I am surprised when people I meet don’t know I’m gay. How could they not figure that out? I am also surprised when I meet someone and they do know. How can they tell? It’s a little schizophrenic, I guess (no disrespect intended to any of my schizophrenic readers) but both are true. I have been out of the closet for so long it’s almost like water to a fish for me and yet I don’t think I come off as particularly “gay” (whatever that means. And I know at least Steve will have several comments about it. Be nice, Steve. This is my blog and I’ll equivocate if I want to.)
As unexceptional as it is for me to think of myself as gay, the process of coming out was a long and circuitous one. (What, you may ask, should I have expected, that the path be straight?) It was not, I’m sure, as arduous as that of numerous other gay men and women, but it took many, many years. I knew I was attracted to men even before I really knew what sexuality was. I grew up in a tavern in a small town in northern New Jersey and most of the patrons were blue collar men. Trust me, I noticed a lot of them.
I have no idea when I first knew what a homosexual was, but I remember quite clearly when I started to realize there may be something wrong with being one. My older brother, who was perhaps thirteen at the time, told me that the way they treated homosexuals was to show them pictures of naked men at the same time as giving them an electric shock. He didn’t call it aversion therapy, I’m sure, but it seemed to me at age ten a rational way of dealing with the issue. I also wondered when I would have to have the procedure.
Several years later, and on the other side of the continent, my mother decided to have a “talk” with me. I had no idea of her agenda, of course. We had decided to take a drive to visit some family friends who lived in a big, old house on a scraggly piece of land in a small town about two hours drive from us. We often visited them on a moment’s notice, both families enjoyed each other’s company. It was a little odd to me that it was only Mom and me going, but what the hell, I was fourteen or fifteen and not that inquisitive about such things. We had a nice visit. Then, on the way back, my mother initiated “the conversation.” It was obvious she was having a hard time starting, but I didn’t help. In fact, I didn’t say anything. After a lot of hemming and stammering, she said she thought I might be (might be, mind you) gay, that she didn’t know if I’d had any overt experiences, that I could talk to her any time and that, if I needed it, we’d find a good therapist.
I didn’t say a single word the entire ride home, which couldn’t have made her task any easier. Thinking back on it, it must have been excruciating for her. What if she’d been wrong? What if her supposition put the thought into my head for the very first time, made me question, then experiment, then BECOME gay? My silence couldn’t have eased her trepidation, yet I remained silent. Being a parent can’t be easy sometimes. When I got home, I went downstairs to my room, dragged out my dictionary and looked up the word “overt”. I was disappointed. I’d thought it was something sexual. To be truthful, “overt” is the only actual word I remember from her long talk, the rest is only a vague sense of extreme discomfort and the sound of my heart beating fast.
I hadn’t had any overt experiences at that point, though. My first was when I was seventeen, with a twenty-eight year old relative of that same family, ironically, at their house during a weekend visit. My heart beat fast then, too, as I recall.
Many years later, again in another corner of the country, I finally “came out” to my mother. I was in my mid twenties and living in Los Angeles. I had moved here in part to have a big, anonymous place to figure out what all this sex stuff was about. I told myself and others I came here to be in the movies, which was true to a point, of course. I’d been here a few years by then, living in a house in the Silverlake area. I called my mother long distance (back when long distance actually meant something momentarily) and this time it was I who hemmed and stammered. Which I did for some fifteen minutes before I got out the operative sentence. I’m sure my mother figured out within the first two seconds what was up, but there wasn’t much she could say until I actually said, “I’m gay.” She said, “I know, honey.”
I cried and said the thing that hurt the most was the thought that I would be with someone who wouldn’t be welcome in her home. She said, “Oh, Honey, anyone you love I love.”
She proved it, too. When I was with Jerry, my one long-term boyfriend (if two years can be considered long-term), we took a trip up to her cabin in Idaho. One day I’d been out doing something in town with mom’s husband. That night, Jerry told me that my mother had asked him if he felt like part of the family.
“Of course, Toni,” he’d told her.
“Good,” she’d said. “Could you pick up all the coffee mugs in the living room and bring them into the kitchen?”
He said he’d felt very welcome, indeed.
The one thing she asked of me was that I not tell my great aunt. She didn’t want any blowback from that side of the family. I did anyway (many years later, of course, I said it was a long process.) Aunt Lou’s only comment was, “Well, do you have a friend?” I said I had lots of them and she said that’s not what she meant. I told her no, I didn’t have a friend and she told me I’d find someone and then changed the subject.
As the years progressed, my mother began wearing a pin that said, “Straight but not narrow”. She called me her fairy god son, and once asked if I were bothered that she had used me as an example when she showed the documentary Pink Triangles, about homosexuals in Nazi Germany, to her YWCA luncheon group. One of the group had said, “Gay people are disgusting.” My mother was horrified and said, “That’s my son you’re talking about.” I gave her retroactive permission and told her she could use me to enlighten someone anytime she wanted.
Oh. By the way. I’m gay. Did you know?
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Geoff Hoff is co-author of the best selling satirical novel Weeping Willow: Welcome to River Bend
Tags: Being Gay, Essay, Flatbrookville, Masculinity, My Family, My Life, Spokane
Geoff!
First off, thanks for finding me on Facebook. It made me feel pretty good, especially when my wife asked “Who’s this Geoff guy and why’s he look so happy?” I told her you were a best-selling author, friend of royalty, and king of excellently-worded soliloquys, to which her reply was “That’s nice” before she went back to reading Neil Gaiman’s blog. That girl – no sense of celebrity.
