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My oldest son, 19, dances hip-hop and jazz on the stage. He sings tenor in a young men's choir. He loves show tunes, classic movies, singers like Dolly Parton and Rufus Wainwright. He stares in the bathroom mirror for hours, adjusting his button-down collar, his classic black leather belt, and his just-so hair. He asked for a fancy messenger bag for Christmas, and a pair of gray suede shoes, please. Wow, you're thinking, he's gay. Gotta be gay.
Three years ago I dropped him off at a town park. He was meeting a friend and they would study, then see a movie, he said. His friend stood waiting by a painted lion sculpture. He wore loose jeans and a button-down shirt, just like my son, and together they looked like two sides of a coin, my son stark Polish fair, his friend Latino, salt and pepper on that green park salad, and oh I knew. I knew.
I started leaving literature in obvious places around the house. Two in twenty folks are gay, those brochures screamed. It's great! It's normal! Natural! Declare your identity! Go Boy Go! I left boxes of condoms in his medicine cabinet and copies of The Advocate on the back of the toilet. But my son didn't talk, didn't pick up those papers and bring them to me, didn't seem to notice them at all. So how's your friend, I asked, in that kind of we're-all-pals tone, and he would shrug his slim shoulders, change the topic.
One day I cornered him in my bedroom. He came to say goodnight, to give me a hug, the way we always end the day, and I flat out asked. And he said yes, and he said no, said it was complicated and I would not like what he had to say. It wasn't what I expected, I didn't understand him, either you're gay or you're not gay, right?
So I did those stupid things mothers do when they feel the need to sleuth. I asked his friends, his older sister, a friendly teacher, what he was saying and doing in school.
"In or out of that closet?" I asked.
Out! That was the answer, out of the closet, dating that cute Latino, attending Gay-Straight Alliance meetings and talking about gay marriage and gay rights and generally being Mr. Gay Gay Gay.
Well that's that, I thought, it isn't a surprise.
And a year passed. We talked about gay issues at home. I left more literature around the house, bought books about famous gay men, got tickets to Rent, made a general liberal ass of myself to prove I loved him, loved everything about him. He hung out with the artsy crowd at school, and I rested, knowing my son felt secure and happy and gay.
But things are never that easy, even when you think you're liberal and hip and a good mom, and in the summer months, my son took a girlfriend, a lush Filipino with long dark hair and an easy laugh. They swung in my African hammock those warm July nights, kissing and talking and shooing away my two youngest sons.
What the fuck, I thought, what the fuck is going on?
I called my sister in New York, the one who teaches Women's Studies at a private university, and asked for advice.
"He's experimenting, just like all kids do these days," she said. "Don't worry about it. He needs to make sure he's gay. It'll pass."
So I waited and smiled and made them lemonade and popcorn while they cuddled to rented chick flick videos. They broke up in August. He began dating his old friend again.
So that's that, I thought. My sister was right. Just a phase.
But summer turned fall turned complicated, and my boy dated a new boy, then a girl, then I lost track, loss my balance, and I cornered him, mentioned counseling, support groups, something, just anything that might help him embrace his inner homo.
"Mom! It's not like that! I tried to tell you but you don't get it. This is just me. I'm just like this. I like to date people I like. I don't care who they are or what they are. And my friends are like that, too."
He walked away, out the front door, left it hanging open, and I stared for a long time at the dust climbing the shaft of afternoon sunlight, swirling upward, spinning, falling on scuffed parquet floor.
I collected all my liberal mother infomercial literature and stuck it
