Oy Vey My Daughter's Gay (16 page)

“If you’re quiet, you’re not living. You’ve got to be
noisy and colourful and lively!”  - Mel Brooks

“My daughter’s gay,” I said, in conversation with a new
friend.

“Really?” she replied. “My son’s gay.”

“I can’t believe it," I said, genuinely moved. “You
don’t know how much this means to me.”

“What, that my son’s gay?”

“No − that you shared it with me. You are the first
parent of a gay child to ‘come out’ to me in sixteen years.”

“Well, I’m happy to help,” she laughed.

Up until that moment I had never met a parent of a gay
child. If around ten per cent of people are gay, where are all their parents?
On reflection, I’ve probably met quite a few parents of gay children. I suppose
that, unlike me, they just don’t go around shouting it from the rooftops. I
talk to everyone and anyone − on planes; on park benches; in queues; in
the dentist’s chair… although granted the last one’s trickier:

“Maaaaaa daaaaaaaataaaa’s a laaaaaaaabbbbaaaan.”

“Very interesting. Now can you open your mouth a little
wider?”

Since I’ve retired from teaching, John and I spend a lot of
time travelling. On planes, the row normally has three seats. John settles in
to the window seat to read or nap, confident that unlike my unsuspecting
neighbour, he won’t be hearing from me again until we are about to land. I hate
plane landings, particularly landing at one Spanish airport where a common
question is, ‘Have we landed, or have we been shot down?’ If my seatmate is a
woman, I immediately start up a conversation with her. (I tend to be more
reticent with men.) The conversation inevitably turns to children.

“I have a son and a daughter. My son lives in Scotland and
my daughter lives in America.”

“Oh really,” plane partner might reply. “What is she doing
there?”

“They went there for her partner’s job.” (That’s compromise
enough. I should have said, ‘wife.’)

“What does he do?”

This is the turning point. I know I could ignore it. I know
I could reply in kind, using the pronoun ‘he’, as John has helpfully
suggested, but I just can’t. Letting the moment of potential correction slip by
is how Lila kept failing to come out to her friends for all those years. I feel
as though a tiny Lila is sitting on my shoulder, sneering (she does a good
sneer) and challenging me with: ‘Okay. Make my day.’

“Actually, my daughter’s partner is a ‘she’, not a ‘he’.”
(Take that, Lila.)

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. My daughter’s gay. Her partner is a woman.”

At this point, John can be seen squirming and groaning.
(Who knew he was even listening?) “Here we go again,” he mutters.
John’s constantly begging me not to be so open with people I’ve just met,
but that’s just me. He reckons I’m a bit over the top telling random strangers
that Lila is gay, or as he says, “throwing it in people’s faces” (an
interesting choice of phrase).

“You’re probably never going to see these people again, so
why do you need to tell them your life story?” says John.

He just doesn’t understand. As anyone who is chatty knows,
it feels uncomfortable to try to edit out key information during a conversation
and, anyway, why should I? I can’t imagine handling it any differently. If I
didn’t correct the assumption, I’d feel I was letting Lila down by denying her
sexuality. Or maybe I’m just making amends in my own way for all the times I
didn’t talk about it with Lila herself.

I’ve had various responses to my ‘coming out’ over the
years, including: ‘Oh, that’s okay with me’; ‘I have nothing against gay
people’; ‘I don’t mind’; ‘Oh well, as long as she’s happy.’ Every single one of
these responses makes me want to scream, and answer sarcastically, ‘Oh, well.
As long as she’s got your permission, that’s okay. Because otherwise she
couldn’t possibly be happy being gay.’ I don’t know why people’s responses
upset me so much. I’d probably even say something similarly trite or awkward
myself if the boot was on the other foot. I don’t know if a response exists
which would make me happy, with the exception of: ‘My son (or daughter) is gay,
too.’

If the conversation turns to religion, I’m quick to point
out that I’m Jewish. It’s an important part of my identity, just as being a
lesbian is an important part of Lila’s. So if you’re ever on a plane and a
complete stranger opens a conversation with: “Hi! I’m Jewish, and my daughter’s
a lesbian,” you’ll know it’s me, and you can respond with either: “My son/daughter
is gay too,” or feign a heart attack and try and get bumped up to first-class.
(NB It’s inadvisable to use the former statement unless it’s true, or unless
you are an accomplished liar, as I’m going to demand lots of follow-up
details.)

For Lila, she says the best case scenario, should you ever
meet her, would be this:

”So what does your husband do?”

