Don’t Close Door on Homosexual Child

Nursery stories begin, “Once upon a time . . . “ How does one begin a horror story? Perhaps, in this fashion:

Eighteen years ago a storm brewed in the heart of a teen-ager, and one day it exploded. The handsome, sensitive young man came to his father and confessed: “Dad, I am gay.” Without a moment’s hesitation, the father, whom the boy loved and needed, ordered him out of the house. “And do not come back--ever!”

Tearfully packing his belongings, the 18-year-old sobbed, “Why? . . . Why are you doing this?”

“Because,” shouted the father, “I must protect your younger brother from you!” As the distressed teen-ager reached the front door, he turned around to his father and pleaded, “Dad, if I were heterosexual and had a younger sister, would you protect her from me? Would you throw me out?” He waited for a response, but heard only the slamming of the door.

Not all parents of gay children are so impulsive. Some think through their foolish actions. A young man traveled home last Christmas, eager to be with family. His mother, once sensitive to his problems as a homosexual, had given his visit a great deal of thought--AIDS was making headlines--though she had no indication that he suffered from acquired immune deficiency syndrome. On his arrival, she greeted him with new house rules: “You will sleep in the garage and you will eat off of paper plates!”

Knowledgeable, non-hysterical readers know that it is impossible to “catch” homosexuality and extremely difficult to casually contract AIDS.

But the entire subject of homosexuality is riddled with myths. Before our son, Jeff, told his father and me the truth about his sexual orientation--that he was gay--we believed those myths and never really cared to discover the truth.

We finally found our courage on a spring day 17 years ago. After a decade of indecision, we were ready to face reality.

Recently returned from a six-month sabbatical, our long-distance relationship with our children had not been satisfactory. Both were in college. Letters, toward the end of our trip, were troubling and, by the time we reached home, we realized that something was radically wrong. Jeff, usually friendly and talkative, rushed in and out of the house, half-smiling, hurried and uncommunicative. It was unusual behavior for one who often spoke compulsively. He had become elusive. Something was awry.

On and off, for years, I had worried about Jeff. Was he . . . a sissy? (I could not say “homosexual,” even to myself. In those days, “the closet” was a snake pit, absolutely out of bounds to one’s own offspring.) During Jeff’s childhood, lots of flashing lights exploded in my mind: nagging concerns, unthinkable doubts. Together they should have signaled that something was going on in a child who seemed to need special understanding.

He hated the ball field and loved the kitchen; his friends were little girls or ineffective, underachieving little boys; he never broke or disobeyed the rules. “He was good, too good,” his perceptive grandmother said. His first six weeks of school were terrific; we were joyous. And then his reading stopped. He had forgotten how! (That was one flashing light that should never have been ignored.) For the next four years he passed from grade to grade by the skin of his teeth and the charm of his personality. We did a lot of worrying, but his teachers offered assurance, inappropriate assurance.

“He is so good in class, such a good boy--do not confuse him with counseling.” Eager to hear that, we bought it.

I do not blame the school system. I wish only to paint the picture of a boy growing up. Jeff tells us now that he felt “different” from the time he was 8. I wish we had had the intelligence and the courage to recognize and confront the issue then, and to have been supportive, then. But that is the curse of hindsight.

For 11 years our son faced his difference alone. He was 19 years old before we found our courage. Erv and I cannot recall which one of us finally asked Jeff the question. It came on our return from the sabbatical when he rushed by, too busy to talk, disinterested in our trip, unable to share anything about himself. It was clear he was eager to avoid us.

“Son, stand still! Just one minute!” He stopped in mid-flight. “Something is going on, you are not yourself! Are you in trouble? Drugs, maybe . . . ? Is one of your girlfriends pregnant? Are you in trouble with the police? Or . . . is it . . . son . . . are you homosexual?” The last question had not come out of the blue, it had been our apprehension for years. (The psychiatrist who had helped Jeff resolve his reading disability years ago had ridiculed the idea.)

“Yes, I am gay.”

Jeff’s answer merely confused us.

“What does that mean?” we asked in unison. Fifteen years ago, the word “gay” meant only “merry.”

“I am homosexual,” he explained. After long minutes of uncomfortable conversation, we sent Jeff on his way, to work or school, wherever he had been headed, with, “We’ll talk later.” I ran from the room to what was to become my comfort zone, the cool tile of the bathroom floor. And I cried my eyes out. I guess Erv went to work. All we can recall now is that neither of us could face the reality. That evening and during the days that followed, we did an enormous amount of talking.

