March 5, 2012
Dear Facebook,
I'm finally doing it. For about a year now I've known that I'm gay. I've just now mustered up enough courage to tell everyone, and it's been hard. Don't look at me any different, I'm not. Don't treat me any different. I'm still just Kevran. So now you know. Everybody knows.
Love, Kevran
I'm finally doing it. For about a year now I've known that I'm gay. I've just now mustered up enough courage to tell everyone, and it's been hard. Don't look at me any different, I'm not. Don't treat me any different. I'm still just Kevran. So now you know. Everybody knows.
Love, Kevran
***
When
this message pops up on Facebook, I am completely surprised.
Stunned. How does a Mom respond to this? What does this mean for
his spiritual well-being? Will he be shunned at school? Does he
know how to keep himself safe? What will I tell my mother, or worse, my
grandmother? What will I say to Kevran? One thing I know for
sure—Kevran needs to know I love him.
***
“Hey, Kevran,” I called to the next room, “Wanna go out for
pie?”
“Sure, Mom. Let me grab my shoes.”
Kevran was seventeen, a Junior in high school, tall and skinny with amber eyes
looking through black-framed glasses. His hair is naturally dirty blonde,
but that month it was brown, gelled and sprayed into tousled spikes on top of
his head. He was always more willing to talk in neutral territory, and I
could use some chocolate, so Village Inn seemed the perfect place.
“I saw your Facebook post,” I said.
“I figured,” he said.
“I will love you no matter what,” I said.
“I love you, too,” he said.
There didn’t seem to be anything more to say in that moment. We moved on,
talking about school, choir, the dogs, books, and recent movies. There
would be more conversations; everything did not need to be said immediately.
***
Kevran is a much adored and very spoiled youngest child. I knew when he
was born he would be my last, so every milestone is poignant, special, the last
of its kind.
***
Kevran was born six weeks early. He was big for a preemie, six pounds,
but he spent a few days in the NICU until he learned to swallow. An IV
into a vein in his head provided calories and nutrients along with the much
needed fluid. His skin and the whites of his eyes were yellow with jaundice,
and he spent twenty-four hours under phototherapy lights. To protect his
eyes, opaque fabric “goggles” were attached to the sides of his head while he
was in the bassinet. Heart and breathing monitors were glued to his
chest, connected by multi-colored wires. Lifting him out of bed to cuddle
or feed him took four hands, two to hold the baby and two to untangle the wires
and roll the machines around the bassinet.
Often I would arrive at the hospital and find his basinet
empty. The desk nurse would say, “He’s in the office with Andrea,”
or “He’s in the breakroom with Julie.” As tiny as he was, he charmed the
nurses right away, staring intently into their faces and giving the appearance
of listening closely to adult voices.
***
My heart breaks for my last son. I want my children
to have easy, uncomplicated lives. Kevran’s will be difficult. He
will have to join the fight for his rights, be subjected to hateful speech and
attitudes toward his choice of partner, and accept that controversy will always
be part of his life. I cry for him, wish I could kiss it better. I
plead with God to protect his body and soul. Sometimes, I wish I could
magically make him like girls, just to help him avoid the inevitable trouble
that follows gay men.
***
I went to pick Kevran up from preschool, and he wasn’t in his classroom.
His teacher said he was in the director’s office. I walked to the other
end of the building, wondering who could send a preschooler to the
“principal’s” office, and for what. I looked in the door, and saw Kevran
standing on the desk, singing a silly song about a little blue man. The
office staff was gathered behind the director, cheering him on with laughter at
his budding stage presence. His first attempt at comedic musical theater
was a hit.
***
At four years old, Kevran took swimming lessons from a
teenage girl. He learned to climb down a pole to touch the bottom of the
deep end, and back to the surface where he puffed out his chest, waving proudly
up at us in the bleachers. “Mommy, I can open my eyes under water.
You know what? The swimming teacher has pretty legs.”
“Charming. Go talk to your father.”
“Yep. That’s my boy!”
Jeremy and I could not have guessed that this, of all our sons, would be the
one who liked boys.
***
For
years I say I would be surprised if Kevran were gay. I know he is
gentler, quieter than his brothers, but I choose to ignore every sign that he
might be different in other ways, too. I somehow think if I don’t
acknowledge it, even to myself, then it isn’t real; Kevran will grow up, marry
a lovely girl, and give me grandchildren as adorable as he is. In
hindsight, it’s easy to see everything I missed.
