Harvard University Announcement - No tuition and No student loans

Harvard University announced over the weekend that from now on undergraduate students from low-income families will pay no tuition. In making the announcement, Harvard's president Lawrence H. Summers said, "When only ten percent of the students in elite higher education come from families in the lower half of the income distribution, we are not doing enough. We are not doing enough in bringing elite higher education to the lower half of the income distribution."

If you know of a family earning less than $60,000 a year with an honor student graduating from high school soon, Harvard University wants to pay the tuition. The prestigious university recently announced that from now on undergraduate students from low-income families can go to Harvard for free... no tuition and no student loans!

To find out more about Harvard offering free tuition for families making less than $60,000 a year, visit Harvard's financial aid website at: www.fao.fas.harvard.edu or call the school's financial aid office at (617) 495-1581.

New Orleans Honeysuckle: Gramma's Backyard

image courtesy of lakeshorepreserve.wisc.edu

Honeysuckle vines spill over the fence, falling like a fountain, cascades of bright green.
The white flowers in my grandmother's backyard look like tiny, delicate bells

I tenderly bring the clear drop of nectar to my lips, tasting its sweetness

The sweetness of childhood, innocence.

Pumping my legs on Gramma's wooden swing, gripping its thick ropes

Hanging from the old, wise oak tree with branches stretching to the sky

I look up at him in wonder while I swing

Watching my own feet as they propel me higher and higher
My hair swings back to slap my face each time, a quick sting like a bee.

I'm wearing white socks folded down once with my brown sandals

I can see the light brown hair on my legs, the scar on my right knee

From when I fell off my bike the year before.

this was not taken on that day, but you can see my sandals with socks

my beautiful mom, & my younger brother, "Markie"

My mom does headstands on the old blanket in the middle of the yard, making us laugh.

She is thin, beautiful, talented, full of fun and light. Her feet are bare.

I can't stand on my head. But she can do everything.

And her feet are much prettier than mine.

I don't take off my shoes after I swing--

The St. Augustine grass is rough and crunchy and makes my ankles itch.

Now:
Can I make myself new again?

Can I start over, a slate wiped clean?

Innocent like that day in the backyard.

It's time for a swing.

Halloween May Be Over, But November Haunts Me.

Every year the first week of November stops me dead in my tracks as I run headlong into a brick wall. I stagger to my feet, stunned, brush the grit off, and start the familiar shuffle down the same path I did back in November of 1991 when I was 15 years old. I can't believe it was 19 years ago. Nineteen, which is almost 20. Sounds like a lot. It is a lot. So why, then, does it still plague me? Why won't it go away? Well, because my gay dad isn't going away. He's still my dad. Our family is still our family, however atypical and foreign to some.

Nineteen years ago this week, my dad spilled his secret out onto the floor of our living room. Like a pool of blood, crawling and seeping all over clean, shiny floors. I drowned in it, choked on it. I'm back now, but I'm still changing, morphing, blurring, reaching, and becoming. I stare out my kitchen window watching the leaves drift down and listen to the trees laughing, dancing and whispering their secrets.


I'm instantly transported back to that day, like a time warp. A scratch on a record blip...blip...blip or a cd that's on repeat. Rewind, play. Rewind, play. Pause. Rewind, play again. You might be talking to me, but my brain goes somewhere else for a few minutes. I'm flooded with memories that seem so close and tangible, like bubbles I can pop; yet a part of me wishes them far away, out of reach, locked up in a box buried a million miles under the sea.

As soon as the secret was out and I'd gotten permission, I fled the scene of the gory crime--the butchering of our white picket fence family.

I'm being butchered this Friday. There's a hole in my gut (an umbilical hernia), similar to the one in my heart/psyche. The hole in my abdomen will be repaired. Yet I'm not sure if my soul will ever mend? Can mesh, stitches and Percocet be the salve to soothe my other gaping wounds?

This wound is not new, this hole in my abdominal wall. I had it last year, and it was repaired. Now it's back (cue scratched record: blip...blip...blip). What is it with this repetition in my life, patterns, things that follow me and won't go away?

I had my first hernia fixed in August 2009, and it was horrifying. I've had surgeries, but this? I woke up still intubated. And paralyzed-- I couldn't even blink my eyes open or force my lashes to flutter--all I could feel was something huge jammed down my throat. Something I was supposed to just swallow. Only it was too much. I wasn't in control, I couldn't do anything. Frozen for what seemed like forever in a stony sarcophagus.

