My childhood was plagued with close calls and complete red-handed captures, but my parents never really put it together. I remember staying home while my brother would have his baseball games during the summer. I would use my Sega Dreamcast to access the internet so as to not leave a history or an endless cache of graphic images. I remember clearly my mother coming home early one afternoon because my brother had forgotten his bat bag. She never saw the compromising situation I had found myself in, but did speak to me through my locked bathroom door. After I was assured she had gone, I left my bathroom to see that I had never shut down the system, nor even turned off the television. Nothing was ever said about the situation, this pretty much confirmed my fourteen year-old perception of my family's view on homosexuality.
Fast forward four years and you find an insecure high school graduate who has had a handful of junior high girlfriends, but chose to sit the game out in high school. At this point I was sure of my sexual orientation, and upon entering college I found myself contemplating how I was going to deal with that always prevalent question, "Are you gay?" My only solution to this almost rhetorical question, given my clothing choices and demeanor, was to answer the question the easiest way possible: Facebook. Before I knew it, word spread quickly among the UCA students with whom I had history with back in Bryant, my home town.
This quickly raised concerns of the word getting back to my parents before I had told them. I felt it would be better received if they heard it from me. So I made a pact to tell my dad the first time I came home from school, which happened to be Labor Day 2005. Upon getting home I became very hesitant about the discussion that I knew I needed to had. My dad found me lying on the sofa just staring at the ceiling while he vacuumed the carpet. He looked over and turned off the vacuum, and asked if I had anything on my mind. I looked at him and affirmed him that I was fine and that I was just daydreaming.
About fifteen minutes later my dad had finished vacuuming the house and was putting the vacuum away when he looked at me and asked again, "Are you sure you're not thinking about something?" It almost felt like he was pulling it out of me so I stared off into space and said, "Dad, I told myself that the first time I came home from school I would tell you that I'm gay." I'll never forget the next two hours of discussion and disbelief. I wanted to eject myself out of the situation, and even suggested that I leave; however, that very suggestion changed the tone of the conversation and let me see that my dad was did love me. He told me that, "I was of his flesh and that no matter who I was, I would always be of his flesh."
I know that my sexuality is a sore subject for my father, but I do believe his concerns are genuine and are reflective of his background and upbringing. On occasion we do talk about it but only in the context of my issues with relationships and other guys, but never just about me.
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