***
Kevran watched the Academy Awards when he was six years old, pencils and paper
spread all over the coffee table, drawing intently.
“What are you drawing?”
“I don’t like their dresses, so I’m drawing them different.”
“What are you changing?”
“I’m adding sleeves on some, putting a crown on one, making a train on some.”
“How did you learn what a ‘train’ is?”
“I just know.”
He was not an art prodigy by any definition; the face had no
recognizable features, but the dress he drew had a recognizable train.
***
Kevran
has always been an excellent shopping partner. He finds a dress that
perfectly fits any body shape. He has a knack for discovering the perfect
pair of shoes to go with the dress. I trust him to tell me when something
looks good, or is unflattering. I ask his opinion on jewelry and scarves,
hair and makeup. I buy shoes that I like, and when my gay son says he
loves the shoes, I suddenly like them a little bit more. Kevran’s
explanation? “I didn’t spend all that time in the closet doing nothing.”
***
His grandmother took twelve-year-old Kevran to Logan for the
Utah Opera Festival for the first time. They sat together on the fifth
row every night for a week. Kevran leaned forward in his seat, tapping
his feet to the music, entranced. Georges Bizet won a devoted fan with
his opera “Carmen.” His grandmother found an opera companion.
Kevran discovered a great love of music and singing.
***
Kevran was fourteen when our bishop approached me. “Kevran’s not like
other boys. Are you concerned about his sexuality?”
“No, and I will not discuss this with you again,” I said. I was resisting
what was becoming clear to everyone else, and this made me angry enough to
snap. I was tired of defending my non-athletic son to church and scout
leaders who wanted him to fit the mold. He never liked sports, video
games, or camping. He did like musical theater, books, and potty humor
(what is it about boys and potty humor?). I never did understand how any
of that defined his sexual orientation, and I did not see that he should be
made to be like everyone else.
***
I
am a devout Mormon, a Christian sect widely known for its belief that marriage
should be between one man and one woman. It is difficult to reconcile my
faith with my pride in my son. I find great comfort in the verse “A new
commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another; as I have loved you,
that ye also love one another.” (John 13:34) Christ himself showed
great love for everyone, sinners and saints alike. Surely I should do no
less with Kevran. I love him, whoever he is, whoever he loves.
***
I found a beautiful pink dress shirt while I was out shopping. There was one
left, Kevran’s size. I hadn’t planned to shop for him, but this deal was
too good to pass up. It wasn’t until I got home that I realized the shirt
had French cuffs. I told Kevran we’d buy cufflinks for him, but he didn’t
need them. He had silver cufflinks in his dresser. At fifteen, he
knew what cufflinks were for, how to use them, and that every well-dressed
gentleman should have them.
***
My children tell me it is easy to bring problems to me. “You never freak
out, Mom,” they say. I listen calmly, respond with love, and “freak out”
later, when they aren’t looking. Teenagers have a knack for getting into
difficult situations. With four children and three step-children, I’ve
had plenty of practice in remaining calm. Kevran’s declaration is one in
a string of unexpected announcements, but the only one, so far, to appear first
on Facebook.
***
Jeremy, now my ex-husband, called me, angry, the day Kevran came out. “It
would have been nice to find this out before he posted on Facebook!”
“Yes, it would have been nice, for both of us,” I said. I was angry,
too. How dare he blame me for this? If Kevran chose not to call his
father first, that was not my fault. It is rude, rude, rude to out
somebody else. Even if I had known before, I would only have encouraged
Kevran to tell his father; I would never have told Jeremy myself.
Jeremy is not religious, and not particularly spiritual. He does not feel
that his boys need to live up to anything but what they want to be. A gay
son is simply that, a gay son, with no implications of impropriety. He
teases Kevran, tells more gay jokes than he used to, all with affection and in
good humor. Kevran basks in his father’s smile, confident in his father’s
pride and love.
***
Kevran
told the whole world he’s gay, but I tell no one. I don’t know how to
bring up the subject, or what to say. I feel isolated. I search the
internet for moms like me, Mormons who love their gay sons, but I find no
connection there. I find many pages expressing the opinion that the
church is wrong in its stance on same-sex attraction. I find none that
say it’s okay to believe the church is right, and still love my son. I
would love Kevran if he were a heroin addict, a teenage father, or a criminal,
but I would not love that behavior. Why is this issue of homosexuality so
different? I do not think I have to reject my beliefs before I can love
Kevran. I abandon the search quickly, perhaps too soon. I don’t
know if I will look again later, or if I will add my voice to the conversation
in a website of my own.