After what felt like an eternity but was likely only a matter of minutes, someone pulled the tube out. I still couldn't move my body, but somehow tears flowed and I felt them drip down my cheeks. When a nurse came to check on me in the recovery room, I was at last able to make my lips and tongue move enough to slur, "I want my husband." I'm sure it sounded nothing like that, given the drug haze, and I had to repeat myself. Once The Father Load appeared, I lost it. Still unable to really move, but I could speak---I had a voice. I went on and on about how someone messed up and I woke up with the tube still in my throat.

I am terrified this will happen again on Friday. I am terrified I am losing my voice. There is so much I want to say. I am making a promise to myself that during this hiatus while I am healing, I am going to write. You may not see it all here, but I have to stop making excuses. I think writing will heal my wounds and without a tube stuck in my throat, I have a voice, and it needs to be heard.

Are you willing to listen? Are you silencing yourself? Are there things you wish you could say? Leave them in the comments.

I Believe.

I believe in giving lots of hugs, and holding on tight.
I believe in family.
I believe in apologizing when I've hurt someone.
I believe in second chances, and sometimes third chances.
I believe in standing up for my beliefs.
I believe in a woman's right to choose.

I believe in love.
I believe any two people who are in love should have the right to marry.
I believe that in-vitro fertilization, fertility treatments, egg donation, surrogacy, and adoption are amazing things.
I believe that some people and doctors go overboard and this is dangerous.

I believe everyone has something important to say.
I believe that being a mom is a really tough job.
I believe in not settling.
I believe in speaking up.
I believe in gut feelings.
I believe I can be more like Madonna every day.
I believe in date nights.
I believe in babysitters.
I believe in myself.

I believe in Halloween. I believe in magic. I believe in chance.

I believe in blaring my music when my kids aren't in the car.
I believe dogs can give the best medicine.
I believe in the power of friends I've never met.
I believe I am a writer.
I believe in the power of retail therapy.
I believe that I am loved.

I believe in being green.
I believe in recognizing that what we put into our bodies is just as important as things we put on our bodies.
I believe in Whole Foods & farmers' markets.
I believe in buying local & sustainable.
I believe in composting & recycling.
I believe that plastic is evil.
I believe that we are wasteful.
I believe we have a lot of work to do.

I believe in karma.
I believe in fate.
I believe that a hot bath and a glass of wine can cure most anything.
I believe that female friendships are intense and powerful.

I believe that I need to put myself first more often.
I believe that I do too much.
I believe that I need to be okay with saying "no" sometimes.
I believe I need to cut myself some slack.

I believe in homemade chocolate chip cookies with milk.
I believe in my daughters.
I believe in my husband.
I believe our Judaism is an important and integral part of our life.
I believe it is my duty to acknowledge my Jewish heritage, embrace it, and share it so that history does not repeat itself.

I believe that waiting is the hardest thing.
I believe that it's okay not to shower daily.
I believe yoga pants are my best friend.
I believe we need to focus more on our health and less on french fries.
I believe in the power of exercise and moving my body.

I believe in holding doors open for people.
I believe in bringing new moms and sick people dinner.
I believe in lemonade stands and big tips for the kids running them.
I believe in piggy banks and saving for a rainy day.
I believe that today's children shouldn't have to worry about riding their bikes, taking walks, or playing outside and being approached by strangers.
I believe we have to educate our kids about these things without scaring them too much.

I believe in the power a single person can have.

I believe I am ENOUGH.

And I desperately want to know:
What do YOU believe in? Leave it in the comments.

Flashback Friday

For the first time ever, I am linking up today with Web Savvy Mom and Cathy over at Antsy Pants for Flashback Friday!

I love this photo because it showcases three generations: my grandmother, upon whose lap I am perched (Betty), my mom (Julie), and lil' ole me. I guess I was about a year old when this was taken because my little brother Mark clearly wasn't around yet. My mom looks radiant, although I imagine she and her mother were arguing just before this was taken because of the smile that's not quite on Grandma's face... or it could have been due to the manic depression she suffered from. I didn't know Grandma Betty very well because she lived in Wisconsin and we lived in New Orleans. It looks like this was taken in a hotel room. Not sure of the details behind it, I just know I've always loved it. My mom looks breathtaking, my Grandma is beautiful, and I'm just hangin' out with two lovely ladies!