”Actually, I have a wife.”

“Oh, I’m sorry I made that assumption. So what does your
wife do?”

I don’t know if anyone has ever actually responded to her
in this textbook way, but I’m sure I would also be happy with this format.
However, Lila, the exact antithesis of me, is unlikely to initiate conversation
with strangers at all. When she was at medical school, one of her biggest fears
was…no, not cutting open dead bodies… no, not watching someone die…it
was…taxis! Not the actually taxi per se, but the taxi driver. She dreaded
having to engage in conversation with him or her on her journey to and from the
hospital. She might have stunned them into silence with: ‘Hi. I’m a Jewish
lesbian.’

Lila is touched by my reasons for ‘coming out’ to strangers
on her behalf. She herself finds it uncomfortable when people assume that she
is heterosexual and dreads the consequences of not clarifying matters
immediately. She digs a deeper and deeper hole that she can’t climb out of,
until she’s referring to her partner as ‘he’ and promising, “Yes, my husband
and I would love to come to dinner.” At times it’s gone so far she’s convinced
she’ll have to hire a fake husband to save herself and the other person the
embarrassment of belatedly explaining the situation.

Lila used to find inserting this key personal fact into
conversation pretty difficult without sounding militant, or embarrassing the
person who just assumed she had a husband. But after sixteen years of practice,
she’s gotten good at it. Every time she subtly corrects someone’s ‘he’, she
feels she is raising their consciousness so that next time they, hopefully,
won’t make the same assumption. This is one of the many situations I became
aware of only recently and it has been an important part of the jigsaw that is
my daughter’s life.

Miranda’s job necessitates her meeting strangers on a
regular basis. They typically will ask about her personal life and she has
become a professional at coming out – often several times a day. She must feel
as though she’s in the movie Groundhog Day. However, a conversation with a man
who’d only recently been a stranger made it all worthwhile. His son had
recently ‘come out’. Miranda, who is clearly successful and living an
‘ordinary’ life, was the only other gay person he’d ever met. He told her that
she had made it easier for him to cope with his son’s identity. It seems
Miranda and Lila have unwittingly become ‘lesbian ambassadors’ and feel the
need to be on their best behaviour as people look to them as gay role models.
Their interactions mould many people’s perceptions of lesbians as they are the
only lesbian couple many people have ever met.

Old habits die hard and I try not to be too judgmental
about other people’s assumptions. Just last week John and I were puzzled when
we passed a wedding party and noticed that there were two brides.

“Maybe the smaller girl is a bridesmaid,” I suggested. “But
where’s the groom?”

John eventually said, “It must be a lesbian wedding.” I
couldn’t believe that I hadn’t considered that.

“Happiness
is having a large, loving, caring, close-knit family in another city.” - George
Burns

Lila and Miranda both loved London, but, by their first
wedding anniversary, Lila was exhibiting symptoms of our family malaise - itchy
feet. When Miranda was presented with the opportunity of working abroad, Lila
persuaded her to grab it. Next stop: America. Thankfully this time it wasn’t
Minnesota, but the capital: Washington, DC.

Strangely we weren’t as distressed at the thought of Lila
being all the way across the Atlantic Ocean as we had been when she moved to
London. Then she was embarking on the adventure alone. This time she had
Miranda and we were excited and happy for them both.

They had cause to question their decision to move stateside
almost immediately. On a reconnaissance trip to bond with the city, they
decided to celebrate Miranda’s new job with a glass of champagne. A simple
enough request − except the waiter wouldn’t serve them as he wasn’t
convinced by their ID.   In America anyone can be asked for ID in a restaurant
or bar if they look… wait for it… under
forty
, even though the official
age is twenty-one. John and I have even been asked for ID on several occasions:
flattering, but surreal.

Stunned and disbelieving, Lila and Miranda left without
being served. I feel there’s a joke there somewhere. ‘A Jew, a lesbian and a
Scotsman went into a bar and ordered a drink, but none of them got served,
because the bar was in America.’ (I didn’t say it was a
good
joke.)

Luckily for John and me, whose cases were already packed in
anticipation of our first trip, Lila and Miranda weren’t put off, and, within a
month of their move to DC, we arrived to visit. We found Lila ensconced in
their fancy modern flat, in a very expensive area of the city. (Happily, it was
paid for by Miranda’s employers.)