***
Kerry, Kevran’s step-father and my husband, was unsurprised
at Kevran’s coming out. He suspected for many months, and waited only for
Kevran to choose to say something. Whenever I worried about what to do or
say next, he reminded me, “We just accept him.” Kerry never showed doubt
or uneasiness, only calm acceptance and support for the boy he raised.
***
One
night I sob, helplessly, on Kerry’s shoulder. I am crying for the dream I
had for my son, for my family. I had hoped to see Kevran, one day, return
to the religion I love so well, reconcile himself to the God I believe in, but
that seems unlikely now. I want real peace for my children, the peace I
find in my faith. I am crying for everything I have that Kevran doesn’t
want. Kerry says nothing, knowing I need to cry before I can completely
accept.
***
During Kevran’s senior year, I shivered in the late October
wind to cheer his color guard team on in competition. The grass was still
dark green and lush, but the trees were mostly bare. He stood out on the
field with his white tank and suspenders, black hat, and rainbow flag.
Girls in the stands screamed his name when he did his solo dance, a Cuban piece
with swiveling hips and snapping fingers that was disturbingly sexy. That
was the first time I wanted to turn around and say, “He’s gay, girls.
You’re not his type. Back off my baby.”
***
The world is not an easy place to be a gay teenager. High school kids can
be particularly cruel to anyone who is different. Matt Sheperd and Larry
King were killed by other teenagers because they were gay. These stories
come rushing into my head when Kevran comes out. It’s terrifying to have
a gay son. “Don’t be the kid that gets killed,” I say. “If you are
being bullied, ask for help.” The sentence becomes a refrain: “Don’t be
that kid.” I say it often, and Kevran knows I mean, “Don’t be that kid who
is beaten to death, or that kid who commits suicide after months of
bullying. Don’t be that kid who comes home bloody and bruised.
Please, don’t be that kid.”
***
Kevran spent two weeks getting ready for his big date.
Aaron invited him to get all dressed up and go to a Homecoming Dance. Kevran
was very excited, and wanted everything to be just right.
Kevran and I shopped for a shirt in the ideal shade of
baby blue, the perfectly understated black silk tie, and a gorgeous white
orchid boutonniere. That day we had another errand: buying eyeliner and
mascara for Kevran’s color guard performances. As we were driving between
the florist shop and the drug store, I commented, sarcasm heavy in my voice,
“This is a banner day to be a parent. I’m buying makeup for my son, and
flowers for his date with a boy.”
“That’s going on Facebook,” Kevran said with a laugh.
He debated between suit, black tie, or white tie. (He
owns all three, because of course a senior in high school needs not one, but
two tuxedos and a suit.) He got a haircut and color, had the suit dry
cleaned, used up all the hot water taking a shower. And then Aaron showed
up. Poor Kevran. Aaron wore a wrinkled, too small dress shirt,
crooked tie, plastic fedora, and brought a small boutonniere his mother had
made out of ribbon and buttons. Kevran pasted a smile on his face, pinned
orchids on Aaron’s shirt, and off they went.
Three hours later, he walked in the door, made tea, and sat
down to tell us the date story.
“I had fun, but I will never go on a formal date with Aaron
again. I wanted to say, ‘Let me fix you!’ The girls in our group
had great boyfriends, all looking sharp, coordinated. AND I BOUGHT HIM
ORCHIDS! I wanted to wear the orchids. I would have appreciated
them,” he began. He complained for thirty minutes, with his usual flair
for drama and comedy, jumping up to act out the best parts, imitating voices,
exaggerating both delight and despair. Amy, his sister, and I were laughing so
hard we had tears running down our cheeks, but we did feel bad for him.
***
Men who have sex with other men are more likely to contract HIV than other
men. Great. One more thing to worry about.
***
Kevran knows I want him to ask for help if he’s being
bullied, but that may have other, unintended consequences. Kevran has
three older brothers, all big men, body builders and military men, who are very
protective.
Alex, Kevran’s step-brother, commented on Kevran’s wall
post. “And remember that if anyone gives you any shit about it, make sure
to tell them that you have a big brother who is 6’9” in the Army and very
willing to kick some little punk ass . . . .”
We joke that if Kevran were bullied, I would be angry that
he was hurt, and sad that my older sons were in jail for vigilante justice.
***
My kids went with their father for Thanksgiving the year Kevran was
seventeen. David and Marcus, Kevran’s brothers, teased Kevran all through
dinner. They cracked gay jokes so often that their Aunt Jennifer was
concerned. She pulled Amy aside and asked, “Do they always treat him like
this? Do we need to do something?”