My mother doesn't like having her picture taken, and neither do I. But for my daughters' sake, I'm working on that, just as I've been Embracing My Body. It just so happens that my mom is coming up to visit us in two weeks, and I'd like to get some three generation photos while she's here. Mom, will you embrace yourself and do it?

Tomorrow is my Grandma Betty's birthday, so I'm posting this in her honor. We lost her when I was in college, and I'm sad that due to the distance I never got to know her very well. I love and miss you, Grandma!

Brothers and Sisters

My brother Mark and I

I wanted to marry my little brother "Markie."

Clad in my favorite Strawberry Shortcake shirt

and a dress made from a blanket.

A fake flower plucked from a vase.

A veil edged in lace.

Markie in my dad's too-big striped tie,

so proudly holding my arm.

An irresistible grin a mile wide,

His hair lightened by the summer spent outside.

My brother Kevin and I, circa 1982

Then came Kevin, and I got to play the part of a little mama.
He arrived when I was five, on the edge of six.
I loved holding him and giving him bottles.

I brought him to school for Show & Tell.
So proud was I that I also shared
"Where Did I Come From?"
the book my parents gave me, with all
of my friends at recess.
We whispered and giggled and pointed
at parts until my teacher caught us.
My parents fielded her phone call that night--what a fuss.


Suddenly I have to turn to look over my shoulder to find that little girl.
All three of us are adults now, having crossed over.
Cut from the same cloth,
yet so different in so many ways.
The miles and the passage of time
have made it difficult for me.
I struggle to pick up the phone.
There's so much I want to say, but I don't.

Things happen and you realize your siblings
are pieces of your puzzle and the vestiges of your childhood.
They will be there when everything else is gone.

I want to be a better sister if it's not too late.
I'll be like an archaeologist and sift through
the broken bones of time, the dirt clogging up the
hardened arteries of my heart.

I wonder if I'll have to dig deep?
I hope what I seek lies just beyond the surface.
With a little dusting off, some polishing, and
careful preservation, we'll be good as new.

Now That You've Heard All About My Family, Here Are Some Photos....

Kevin & Izzy

Everyone trying to orchestrate a photo of the three cousins. My dad is in the hat.

My mom's BFF, Chelsea, is in the green shirt. Mark is holding my niece, Livy,

and my sister-in-law, Katheryn, is in the grey top. You can see half of my mom off

to the right side trying to make the girls smile....

Abby & Livy take a snack break

                                            Kory, my dad's partner, (aka NaNa) taking a bite out of Izzy

You know you're in New Orleans when......there's lots of moss.

Izzy and Mommy on the carousel

Abby on the carousel

The three cousins playing in the rain...

GiGi's red velvet birthday cake--her favorite! YUM!

                    Izzy sporting her party hat

Uncle George (my dad's brother) and Abby

The Father Load and Izzy

Mark and the three cousins running in for a hug

The three cousins waiting for Tower of Pizza to open

Hungrily watching our pizzas being made

And for those of you that think Izzy is our favorite because she's in all the photos it's because most often this is what Abby is doing.

My mom (aka GiGi) and Izzy

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MOM! WE LOVE YOU!

My Name is Larry, and When I Was 42, I Came Out of the Closet

**If you missed the previous posts in this series by me, my mom, and my brothers, please go here, here, here, and here to catch up. Below is my dad's version. Dad is an attorney specializing in maritime and personal injury and recently moved to Mississippi from New Orleans. He and his partner, Kory, have been together for many years and had a civil ceremony in Stowe, Vermont in 2001.**


The day my family has already written about was easily the worst day of my life, and the second worst was about two weeks earlier when I had to tell my sweet wife of 20 years, Julie, the same thing. As difficult and painful as that was, telling our children was magnitudes worse. Imagine knowingly and intentionally plunging a knife into your child, not impulsively or carelessly, but because you felt you had no choice. That's what it was like for me. I was going to hurt and scar forever the four people I loved most in my life because I'd been a deceitful fraud, but the hard truth finally had to come out.


I'd known I was different from childhood. At puberty things got worse and I deceived myself about my true nature until I was 19, when I finally realized I was attracted to men, although I was entirely inexperienced. By that time I'd had several girlfriends and plenty of good, old-fashioned heterosexual sex. I believed that although I was physically attracted to both sexes, I could not possibly feel anything romantic toward a member of my own sex as I had with women, including Julie, whom I was to marry at age 22 in 1971. I took my vows intending to keep them and believing I could.
If this sounds naive and stupid today, remember what a different world it was in 1971. For me, gay people were more of a despised urban legend than a reality. In a letter to Harper's Magazine in 1970, Joseph Epstein wrote:

Private acceptance of homosexuality, in my experience, is not to be found, even among the most liberal-minded, sophisticated and liberated people. Homosexuality may be the one subject left in America about which there is no official hypocrisy...Cursed without clear cause, afflicted without apparent cure, they are an affront to our rationality, living evidence of our despair of ever finding a sensible, explainable design to the world.

