Honey, I have something to tell you...

January 21, 2011

Today would have been my father’s 81st birthday, and he’s been gone now for 11 months exactly. Such a strange sensation. On the way to karate last night, I mentioned this fact to my ten year old daughter, and she was concerned about me being sad. I said, “Well, his 80th birthday was pretty miserable. I’ll bet birthday parties in Heaven are pretty cool.” She likes this idea.  Onward to the next story...


I moved to San Francisco to complete my years of undergrad at San Francisco State University when I was 20 years old, but frequently came home to visit. I came home for Spring Break when I was 21, and upon arrival,  Dad said, “Honey, I have something to tell you.” Okay…I sat down in his room and waited. “I’m an alcoholic, but I’ve quit now and am going to AA.” The fact that he was an alcoholic wasn’t groundbreaking news, we all knew it, really. He drank for as long as I could remember. He was never a mean drunk, in fact, he was often a funny, entertaining drunk. When I was really little, I remember him drinking Olympia beer, which I don’t even think they make anymore. I remember bringing him can after can with the upside down horseshoe on it from the kitchen when I was little. Later, when I began drinking myself, I discovered this was absolutely horrible beer…it tasted like carbonated dishwater. Regardless, it was cheap beer, and he drank a lot of it, for a very long time. I remember one instance when I had a friend over, maybe in 3rd or 4th grade and my Dad was sitting in a chair, finishing his beer. He then balanced the empty beer can on his bald head, which my friend found hilarious. With a captive audience, he began to rock his head from side to side, making the can wobble, but he never let it fall. He thought it was funny. We thought it was funny. So what’s the problem?

Years later he turned to wine. With such fine taste in clothes and antiques, you’d think he’d choose a fine wine, or at the very least, an acceptable wine. Nope. My Dad chose the HUGE jug of Gallo “Burgundy”. Again, as I began to drink, found out how dreadful IT was as well. I would equate Gallo Burgundy with drinking battery acid. It made sense as the years went on…if you drink THAT much, you’d go completely broke if you bought the good stuff. As I grew up and got to high school and then college, his drinking did begin to bother me more and more. There were endless evenings when I was staying with him that I had to go take the wine glass out of his hand, sometimes still somewhat full, because he’d passed out in bed while drinking. I would then put the glass on his bedside table, take his glasses off (if he’d been reading or watching TV), and turn everything off. Dozens and dozens of times I did this. I became even more concerned so I started to monitor how much he was actually drinking by keeping an eye on the ever-upscale and classy JUG of Burgundy on the kitchen counter, to see how quickly the line went down. It wasn’t until this April confession that he told me he’d hidden other jugs throughout the house, including his closet. I was glad he stopped, and proud that he was taking the initiative to go to AA and make his life better. He was 61 years old. The irony, of course, is that I was drinking like a fish at that time, high school and college, but considered myself to have MUCH better taste in alcohol. Did I drink too much? Yes. Was it a problem? Absolutely. However, much like my father, I thought I was fine, even while driving. I drove drunk more times than I care to remember. And while I don’t remember these events, my mother reports that our dad once drove all three of us kids home from our grandparents house on the wrong side of the street. Very recently she shared a story of coming home when they were still married, and all of us kids were asleep. Our dad had passed out drinking, AND smoking, and the bed was partially on fire. I have no recollection of any of this, so to me, Dad’s drinking wasn’t a big deal to me for a very long time. In fact, for awhile there it was great. We drank together. In high school, I had the coolest dad in the world because we could hang out and drink a bunch of beers. Looking back, I see things differently of course. Alcoholics don’t like to drink alone. It was NOT good to make alcohol so easily accessible to me. But at the time, I felt like we were bonding, and sharing an experience. I don’t hold it against him now of course, and we did have great talks and a lot of fun, but it was wrong. Deep down, he knew that.

The following April, exactly a year later, I came down for Spring vacation again. I was home for maybe a day before I got another, “Honey, I need to talk to you.” Oh boy…what now? Big silence, and then a big sigh. Then more silence. “Darling, I’m bisexual.” Come again???? I did NOT see this one coming at all. It never occurred to me in the slightest. He never had significant girlfriends after divorcing my mom, but there were some here and there. My mom never had any significant relationships either, so that part of their lives were something I guess I just never thought about. Later in the day, he approached me and said, “Honey, I’m not really bisexual, I’m gay.” He explained that he thought telling me he was bisexual first would "ease me into the idea", when in reality it had confused me more.  At this point, (and he LOVED this story and retold it frequently), I replied, “Okay, Dad. Is there ANYTHING ELSE you need to tell me? Are you an international  spy? Are there dead people buried in the backyard?” We both burst out laughing, as we always did. Humor and laughter was how we dealt with life, even at seemingly inopportune times. Okay, I have a gay dad. I asked him if there was anyone special, there wasn’t. I asked if he was always careful, and he said he was. That was really all I needed to know. As it turns out, I was the last one to know. He’d told my siblings weeks before. My mother, reportedly, had always known, although I have my doubts. He was afraid to tell me, he said, because we were so close and he was afraid of what my reaction might be. That, in and of itself surprised me…we were all brought up liberal and open-minded, I had gay friends. I would never have thought less of him, I just didn’t expect it. I called my best friend and told her and she replied, “You know, I always kind of wondered…” Sheesh…apparently I had the world’s worst gaydar. A few years later, I had a conversation with my brother that made me laugh until I thought I would stop breathing. He said, “Dad loves clothes, the man owns over 50 sweaters and he lives in Los Angeles. He loves to decorate and hunt for antiques. We’ve grown up being forced to listen to Judy Garland and Liza Minnelli and Barry Manilow and Barbra Streisand. We ALL know the lyrics to just about any musical production that has been released in the past 20 years. A Chorus Line. Guys and Dolls. Pippin. Company. How in the HELL did we NOT KNOW he was gay?”

As weird as it all was, I became so proud of my father for making these confessions and declarations.  It was also at this time that I made the connection between the two…he drank because he was trying to "drink away" being gay. After being sober for one year, he couldn’t deny it anymore, it’s who he was. Imagine waiting until you’re in your 60’s before being able to fully express and live who you are? Some people never get to do that. Sometimes it makes me sad as well. While being happy about the drinking ceasing, his health was never that great, he’d quit smoking at around 44, but a lot of damage had already been done. And as far as his fully coming out of the closet, it was LATE. If you’re gay in Los Angeles, you are required to be young and beautiful. Dad was old and handsome, but not into the “scene”, and never acted like a “stereotypical” gay person. So he died having never found a significant partner to share his life with after the divorce, which had happened 20 some years before. People came and went, but none were particularly meaningful or special. I wish that he’d had that chance.  I know he was very lonely a good part of his last years.

Through this, I have learned bravery and courage.  Any time I feel stifled, or as though I can't say or act like myself depending on who I'm around, I think about my dad.  If HE could make such dramatic changes and uncover truths that had been hidden for decades, then I can most certainly be who I really am.  Not everyone will like it, and frankly, I don't care.  He was my mentor in many ways, but being true to myself is one of the most important lessons I learned.  More grace.  Through oddness and certainly unusual parenting, came confidence and courage in me, although I'll admit it took time to develop.  I'm doing something now that scares me to death.  Thank you Dad.  And Happy Birthday!