Second, in regards to your blog, I’m glad I came back around to read it, and I’m going to add it to my list of “things to read weekly or so or whenever I’m bored and have the time”, because it reminded me that one of the things I loved most about WW wasn’t the story (although I love the story), but the writing. You even made a story about your mom’s weird tea-and-cheese interesting to read. I’m glad the blog has grown past it’s humble beginnings as an “everyone else is doing it” excercise.
Third, in reply to this post specifically – You’re gay? When did that happen? You should write a blog post about it. The voices in my head agree.
Dingo! I’m so glad you found this. I’m in Minneapolis (really!) at a retreat and the next session starts in about ten minutes, so I’m going to have to answer you in earnest at another time, but I will, I promise!
P.S. Tell the voices to be patient.
The voices have asked me to point out one thing to you:
This being the internet, and this particular piece of the internet being owned and operated by you, I had no way of knowing that you would read my comment, then be stretched for time at a retreat in Minneapolis. Therefore, had you simply not responded until you had time, I would never have known. Nor would I have in any way have been upset. I would not have thought “Man, Geoff didn’t respond immediately. He must not like me. Time to pull out the pig swill and drown my sorrows.”
So, my good man, it is important to note that you could have said nothing, and everything would be fine. But now you *have* made a comment… and now that you have, I’m expecting a reply. You’ve backed yourself into a corner. You have no other options. I’m sorry. Comment, or seppuku.
So say the voices, who are obviously old samurai from the days of conversation etiquette. Etiquette samurai are the worst. One wrong fork at dinner, and *whoosh*. No more head.
Dingo,
I’m back in LA, settled in and finally ready to respond to your (now 2, count them, 2) missives. Tell your wife that, if she wants to experience things not quite as grave as she might over at Gaiman’s place, I’m her guy. And thank you for your kind comment about my writing. I blush. Really. People make fun of me all the time about it. Used to be a lady who went out of the way to make my face turn red. She said it was cute. It thought it was, all in all, rather rude, but what can you do. I got her in the final chapter, though, made her blush all the way up her scalp. She never made the connection to her own behavior, however, and simply got mad at me.
And, yes, I’ve been gay since at least last Tuesday. I may write a blog about it sometime, but it’s still a little too personal a subject to be plastering it all over the net, don’t you think? I mean, there have to be boundaries and proprieties must be adhered to.
I hope my tardy response to your quick response to my truncated response didn’t cause you too much undue stress. (A little should be fine, it helps the skin tone, I’m told.) However, if you need an excuse to pull out the pig swill, you’re not taking it seriously enough.
If you happen to read further back in the archives, here, post comments on them, if you will. It will give me the illusion that many, many people are reading my pithy blog and will make me swell with pride. Why aren’t many, many people reading it, anyway? I shower daily. Well, most days. I don’t spit when I speak. I still have my head, so obviously the etiquette Samurai don’t find me objectionable. Perhaps I should write more about Paris Lohan or Lindsay Spears.
Well, back to my busy life. I await another comment on another page. Another op’nin of another show. Another Nutter Butter peanut butter sandwich cookie. And other stuff.
Geoff
Personally, I find nothing wrong with blush. Or rosé, depending on how snooty you are, and whether or not you know how to do that weird é on your keyboard. In my case, I copy and paste, but that’s my secret and I don’t feel I need to share it, just as you choose not to post about being gay. I applaud you for keeping something so public about yourself so private. When you’re ready to talk about it, I know you will – eloquently.
I would also like to mention that every day you didn’t respond to my “comment or seppuku” comment was another day that made the joke all that much funnier. I applaud you again. Of course, I believe it to have been intentional. Should the opposite in fact be true, you may hold onto that knowledge for yourself.
Now I must go forth and raid your other blog entries. I hope you do not get sick of me before I am done.
I think this is a great story, Geoff. My little brother came out of the closet when he was in his early twenties. I thought it was a very brave and difficult thing to do. Especially, the part of having to tell my mom. She wasn’t surprised, but I was. I never suspected anything and I usually have a good “gay radar.” He was nervous so, to break the ice, I just said, “So when will you help me decorate my house.” He laughed and called me stupid. For him, there was comfort in the fact that I was still his annoying big sister. He still is my favorite brother and I adore him!
It definitely is a process but once you do it, I think it must be like taking this huge load of your shoulders. All we want is to be loved and accepted, right?
Hi, Sofia,
My friends call that “Gaydar” and I’ve found that straight people have more of it than gay people for some reason. Probably because they don’t have any vested interest in it! (There is actually a movie called Gaydar made by a friend of mine named Terry Ray about a fellow who finds a device at a rummage sale that, when you point it at someone, it tells you if they’re gay. Very funny. He’s actually just developed a toy version of it called the “The Gaydar Gun” that he should have in markets by the holidays. Plug for a friend.)
I’m glad your brother was able to have an annoying sister to help him smooth the way. And, yes, after the pain of telling the truth, it makes life infinately easier.
Thanks for you comments!
Hi geoff, I stumbled upon ur blog while googling for coming out stories. Really enjoy ur blog. I live in a very traditional society so it never occur to me to come out, not in the near future. Something in ur comment catched my attention, about the movie Gaydar ur friend made. It’s a coincidence that i’ve just watched that movie, and I find it very entertaining! Very fresh and original, I would nominate it for an award. (and I live in the distant corner of the earth, u’d never thought that the movie would make it here). Tell him to make more movies
Hi, Rex,
I’m glad you stumbled upon my blog. I hope you find more here to enjoy. I will tell Terry that you liked his movie, he’ll be very pleased.
Thanks for posting!
Geoff