Clearly I had a lot of incentive to believe anything but the truth.

I was also reasonably bright and ambitious. I didn't have a lot growing up and had visions of luxury cars, big houses and swimming pools propelling me to the American dream of a successful career and a picture perfect family. All I had to do was round off my corners so I could fit into one of the world's round holes just like all the other round pegs. I worked really hard at that, believing I was doing the right and honorable thing for nearly 20 more years. I cannot tell you in a few words why it quit working; only that it did. Suffice it to say I was faithful to Julie until just before I came out. Being a self deceiving fraud was one thing; living an intentional double life was quite another and my nature did not permit it. I reached a breaking point and felt I was coming completely apart. I just could not keep going, not another day and not another minute. I was willing to risk Julie, Erin, Mark, and Kevin, my entire family, my job and my career for my freedom...for one breath of the air of my truth. It was a wholly selfish and ruthless act, but an act of pure survival.

Those two horrible days, and indeed the weeks before and after, were like a slow motion nightmare that never seemed to end. I knew exactly what I was doing and the pain it has caused is something I live with every day. None of my four so loved ones deserved any of this and all would have been justified in never speaking to me again. I asked them to understand and with their love and commitment we have remained a family, if one of a different sort. My husband, Kory, whom I've been with for 18 years, is also part of our family now. I suppose they are all stuck with me in spite of what I did to them. I like to think they have forgiven me, but I know they can never forget. We are family and I love them so. Their love for me brings me to tears, for I know what I did to them.

My name is Julie, and When I was 41, My Husband Told Me He Was Gay

**If you missed previous installments in this series, go here, here, and here. My mom, Julie, is currently a clinical social worker in New Orleans. She has not remarried.**

I had an old girlfriend from Oklahoma visiting for the week. One day while she was with us, Larry (Erin's dad!) insisted we three visit an up-and-coming local artist’s studio (Michalopolous). He suggested I select an original from the works in the studio, and said it was for our 20th wedding anniversary! I joyously chose what I thought would be a daring, eventually valuable (a semi-nude portrait, when this artist specialized in upward perspective paintings of New Orleans architecture: homes, buildings, etc.) painting. This painting would come to serve as a striking reminder for the next decades of an extremely excruciating, sharp detour in the path of our lives.

I took my friend to the airport early that Sunday morning, bid her farewell, and returned home to find my husband fully showered, shaved, dressed, pale, nervous, and with some papers in hand. He asked me to come and sit in the den, as the kids were still asleep. I followed him with some trepidation into the bleak, desperate hours to come.


He had been feeling ill the past few weeks with some unexplained ailment. He never liked me to “hover” (his word) around when he was sick, so I hadn’t pushed the issue. My fear was that he was about to announce our entry into a world of medical confusion, terror and treatment. I instantly assumed that he was about to tell me he was dying.

The only two parts of the next hour that I recall were his first words, well-rehearsed:

“Into each life, some rain must fall."

Well, my little shower turned into a hurricane of untold proportions. I do remember somewhere in his “opening statement” (he used to rehearse his opening statements for court, and elicit my critiques in just the same way), the word “gay.” Honestly, it didn’t really register. All that registered was the fact that he wasn’t dying. I cried and cried with relief. I think in hindsight he must have thought I was crying in reaction to his announcement.

It wasn’t until hours later that his “announcement” really hit, and HIT it did! I fell apart in our bedroom, alone. We couldn’t tell the kids because he insisted he had to remain in the closet with the exception of our divorce! I also wanted time to digest this stunning news and all of the implications. We told the children I was not feeling well (the absolute truth), and I began the grieving process. Embedded in this decision (not to tell the children at that time) was the fact that Erin had her very first Homecoming Dance coming up in two weeks. We didn’t want that joy, preparation and life-launching experience to be ruined.

We had agreed months before to couple's counseling. We saw the therapist one time together, only to be instructed that we were more in need of individual work than sessions together. So we saw the therapist individually.Turns out Larry told the therapist he was gay during his very first session! NO ONE ever told me! Apparently they were working on his “coming out," and I thought I was working on our marriage!