Amy assured her that nothing needed to be done. Kevran’s brothers had
always teased him, but they never allowed anyone else to be cruel. Kevran
knew that if he ever asked them to stop, they would, so he didn’t feel
threatened. Marcus said, “He asked us not to treat him any
differently. This just opens up a whole new world of things to pick on
him for.”
***
One morning in the winter of his senior year, Kevran, Amy, and I were in the
living room, having ice cream for breakfast. I like mine with chocolate
sauce; they both prefer plain vanilla. The dogs sat, wiggling with
excitement, waiting for someone to put an empty bowl on the floor for them to lick
clean. The kids and I were talking about how our family functions
in spite of having no rules about breakfast food.
“I think,” I said, hesitantly, “that it’s okay for me, as the mom, to let my
kids know what my values are. In fact, I think that’s part of my job.”
“I agree,” said Amy.
“So it’s part of my job to let you know,” looking at Kevran, “that I don’t
think homosexual behavior is okay. You don’t choose your temptations, but
you do choose your behavior.”
“I know,” said Kevran.
I said, “I also believe it’s not okay to be a jerk about my beliefs. I
call myself a Christian, so I have to act like Christ, who was never a jerk.”
“I know,” said Kevran.
Kevran respected my beliefs, didn’t try to argue about them or change them,
simply listened to the way I felt. I respected and accepted him when he
came out, and he returned the courtesy. I felt like I had done my job as
a parent, telling him how I believed, but he was a big boy, and had to choose
for himself whether to adopt those beliefs for his own.
***
Kevran’s friends are largely girls. They come to my house where he makes
his famous grilled cheese sandwiches. His secret is a liberal sprinkling
of garlic powder on the bread and hot sauce in the cheese before he cooks them.
Kerry and I love the girls hanging around all the time,
filling our big house with laughing and talking. We have always referred
to the girls as “Kevran’s Harem.” The irony of Kevran having a harem is
not lost on anyone in the house.
***
Kevran
is the popular kid on his high school campus. In all sorts of places
people stop him to say hello. I have learned not to ask him to introduce
his friends; he often does not actually know the person talking to him, but
they know him. Everyone wants to be with Kevran, be like Kevran, be
Kevran. All of my other children were misfits. I was an
outcast. My husband was never cool. Kevran’s father was a
nerd. How did we, here at Geek Central, produce this genuinely well-liked
person? A big group of teenagers express their love and admiration for
Kevran when he comes out, promising support and declaring unchanged
friendship. I love these kids. Kevran will not be alone in the
world.
***
Manners and respect were important in my home. My kids were expected to
be polite. I raised my boys to be gentlemen, opening doors, offering
seats, treating ladies like ladies. I paused at doors, waiting for my
pre-teen sons to open them. I assumed they would give up their seats for
me. Expecting them to treat their mother with respect would teach them
how to treat all women. I was taken aback the day I picked up a girl, one
of Kevran’s friends, to give the two of them a ride to school. Kevran
jumped in the car, leaving Gates to open her own door and get in the
back. I chastised him. “Being gay is no excuse for being rude.”
“Sorry, Mom. Won’t happen again.”
“It better not.”
***
We
used to allow sleepovers, but not with girls. Now Kevran wants to sleep
over at a girl’s house. Her parents are fine with it, but I am not so
sure. Years of habit, protecting my son from doing anything he is too
young for, make me leery. I decide to allow it, and he spends the night
with Gates. Now what should I do when he asks to stay at Chad’s house?
***
It is surprising to hear Kevran’s gorgeous bass voice coming from his skinny
chest. As a senior, he is in four choirs at the high school and is also
the assistant to the director of the choir program. At parent-teacher
conference Mr. DeHaan said, “Kevran is an inestimable treasure. If
someone wanted to take over the world, and Kevran were their personal
assistant, they would take over the world.”
***
Kevran is a treasure. My baby boy
will conquer the world with his charisma and charm. He is eighteen now,
legally an adult. There is not much he needs me for anymore. My job
now is to stand out of his way, applauding from the wings of the stage that
will be his life.
***
I am glad Kevran was brave enough to come out of the
closet. However, we have a new rule in our family, which I posted on
Facebook a week after Kevran’s momentous post: If you have anything
interesting to say--anything at all--you call Mom first. Mom does not
want to learn any earth-shaking news on Facebook ever again.