Lila was sitting dazedly surrounded by flat brown boxes, at
a loss as to how they might be transformed into furniture. Was there a magic
word? Was there a wand hidden in there somewhere amongst the wood and screws?
Regardless of how expensive furniture is, or how fancy the shop from which it
was purchased, nowadays almost everything is self-build. Lila and Miranda were
most definitely lacking a man about the house or at least one man in
particular. John was both proud and happy to step up − at first. Being an
IKEA veteran, he set about the task in hand with confidence and aplomb,
miraculously turning flat packs into real furniture in pretty impressive time.
But the deliveries kept coming and the ubiquitous flat boxes kept building
higher and higher. John struggled on manfully, but it was obvious that he was
beginning to wane.

Miranda had been back in England visiting her mother when
we arrived, and now she was due home. Lila had been updating her on John’s
progress, proudly emailing her photos as each piece of furniture was completed.
She couldn’t wait to present Miranda with their completed flat on her return.
There was only one remaining piece to be delivered: their outrageously
expensive and arty dining suite.

“You go and meet Miranda from the airport,” we said to
Lila. 

“Thanks. Could you possibly stay home to receive the
delivery?”

“No problem. We’ll put it all in place for you, so it’ll be
perfect when you get back.”

When the delivery arrived, we noted with horror that,
despite Lila telling us to anticipate six chairs, there were no chair-shaped
boxes. There were, however, six flatpack boxes. We were ready to break down and
cry…

Three hours later, John was on his last screw, and his last
legs. Nevertheless, he’d done it. He was the man of the house and he was not
found wanting. It was worth it to see Miranda’s face as she walked through the
door. As she and Lila stood on either side, hugging John in grateful thanks, we
all teared up. (Granted, John’s tears were possibly due to the blisters on his
hands.) I did my bit, too. I bought flowers and arranged them artfully on the
dining table. Hey, It’s the little things that count.

Now that we had the time and the strength to explore the
local area, Lila and Miranda took us to one of their favourite pretentious
cocktail bars. They introduced us to their regular waiter.

“These are my parents,” Lila said.

“Hi. Nice to meet you.  You must be so proud of their
lifestyle.” 
Hey, what are we, the Beverly Hillbillies?
I thought (an
old TV sitcom about rednecks who come into a fortune and still kept to their
old ways, while living in – you’ve guessed it− Beverly Hills).We
are
proud of their lifestyle. They are both high-flyers, but at the same time, they
are our little girls.

Lila and Miranda love their apartment, but they had
considerable angst about choosing a neighbourhood and, occasionally, still have
regrets about their choice. I was surprised to learn that they had considered
living in the ‘gay’ part of town as I couldn’t imagine them choosing to
marginalise themselves in that way. It seemed so out of character for them.
Lila has previously referred to it as the ‘gay ghetto’ and their style is
integration.

For someone who isn’t involved in the situation, it’s
difficult for me to imagine what another person’s experience is and what the
attraction might be in living alongside other gay people. I find it surprising
how controversial being gay can still be, even in a major American city. Lila
says that there are plenty of attractions of living in a neighbourhood where
lots of other people are gay: not having to feel like the odd one out; seeing
other people whose experiences reflect her own; feeling comfortable about
holding hands with Miranda while walking along the street and knowing there
will be no stares, hostility, suggestive comments, or, as is the case in some
neighbourhoods, threats to her personal safety in response to her innocent
displays of affection in public. It’s yet another example of the challenges of
being gay. It’s also another piece of the puzzle in my understanding my
daughter.

American cities are just the tip of the iceberg. The nature
of Miranda’s job means that in, the future, they will have the option to live
and work in many different parts of the world. They both love to travel and
have done so extensively over the last few years, but living in certain countries
would present major problems for them. They have already turned down jobs
because they know that the countries in question have, at best, questionable
attitudes to gay people and, at worst, laws which make practising homosexuality
quite literally a death sentence.

Whilst planning their wedding, I enquired of Lila, “Have
you ever considered getting married somewhere exotic whilst on one of your
adventurous holidays?”

“Well, it won’t be on our next one. We’re going to Borneo,
where being gay could send us to prison, or to a whipping – or both!”

Sitting in my cosy western sitting room writing this, I
can’t bear to imagine the trauma and fear gay people are experiencing in many
countries of the world. Lila and Miranda are lucky to be living in the West, but
they are all too aware of the dangers, terrors and heartbreaking horrors of
being gay in some parts of the world. I was proud to hear that they had donated
a portion of their wedding gifts to support this cause.