What did I, a social worker, know about homosexuality? What did my husband, the rabbi, know? Our academic credentials were impressive--professionally we were both trained and oriented to help people in pain. But in our personal distress, we were helpless. In retrospect, I know that I accepted all the myths:

- The myth of a strong mother--I was a strong mother, but what mother doesn’t over-exert her influence upon her children?

- The myth of an absent father--Erv spent a lot of time crisscrossing the country, berating himself for so little time at home. And when he was home, as he tells it, “I put the damn baseball bat in his hand and insisted.”

- The myth of seduction--did someone lure Jeff into this awful life style?

My misconceptions were many. Erv and I agreed we should send him for therapy, that it could change him, cure him. That’s the ultimate myth.

Those frightfully ignorant misconceptions were matched only by disappointments. We knew our son would never marry and have children. His wonderful traits, his warmth, caring and good looks would not be passed along to a son or daughter, a grandchild. We wondered if we could keep him in the family circle, would we lose him to that “other world.” (It was a world that we did not understand and were not, at that time, sure we wanted to understand.)

Guilt and disappointment turned into anger and grief. Our family physician and our psychotherapist helped us sort myth from reality and gently destroyed our persistent hope of “changing” Jeff.

They were difficult days. As we reached for reality, we were sustained and strengthened by the creed with which we had raised the children. When they would try to extricate themselves from the minor infractions of childhood, we would repeatedly, remind them, “We love you--but we do not like what you are doing.” We remembered that frequently during the trying time that followed Jeff’s confession.

He agreed to go to therapy. At 19, he admitted that there was much that he wanted to know about himself. When, finally, he decided that he had done enough soul searching, he gave us a gift: “Please stop blaming yourselves. It is not your fault that I have grown up gay.” With those words, Jeff erased our most devastating, yet unspoken, anxiety.

Together, we learned that looking backward did not help. There was always a future to consider. The three of us were lucky, for we fought the fight for understanding together . None of us ever slammed the door. Keeping it open, however, was not always easy.

The day I came home and found Jeff in bed with his lover, I was furious and wanted to shout, “Out! Get out! Both of you!” Thank heavens, I did not. Nevertheless, acceptance, patience and understanding were a long time in coming.

Although with time and understanding, we came to accept Jeff’s sexual orientation, there remained the ordinary concerns and the everyday controversies intrinsic to the raising of all children. Jeff’s homosexuality is but one segment of the totality of his life.

Our son rode the roller coaster of financial and vocational problems. We provided advice and loans. He accepted both, often repaid the dollars and frequently heeded our guidance. Interestingly enough, Jeff’s married sister behaved in much the same manner.

He became ill and required the usual chicken soup and tender care in his bachelor apartment. He preferred receiving that attention from his friends, but also expected Mother and Dad to stop by regularly with reassurance and love. His sister behaved the same way when she broke her leg and was living alone.

When a love affair went sour, Jeff became depressed and sad. We worried and tried to be especially sensitive to his pain. We behaved identically when his sister faced divorce with sadness and depression.

We were happier when Jeff was living with a friend who cared about him and about whom he cared. And we felt the same way about his sister, now happily married.

Our gay son has the same human needs that his straight sister has, that every child has--for understanding, empathy and acceptance; for security and success; for caring and love . . . the list is endless. Rejection is devastating to both our children . . . yet, perhaps more so to our gay child. Society has already taught him that he will experience more of it. He recognizes his vulnerability.

Thirty-six years ago, when our adoption worker described the infant boy who was to be our son, she said that he was chubby and special and different from any baby she had ever worked with. She was right. While he is no longer chubby, Jeff is a very special and unusual man.

If we had known then what we know now, would we have adopted that chubby baby boy? You bet we would have!

Would we have done anything differently? Yes. We would have tried to help him much earlier. We would have ignored the reassuring teachers who were blinded by “good behavior.” We would have paid heed to the “flashing lights,” the warnings of parenthood. We would have helped our son as early as possible to like himself and to make peace with himself.

When strangers ask me today if our son is married, I do not hesitate to explain: “He is not, he is gay.”

Jeff and we are out of the closet. As a matter of fact, as we exited, we closed his bedroom door and marked it “private.”