In the last post I began recounting my experience of coming out to my parents. Today’s post concludes the narrative.
As Christmas of 2008 drew nearer both John and I became more anxious about how my parents might react to us. During phone calls they were generally pretty reticent to discuss my relationship, but I knew that my return home for Christmas would advance the conversation.
Fairly early on, John decided that it would be a nice gesture if he sent them a little gift. Eventually we decided it would seem less presumptuous if we sent a gift together, so we ordered them a gift basket to be delivered directly to their house. John also sent along a Christmas card wishing them the best and included a photo of the two of us together. I had already sent them photos in the past, but this one ended up taking on greater significance.
By the time my trip back home came around I was pretty nervous. I was only going for a handful of days and each was scheduled with family events long before I headed to the airport. Overall I was pleased by my return home. I feared that an atmosphere of tension might permeate my whole visit, but from the outset my parents seemed comfortable with my return. However, it did seem that, on the drive home, the issue of my coming out was a proverbial elephant in the room that no one wanted to bring up.
Once getting to the house my parents thanked me again for the gift we sent; it had arrived quite early and they had previously thanked John and I over the phone. I was also pleasantly surprised to find that they had framed the photo John had sent and had it sitting with other family photos on a shelf in the living room. It was a subtle but reassuring sign of my parents’ position on our relationship.
Throughout the trip it was my father that made the most direct overtures of interest or approval. At one point, while my mother was out doing shopping, he broached the subject. He managed to stealthfully complement both John and I by saying that I had good judgment in people. At that time he mentioned that he’d also like to meet John and that perhaps he and my mother would come out for a visit. Unfortunately when the subject of a visit was broached again later with my mother she seemed much more resistant. She cited the economy as a primary factor, and she’s never been one to travel much anyway, but I can’t help but think that a sense of discomfort about my sexuality and the age difference between John and I were contributing factors.
I have been a little surprised that my parents waited as long as they did to ask questions about the age difference between John and I. I sent them photos of John early last year, but it wasn’t until my Christmas visit that they pressed me on John’s age. One morning while we were together in the living room my father asked “How old is John anyway, in his forties?” I couldn’t help but laugh; John looks quite young for his age, but no one could reasonably mistake him for being in his forties. My mother immediately responded “No! He has to be about my age”. My mother, just turning 60 this year, was getting warmer. “No” I said “he’s around dad’s age”. I feel a little disingenuous not sharing John’s precise age, but, with my dad having just turned 70, there was no longer any pretense about the age gap between John and me.
Ultimately my visit with my parents was reassuring, but not earth shaking. There were no tearful revelations or heartfelt late night talks. For them the nature of my relationship was clarified and to a certain extent they were probably reassured that I hadn’t lost my mind; I’m the same son they knew and loved. On my part, I received no profound embrace of John as the newest member of the family. However it was encouraging to find that our family wasn’t fundamentally challenged by my revelations either.
There were no hidden rifts in my relationship with my parents to be revealed only when we finally met again face to face. In fact I found small signs of encouragement, signs that my parents could accept my being gay, signs that my parents might be willing to get to know John and not just tolerate his presence in my life, signs that come in the form of a photo on a book shelf or a tin of home baked goodies my mother sent home with me for John.