In the ensuing weeks I found my strength and I absolutely INSISTED he come out to the children as soon as Erin’s date had happened, and the earliest possible time for us all.

I based my argument on the fact that the therapist KNEW, his law partner KNEW (and had encouraged him to remain closeted, for the sake of the law practice), I KNEW, and it was only a matter of time before the children would find out. In that scenario, they were likely to find out from someone other than their parents. I could not tolerate that! If honesty was to be the new policy, than the children, above anyone else, deserved that honesty. That brings us to “the day," shortly after Halloween, 1991, that my children's lives changed forever.

Now you have it (sort of)! You have each of our experiences, in a few paragraphs, with the exception of dad himself. I guess that may be to come.

Kevin is correct: the Best family keeps on! I haven’t the vocabulary to express my feelings about Erin, Mark and Kevin. Their own life paths took an extremely sharp detour on the day they found out, but with that detour, they have each managed to sharpen their life skills and their wits.“Proud” just doesn’t seem to cover it. I watch their lives unfold, and I am in awe.

To all of you following Erin, thank you for your lovely, thoughtful and encouraging responses to her writing. I agree she has a book in her, but she is doing it her way, and in her time!

My Name is Kevin, and When I Was Nine, My Dad Came Out of the Closet

**If you missed the first two parts of this fascinating new mini series, please go here and here. Below is my youngest brother Kevin's account of that same day. Kevin is six years younger than I and owns his own business, Dibbz, in New Orleans.**


Unless you grew up idolizing Babe Ruth, eating smores in a tree house, and playing baseball on your own private field, your childhood had nothing on mine. Nothing. I was the oldest member of an adventurous and nearly inseparable group of neighborhood kids. We rode bikes without wearing helmets. We climbed trees as tall as the rooftops of the block’s first few McMansions. There was a ditch full of murky water, populated with exotic turtles, which separated us from the railroad tracks that helped to flatten our boring pennies into Picasso-esque masterpieces. Moms, including my own, dealt with the ensuing piles of muddy shoes and frantic snack breaks we required to maintain the frequency of our high adventures. Dads came home from work around five or six, calling us all back home to ourrespective dinner tables, marking the end of a full day. This was life as I knew it at nine years old, and it was great.


From my perspective, things didn’t change dramatically after the infamous Sunday morning family meeting, which might explain why very few details stick out in my memory about that day. It began when I was briefly pulled away from my friends and a game that might have resembled soccer on a neighbor’s lawn. My dad actually came outside to get my attention, which was rare. He also used the term “family meeting” which was equally unprecedented. Those were for Kevin Arnold’s family in The Wonder Years, not Kevin Best’s on East Livingston Place in the real world. Inside the house, there were tears, but they weren’t mine. I was actually in a rush to get back out there and explain to my neighborhood friends how I had just become one of those kids – the ones with divorced parents. I went to grammar school with many of them and it seemed more normal than having a traditionally intact family. I also remember asking my parents if they would ever get back together. It wasn’t complete unfamiliarity with the idea of homosexuality so much as a miscalculation concerning the significance of one fact versus the other. My nine year-old brain processed the idea of divorce immediately, but it had yet to tackle what it would mean to have a gay father. I had never been exposed to an opinion, positive or negative, concerning the homosexual label so it flew under the radar. When it came right down to it, I never expected either of my parents to stop caring for me or to disappear so that was that. I went back outside to play.

Growing up over the next twenty years was relatively easy and I remained emotionally unscathed. After the divorce, my parents conducted themselves far better around us than many of my friends’ married parents. As cheesy Lifetime movies often remind us, life doesn’t always work out as planned. It certainly didn’t play out the way any of us expected it to before the family meeting, but Mom and Dad managed to hold us together and the Best family continues onward…

My Name is Mark, and When I was 13, My Dad Came Out of the Closet

**If you missed my version of the day my dad revealed he was gay, click HERE to read it. This is my brother Mark's perspective on that very same day. Mark is two years younger than I and is an attorney in New Orleans.**

On a bright sunny Sunday morning, my father announced that he and my mother would be getting divorced.


