I Am My Mom's Gay Son

After my father’s death, my mother began a new journey to raise my siblings and myself with the only hope that we be happy and lead successful lives. It was not been an easy road for her or us.

With all her tenacity and strength, my mom committed her life to raising our family. But it was not always a clear path to bliss, and dysfunction set in. She worked a lot and was not home much. My sister became my surrogate mother and my one support system. Because my mother did not receive praise as a child, she did not hand it readily as an adult. Thus, I learned to pat myself on the back. As she was not hugged much by her parents, so too, I was not hugged often by her. Affection became a luxury in our household we learned not to be generous with. My dissatisfactions turned to anger, resentment and blame. It was my mom’s fault. I never said this to her face, but thought it often. Even admitting this to myself now brings a pain to my heart for such selfish thinking.

Still I loved my mother and did not want to disappoint her. She put food on the table, clothes on my back, helped through college. How could I tell her I was gay? What would this do to a woman who has dedicated so much to me? Thus, I hid the truth to protect her, but more to protect myself. My world was not perfect but it was the only one I had. She was my mom and I did not want to hurt her.

Then the proverbial closet door opened and my brother kicked me out. All that work and it was work, and still my mom learned of the reality I struggled to disguise. She called me at home. "Is it true?" “Yes, I’m sorry mom. But yes, I’m gay,” I told her. “Aye mijo (my son), why didn’t tell me?” I could not find the words to defend my dishonesty. I was only certain that it would shame and disappoint her. My mother, catholic to the bone, offers God a silent prayer as she passes traffic accidents. I did not want to be one more thing for her to pray for. “Did you think I would not love you?” she continued. At that moment, I discovered my fear of disappointing her was not a valid reason. "I worry about you, but I want you to be happy mijo."

As the years pass, my mom still struggles with my being gay. “Love the sinner, hate the sin,” is her current mantra. As I have stepped into my own acceptance and self worth, this philosophy does not leave a nice taste on my tongue. I have to recoil and accept that she, like always, is doing the best she can. She does not easily understand my life, but her love for me is not daunted by this. (When I met my lover, she accepted him into her home with open arms, and when that relationship ended, she lovingly provided me with a shoulder to cry on.)

Since my coming out, the relationship between my mom and myself has evolved but it is not full-grown. Her praise for me has always been light, to say the least, and her expressions of affections are sincere but strained.

Once I shared with her that I was going to speak at the National PFLAG conference. Her first thought (and fear) was if I was going to be on television. Love the sinner, as long as he keeps his sin a secret I internalized. She then warned me not to “speak too fast.” At that, my neck hairs curled. Again, with the criticism! When I wanted “Good Luck,” I heard: “Don’t screw up!”

I left for the conference with her words ringing in my ears louder than had I were on a dance for eight hours. I began to get upset that despite all our progress, I was still a dirty secret, and one that needed speech lessons as well. She loved me, but again I doubted her acceptance of me.

At the PFLAG conference, I saw myself facing a room full of strangers: Old, young, mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters and friends of the lesbian and gay community. Kind faces looked and me and listened to me speak. They were strangers, and they were my friends. They were supporting me in a way I had never thought was possible.

On the panel with me was Leslie Powell Sadasivan. Her 14-year-old son, Robbie Kirkland committed suicide as a result of years of homophobic teasing and harassment by his classmates. Still here she was, Robbie’s’ mother, sharing on his behalf. Her words were soft, graceful and genuine. Her son was dead, and in the tragedy, she still came to speak for him and for many others who struggle with their sexual identity and societal pressures that come along with that.

I thought about a time when I was 16 and how I wanted to kill myself rather than shame my mom for being gay. Then I wondered if my mom would have felt compelled to be my voice for gay acceptance in lieu of my death? Then it hit me, and tears began to well in my eyes.

My mothers parting words “Don't speak too fast,” shot through my head and through my heart. I remembered that she, in her own subtle way loves me. What I heard as criticism before, I now heard as her candid show of support. She did not want to see her son fail. Those perfect strangers’ faces before me became my mom’s perfect face. They were all there representing my mother in as much as Mrs. Sadasivan was there for her son.

The PFLAG conference was a reminder to me that I am loved and supported, by strangers and my mother, alike. Her love and support for me may not include walking down Santa Monica Blvd. in an “I love my gay son T-shirt," but she has wants for me now what she wanted for me the moment I was born into this universe: success, love and my happiness. Her pride for me looks different then some, but it does exist in her support for my welfare and joy. She may not say the words I want to hear, the way I need to hear them, but in her way, she still speaks them to me. Since my coming out, we have both learned to love each other anew. I am her son and I know she is proud of me. And I am proud of her and grateful for the sacrafices she made for me. I am proud to be my mom’s gay son.

As I mingled with the guests at the PFLAG conference, I was approached by a woman who heard me speak. She offered me congratulations and kindly shared her opinion that my presentation was quite powerful. I was very touched. Then she continued, saying I should try “to speak a little slower.” I smiled and hugged her tight; at that moment, my mom was there with me and she was right. Small tears came to my eyes and I softly thought, “I love you too, Mom. I love you too.”