Should I Stay or Should I Go? (not a song)

When I was in high school, there was a Popular Girl who was nice to me.  I may not have been a Loser with a capital L, but I may have been one with a small letter l.  Or, that’s how I felt. 

(again, not capital)

Nevertheless, whatever my title, I had no real group in which to ‘hang,’ as it were.  I “kept to myself,” a phrase often quoted in the news, by various neighbors of serial killers. (“No, nothing out of the ordinary,” the neighbor says, in disbelief and shock.  “He seemed polite… Always took his garbage cans out the night before…  Maybe quiet, a little.  He tended to keep to himself.”  Really?  Wanna know why?!  Because when he was cutting those bodies up to store in the freezer, he had to do it VERY QUIETLY and BY HIMSELF.) 

(keeps to himself)

Once, a Popular Kid asked me to go to King’s Island with her and I thought it was my Golden Opportunity to get Friends, but, for some Reason or Other, it didn’t Work Out.  Something about her older sister taking us made my parents Uncomfortable.  Plus, people who tend to Keep to Themselves, people who tend to Like Children in a Weird Way, roam amusement parks.  My chance had come and gone.

But, for whatever reason, on the softball team, Michelle Bokum wanted to toss the ball with me.  And not just once.  We tossed the ball all of the time.  She was crazy.  She definitely should have chosen a more Popular Kid to toss with—she was taking a Big Risk.  And not only did she toss with me, she sat by me on the bus to away games.  It was weird.  Why she chose me, I still have no idea.  Nevertheless, she did, and it served as a welcomed respite from feeling like a Freak.

I felt very strange when, as a senior in high school, I learned that it was Michelle Bokum who had been hit by a car and killed.  I wasn’t her “friend,” but she meant something to me.   I knew that her funeral would be filled with loads of people, all of whom would feel that they deserved to be there.   Her Friends and Family would be there.   It didn’t even cross my mind to go, not until years later, when I was still thinking about her death and remembering how nice she was. 

Recently, a colleague’s adult son suddenly and tragically died.  This colleague retired two years ago and I haven’t seen or talked with her in over a year.  Nevertheless, the thought of her loss dominated my mind.  What is funeral etiquette?  When do you go to a funeral and when do you not go?  Like most Important Questions, there’s no handbook with any index.  If you ask someone close to you if you “should” go, they’ll answer in a whisper and you can tell they’re not sure either. 

When you find out that someone’s son died, and you’re a parent, you automatically go to what it would be like if your kid died and it’s easily the worst place Ever.  But you go there.  When I went there, I thought I’d need the entire world to show up at my son’s funeral.  I’d need citizens from Uzbekistan (wherever that is) to show.  I’d need Anyone and Everyone to throw an ounce of Strength my Way, in an attempt to pick myself up off the floor to try to continue Life’s Path.

But what if you get there and the family Scowls at you and Shines a Spotlight on you and points with one hand and grabs a megaphone with the other, only to shout: “Why are YOU here?  This is a PRIVATE MATTER to share with LOVED ONES.  Why the HELL are YOU here?  Who the Hell are You, Anyway?” 

In thinking about all these things, I realized that I was, yet again, too focused on my own self.  My colleague had lost her f-ing son.  So what if the worst-case-scenario did happen and my presence wasn’t welcome?  So what if my intentions were misinterpreted or disregarded? Who cares about that goddamn risk? 

The bottom line is this:

I still get to go home to my son. 

This poor woman just poured dirt on hers. 

Here’s my funeral etiquette: if you want to go even slightly, go.  Just Bring Strength, in an attempt to Pass it On.  Whether it’s wanted or welcomed, who the hell knows.  

Dear Hilary Clinton,

As a child, I looked for Alan Funt.  I looked for him around corners, under furniture, inside of closets.  He had to be somewhere and I wanted to know where and how it was that he had hidden his cameras so well.  You see, it just couldn’t be true that I was a vulgar monster (gay) growing up in a household filled with perfectly normal people.  Instead, I had to have been cast in some bizarre episode of Candid Camera.  This episode was sure to be so outrageous that it would, perhaps, be broadcast during sweeps.    “You’re not gay—HAHAHAHAHA! Smile!  You’re just on Candid Camera! Wasn’t that funny?!”

Even as a child, though, I must have realized that I was merely perpetuating my own charade because I also remember lifting couch cushions to see if Alan Funt was there.  Obviously, even I knew that this was not possible.  Or did I?  When you’re gay, you stop trusting things.  All things.  Every thing.  Because from the moment you’re born and it is assumed that you are straight, something very strange happens when you realize you’re not. You suddenly believe that the world is filled with lies.  There’s nothing to trust.  You question everything.  Perhaps, then, it is possible for Alan Funt to Cirque-du-Soleil his body into a pancake.  Maybe he really is under one of our plaid orange, 1970’s couch cushions.  Stranger things have happened.   And so I did, in fact, lift those cushions.  But, alas, to no avail.  (Although I did find some coins, some cookie crumbs, and some old crayon pieces…)

Close friends have wondered how I knew at such a young age that I was gay.  Some have suggested that they were “unaware” of their own sexuality until much later.  Despite their not intending as such, the question itself takes me right back to the monster-like quality I felt as a child.  “So, not only are you gay, but you were also aware of it when you were young?!” 

Yes, I was.  And despite growing up in Conservativeville, USA, I had it easy.  My parents weren’t going to beat me to death or kick me out of the house.  I wasn’t going to be stoned or thrown into jail.  Nevertheless, the pain I felt was intense and palpable.  One of the differences in belonging to this sort of a minority is that, unlike a person who practices a certain religion, or a person whose skin is a certain color, a gay child is even alone in his or her family.  The outcaste status is not shared with parents or siblings and so there is no real sense of security even in your own home, away from the outside world.

No, it is not poor me, however, it is true.  My childhood was very painful.  If I am thankful for it, it is because I believe that I enjoy life today largely because I have such memories of what life can feel like and what life must feel like to others who live in isolation and fear, for whatever reason.   The openness and freedom I’m allowed has made me content and appreciative on a continual basis. 

My life-experience and my understanding of how being gay affects my life actually changed a couple of days ago, when the U.S. Secretary of State delivered an unbelievable speech, for all of the world to hear.  Somehow, when listening to Hilary Clinton so eloquently address what it means to have human rights and dignity, I transformed into that seven-year-old girl I once was, and imagined myself watching her speak on our black and white console.  I stood alone, near our dial-up green phone, on the brown, shag carpet, with the plaid seat cushion in my hand.  I stopped my search for evidence that my life itself must be a joke because I turned toward some strong lady who miraculously normalized me.  Something about that speech in Geneva healed a very old wound.  I’m oddly grateful that the scar will always be there, but I’m glad it hurts much less today. I'm shocked and appreciative to have found a sense of solace in hearing what Clinton had to say.  And I have gratitude and admiration for her having the courage to say it.