POINT 2: NO SHIT

The evening didn’t end there. I had to sit through the meal. I had to pretend to have an appetite. And, actually, concentrating on the food was a good excuse for not joining the conversation, for not looking up. My nephew sat next to me, more subdued than before, looking slack-jawed and vaguely injured. In the bathroom I had contemplated apologizing for making a scene, for introducing the “I am gay” awkwardness at a family dinner, for “flaunting” my sexuality, as some would no doubt describe it later, probably as they draped an arm around their heterosexual spouse or used the event as a “teaching moment” for the products of their heterosexual union. But I quickly decided against that. I had not made a scene. I had calmly made a statement. And they deserved to feel awkward, not just the homophobic jokesters, but all the people who had enabled them by laughing or doing nothing.

I could pull my nephew aside and explain to him the wrongness of what he did, of how he behaves, of the hate-filled redneck path he was progressing down, but he would probably just stare at his feet and nod and wait for me to finish. And the truth, I knew, was that as soon as he was in the car with his parents that they would counter any talk of mine by assuring him that he did nothing wrong, that it was all in good fun, that I was just being ill-humored, overly sensitive. The lesson, if there was one, would be not to mention gay stuff in front of Kim.

My nerves settled a little as I ate. My sister-in-law, now saddled with the task of being an apologist for her asshole husband and her son, made a few attempts to interest me in conversation. I politely responded. Things were cordial. I felt calm as the realization overtook me that I had no connection to these people, no tie familial or otherwise, no obligation to ever share a meal with them again, to ever see them again. Life is full of a fair amount of shit, much of which we cannot avoid, but that’s all the more reason to insist on roses from the people who are supposed to love us. I will not accept shit.

After the meal, there was talk of where the next Christmas gathering would be. I never felt more irrelevant and more free. I handed my stepmom $50 for my meal. She said, “Put that away. It’s our treat. We hardly ever see you.”

On the way out, my sister-in-law gave me a big, showy hug, as if to say, “See, we embrace gay people.” I knew she would be embracing her son shortly, way more tightly, telling him not to feel bad. I rode back to my dad’s house with my dad and stepmom. I half expected them to say something about the incident, but they didn’t. It was in the air, but the tone seemed to be “the more quickly forgotten the better.” I knew nothing would ever be different, and there was kind of a sad comfort in that. There was permission to give up the struggle.

When I was alone in my car, I called a gay friend. I was totally calm now, almost laughing. I said, “I have to tell you this awful thing that happened at dinner.” She understood. She had seen it all before. The details varied, but the experience, the emotion, was deeply familiar. She laughed with me and said, “Good for you.”

Then I drove to my mom’s because I had to pick up her dog to watch while she was out of town. I plopped down in her armchair and told her how ill-mannered by brother’s children were. I told her how they made impolite remarks and picked ungraciously at their food, and how their parents said nothing. She winced hearing this, because they are generally better behaved around her. She does not enable assholes. Then I told her about the incident. I said, “And then I told him, ‘I am gay,’” and that — I realized just then — was the first time I had ever said those words to my mother, too. It was known, of course, but I had never said “I am gay.” I said it again. And she blinked back a tear and smiled, “Good for you.”

That’s family.

I will not accept shit.