to New York, I was as ready as I’d ever be to sit down
with my father. I announced to my mother, “I’m going to do it tonight.” We had
plans to go out for dinner, and before we left, I said to my father, “I need to
speak to you about something when we get home. I’d appreciate it if we could
talk alone.” He must have known what it was about. And even though I knew in my
heart my mother had already told him, I didn’t really believe that was going to
make it any easier for either one of us.

We spent dinner, I think, all ignoring the
silent partner seated at the table with us - my almost unveiled secret. After
we pulled into the garage, we all walked up from the basement, and my mother
asked me to put the dog out. I called out, “Cashew!” but I didn’t hear any paws
scuttling across the floor, so I headed up one more flight to the top floor with
my parents. As we got to the landing, we all saw it.

Green barf covered the last few steps leading up
to the top of the staircase. By the time I asked, “What happened?” the extent
of the problem was apparent. There was more of the sickly green stuff all over
the carpet. The next time I called out “Cashew!” it was more a desperate cry of
concern. My parents found our handful of a poodle, dozing in the den. When
Cashew woke, she batted her eyelashes, innocent as a babe, hopped right up, and
bounced into the kitchen, begging to go out. Meanwhile, I noticed a mess that
emanated from my bedroom, and walked in to find a small pile of bottles, baby
powder and dental floss strewn across the carpet. At the center was my open
toiletry kit. Lying next to the bag was the bottle Cashew had chewed open. It
was Immodium that had been prescribed before I left for Provincetown, a
preventative measure against traveler’s stomach. Cashew had downed the bottle’s
contents, then thrown them up all over the house.

When I came down to tell what I’d discovered, my
father flew into a rage the likes of which I’d never seen before.

“How could you be so irresponsible? How could
you be so stupid? Leaving your bag on the floor?! What were you thinking?” He
was just getting warmed up. After what seemed an interminable time, he hit his
stride, and really started hollering. He went on and on and on.

Of course I felt terrible already. I was
shaking, pleading “I’m sorry, the bag was closed, I didn’t think she could get
into it! It wasn’t my fault!”

My father was having none of it, and just kept
needling me with variations of the same accusations. “It’s so thoughtless! We
can’t depend on you for anything!”

“Don’t you think I feel awful, don’t you think I
feel badly that I did this?!”

Defending myself was a waste of time. He just
came back at me again, shouting, utterly out of control.

By now my mother was trying to calm him, I think
because she realized he was overreacting. “Sheldon, it’s not his fault!” Still,
he was spewing a stream of accusations, and wouldn’t let up.

Finally, I shouted back in tears, with language
I’d never used before at home, “You’re a fucking asshole!” and ran up to my
room.

A few days later, I tried again to say the words
to my father. We sat down together in the den, just the two of us. I looked at
him, and said it simply. “I think you know why I want to talk to you.  I’m
gay.”

Despite the ugly scene of the other night, I
knew somehow that he would now react calmly, and offer support, and if he felt
some reservations or even anguish, he would keep it private. And that’s just
what he did.

SHELDON   
When Andrew said he
wanted to speak to me, it was the same week that he told Roslyn, but it wasn’t
the same day, or even the day after. It seemed he had anticipated that Roslyn
had spoken to me. He told me simply, “I’m gay.”

“I can’t say that I’m thrilled, but I accept you
for what you are. And I love you just as much.” I didn’t say just how much
guilt and pain I’d been feeling since I’d heard the news.

Andrew replied, “I’m not so happy myself. Do you
think I would choose this if I had a choice? I know it’ll make things more
difficult for me in my profession, in my life.”

No matter what my disappointments were, it never
crossed my mind that Andrew’s sexuality could change. I think I’m sophisticated
enough to realize that fact, even without claiming to understand exactly what
caused him to be gay in the first place.

ROSLYN    
Later, we talked about
who we’d share this news with. I said I didn’t want to keep it to myself, and
that became a bone of contention between me and Sheldon. If we were all
together, eating at home, and I said someone should know Andrew was gay,
Sheldon would change the subject, leave the table. If the two of us were alone,
and I brought it up, Sheldon would say, “Why do you have to talk about that
now?”  He had a really hard time talking about Andrew. It was just too painful.

