Commentary : The Package Behind the ‘Gay’ Label

The label prevented an easy acceptance of a life style that I didn’t want to know. It conjured up images of aberrant behaviors, of demeaning insults such as “queer” and “faggot,” of sleazy males who had been denied the masculine trademark of chiseled identities. Something was wrong with people like that. There just was no way my brother could be a homosexual because everybody loved him.

It had always been that way. Rusty gathered friends like flowers, winning them with his easy smile and endearing them with his deep respect. Girls and boys alike filled years of friendship through elementary, junior and senior high schools, sharing the platforms of class elections, the spotlights of school musicals and the romance of evening proms. Gifted musically and artistically, Rusty also achieved the highest honor of Boy Scouts when he received the Eagle Scout award, an accomplishment I knew couldn’t be endured by a sissy. No, there simply was no way my brother could be a homosexual.

And yet, his urgent phone call 10 years ago would not allow the denial I was trying to support. Patiently he explained that he was confronting the drive he had always known, that it wasn’t a capricious choice he was making, but rather a fact of his being.

“Give it some time, Russ,” I pleaded, “maybe it’s just the liberated confusion of college you’re experiencing, or the emotional fallout of breaking up with your girlfriend. This just can’t be true, because you’ve always been so happy. You’re so normal, Russ, and the other is so . . . abnormal.”

My life had little prepared me for accepting homosexuality. Married as a sophomore in college, I had departed early from the frivolous meanderings of student life, finishing my education at San Diego State University as a precondition for teaching and motherhood. My upbringing in conservative Whittier, the vaunted hometown of Richard Nixon, had left no room for consideration of alternative life styles, where “homos” were only palatable as the punch lines of raunchy jokes.

Now, I was being told my brother was gay.

The visits that followed were difficult. Rusty spoke of love, of new-found freedom, of the peace he now knew with his honesty. I felt stiff in his embraces, and I watched my husband falter with his uneasiness. I worried about his impact on my son, and I cried. The bonds of our relationship had been irrevocably assailed by the issue of his sexuality.

And then he spoke of Wayne.

His eyes sparkled as he shared his feelings. It was clear that Rusty cared deeply for this person, and that it was important that I meet him. Unmentioned was the hope that I would accept him, and someday even love him.

It was not an easy task to meet the male lover of my brother.

Our first encounter happened as my family was moving from North Park to a larger home in the San Carlos area. Rusty had volunteered to help, and along came Wayne. The chaos of activity eliminated my dread of stammering pleasantries, but I contemplated this man who knew my brother too well.

Despite what I wanted to see, I liked him.

He was a handsome redhead like Rusty, with twinkling blue eyes and a contagious laugh. His affable manner was characterized with humor and sensitivity, his conversation revealing a quiet intelligence.

He had even been an Eagle Scout.

There was no lisp, no effeminate flourishes, no inkling of deviation. My stereotypical expectation was shattered with the reality of who Wayne was, a person endowed with the qualities that I would seek in somebody to love.

My acceptance of Wayne and Rusty gradually became unconditional. Together they were natural extensions of my family, frequenting my home for dinners and playtimes with my toddler son. After the birth of my daughter, they were there at my hospital bedside, two uncles proudly boasting how she was the most beautiful baby in the nursery.

Wayne joined Rusty in loving my children deeply. He would tirelessly play games like Candyland, never showing the parental impatience that I would sometimes display when my kids begged to play more than one round. He never failed to laugh at their jokes, nor did he ever disappoint their magic by indicating he knew how the plastic rabbit got into the hat.

Trips to the San Diego Zoo and historical sites such as Old Town became the vehicle for sharing Wayne’s passion for history, including an extensive collection of rare photos, which he encouraged my son to take to school. His enthusiasm for history inspired my son in fourth grade to memorize all the presidents in order, creating a new pastime as he and Wayne tried to snag each other’s recall of details.

I have often thought about how different our family life would have been without Rusty and Wayne. There is no measure of the meaningful experiences that have bonded us together, or the joys we have known with their love. My children never wondered about the relationship or these two men. For them it has simply been a friendship, without the hindrance of a label.

The years have brought a quiet understanding of a life style I didn’t want to know, a metamorphosis of my sensibilities. I now accept the validity of homosexuality as a human condition, rather than a frailty. I am proud to have surmounted the stereotype, and quickly see myself 10 years ago in the shocked expressions of my friends, who find themselves responding to the label, rather than the beings.

I was lucky because Wayne was so easy to love, a warmhearted counterpart to a brother I adore. While homosexuality is still not an alternative I would wish for my children, I pray that, should I ever meet it again, I will be able to respond with the latitude of my understanding and not the obstacle of my prejudice. As homosexuality embraced me with the power of its love without judgment, it is only fair that I reach out to do the same.

Wayne died of AIDS Oct. 24 at the age of 41. Too terrified to go to a doctor for the confirmation he already dreaded, he suffered for only a month, losing 50 pounds, before he was diagnosed one week before his death. He died quickly with a disease that tortures its victims relentlessly.

No words can express the paralyzing grief that I feel for his loss, or the sorrow in realizing that I will never again share his laughter. Wayne entered my life against my will, and he left it as a cherished friend.

There is pain in knowing that he is destined to become yet another square on a burgeoning quilt, a silent testimony to the horror of a scourging plague. In accepting homosexuality, I have also learned there is no choice but to acknowledge its shadow, AIDS.

Another label, another fear.