ANDREW   
It was clear that my
father had one overwhelming preoccupation, a concern that caught me by
surprise.

“What’s your understanding of why people are
gay?” he asked.

I said the usual things about the nature vs.
nurture debate. He wanted more. Absolution, perhaps.

Then my father offered what were surely intended
as words of comfort, and to some degree, they were. “I just want you to be
happy.  I’m not saying I’m glad to hear this. I would rather you were
straight.”

Again, though, he returned to the apparent
bottom line. Was it his fault? “Do you think it had anything to do with
anything I did, or didn’t do for you?”

“No.”  Since he’d offered me solace, it seemed
it was my turn. Although I exonerated him quickly, my heart wasn’t in it. On
one hand, I didn’t like the feeling of having to acquit him, while I failed to
see the crime. At the same time, if he wanted to talk non-judgmentally about
responsibility, my feelings were conflicted.

I had long regarded him as distant. The “distant
father, smothering mother” theory that’s been used for decades to ascribe guilt
to parents hadn’t yet been discredited. I didn’t necessarily believe that was
why I was gay, but I wasn’t prepared to reject that possibly yet, either.

When I was much younger, six, seven, eight,
years old, my father was loving, very attentive to me. He was the kind of
father who would sing me to sleep. It was a fairly idyllic childhood, until I
felt certain expectations were made of me - prospects I simply couldn’t
fulfill. For one, I wasn’t interested in sports. Although my father would deny
that was ever an issue for him, I couldn’t help but be aware of how important
sports were in his life. His office is filled with pictures of his many
basketball teams. He was even captain of McGill’s varsity squad, and later a
member of the YMHA Canadian championship team. And as long as I could remember,
tennis and golf seemed to occupy his every free afternoon.

Maybe it was only my projection, perhaps I
wanted to believe he was disappointed in me because I wasn’t the jock he had
been. Or conceivably he was frustrated, and still isn’t in touch with it.
Regardless, by the time I was twelve, he was very angry with me. Basically, I
felt he didn’t like me. I wasn’t doing well in school, both in terms of
academics and behavior problems. I knew too well his hard earned, unblemished
reputation. Family history recorded that he was Mr. Perfect as far back as
elementary school, always the proper child, student, teammate, notary, husband,
and father. What must it have been like for him to get calls from my teachers,
saying, among other things, that I had a big mouth? I was embarrassed, and it
was clear; I’d let him down.

My mother also seemed to want to change me. She
was anxious for me to be outside, and active. If I was watching television when
I heard the garage door opening, I shut it off and ran upstairs to pretend I
was doing something busy. She egged on my involvement in sports more than my
father. Though I don’t know if my mother consulted with him, she was almost
always the one to push me into it.

She’d ask me regularly, “Why don’t you play
tennis with Daddy this weekend?” He’d ask too, but he seemed to sense my lack
of motivation. And since I saw myself as a constant source of aggravation and
disappointment, I figured he was probably happy to play tennis with somebody,
anybody, other than me.

At school, I was pretty much a loner, depressed,
disgusted with myself, struggling with feelings of inferiority and inadequacy.
Until later in high school. Then something clicked. People started to appreciate
my sense of humor. I felt better, looked better, and suddenly, it seemed, I had
more friends than I knew what to do with. I started to connect particularly
with female friends, like Diane and Maxine, and a few male friends, who (not
coincidentally) revealed in the next few years that they were gay.

Lorne was the first one to come out to me. And
as incomprehensible as it sounds, when he told me, I didn’t identify with what
he was saying at all. That’s how separated I was from what was going on inside.
I tried to be encouraging, and sympathetic, but when he went to a support
group, rather than offering to go with him myself, I asked Maxine to go with
him. (After Maxine attended the group, her parents told her not to go again.
They felt she was “impressionable” and feared that she’d become a lesbian.
Where exactly did this concept of contagious sexuality come from?)

Over the next few years, I lived vicariously,
though subconsciously, through Lorne. I would get a thrill out of hearing about
what he was doing. Things that I couldn’t do. I knew why it sounded exciting,
but I was so isolated from my own desires that I couldn’t imagine that I wanted
to do any of these things myself.