On Sundays in our household, one could always count on two things: the mail would not be delivered, and we’d have “Sunday breakfast.” There would always be eggs; mostly sunny-side up, but scrambled was not out of the ordinary. There would always be bacon; mostly of the pig variety until we became more health conscious in the late '80s and switched to turkey bacon. There would always be homemade biscuits with jam/jelly, or my personal favorite, butter and honey. However, it was not unusual for mom to make blueberry muffins, complete with a startling blue color created by adding the blueberry juice into the batter. There would always be seasonal fruit. In the summer we’d have cantaloupe or honeydew melon with the rinds cut off. But most of the time we’d each have a half of a grapefruit sprinkled with sugar and topped with a maraschino cherry. My mom would cut and separate the individual triangles of fruit from the interior skin so that we could easily scoop out a piece at a time with a spoon. We’d always have milk and orange juice, and my dad would have coffee. I always had to remember to drink my glass of milk entirely before I got to the grapefruit. If you eat the grapefruit first, the milk will taste spoiled. Although my mom would occasionally mix it up by making pancakes in the shapes of the first letter of our names, the Sunday breakfast itself was a given. It was something I could count on.

On that strange morning after we’d had Sunday breakfast, my brother and I went upstairs to brush our teeth and recommence the inevitable Nintendo gaming. My sister likely returned to her room and closed the door so she wouldn’t have to listen to my brother and me. However, it’s just as likely that she stayed downstairs to help with the dishes. At the time I thought she would do things like that so whenever my mom would call us out for not pitching-in enough at home, she would always have to add “except for you Erin, you’re always a big help.”

The house had an intercom system so my mom could talk to us in our rooms without leaving the kitchen. My brother and I got the call to come downstairs. I don’t remember who actually asked us to come down, but I imagine it was my father given that my mother could hardly speak a word that morning. My dad had revealed to her that he was gay around two weeks prior to that Sunday morning; a fact I did not learn until much later. How she made that breakfast knowing what was about to happen, I’ll never know.

When he called us down, he said we were going to have a “family meeting.” We never had “family meetings.” Of course, we’d sit together and talk over a meal or something, but we never had to call it anything. When he said “family meeting” I guessed we were all going to be assigned chores to do, like pulling weeds and washing cars. We took our spots on the couches in the den where my dad was already seated looking at a legal pad. I’m fairly sure he was looking at page two when I sat down. He always uses the legal pads for work when he needs to organize his thoughts. He wouldn’t have needed a legal pad to tell me to pull weeds, and he certainly would not have needed two pages. This was so out-of-the-ordinary, I stopped my mind from guessing. My mom’s eyes were red.

My dad cleared his throat with a short gruff bellow. I remember him trying to compose himself and having immense difficulty doing so. I’d like to tell you that I remember the words he spoke next. I wish I could quote him exactly so the words would be famous and familiar in my own mind. You know when you hear someone utter the famous phrase: “a date that will live in infamy,” you already know the date of the event, the identity of the speaker, and what happened there. When it comes to that Sunday morning, I can’t remember the date, the identity of the speaker was shattered, and I don’t remember much about what happened.

I think I came-to when he said, “if you all have any questions, please feel free to ask me…anything you have on your mind…your mother and I are here for you…nothing will ever change the fact that we love you and will always love you. Do you have any questions?” I don’t know if anyone asked anything. I just know I didn’t. “If you guys want to go play or go to your rooms or ride bikes or something, that’s fine.” My sister popped up with tears in her eyes and ran upstairs to her bedroom. I went to my room to lie on my bed. I remember thinking, “I know I’m supposed to be crying right now.” I tried to force it, but with no result.

It’s easy to cry when you understand the full import of a tragedy. I had heard the words, but I had not (or perhaps would not or could not) visualize the end result. I heard him say that he would be moving out, but I didn’t know at the time how weird it would be to visit him at his warehouse district apartment with all the street noise, the different smell, the different furniture and décor. I heard him say that he would continue to attend my basketball games, but I didn’t know at the time how uncomfortable it would feel to have a teammate ask me just before tip-off “is that your dad’s boyfriend?” I heard him say that he and my mother would remain friends, but I didn’t know that resentment between them would still bubble up through the surface many years after that day. I heard him say that he was gay, but I didn’t know he would appear on TV to proclaim it. I heard him say that things might be difficult for a while, but I didn’t know I’d be shoving some derelict kids who cornered and harassed my brother because they “heard your dad is a faggot.” Had I known, I’m certain I’d have cried. A lot.

A long time has passed. I’m no longer a 13-year old adolescent. I’m a 32-year old father and husband. I have known my gay father and lived as a son of divorced parents for far longer than I lived in a “normal” family environment. The experiences that I had in the years following that strange Sunday don’t make me feel like crying today. Looking back at them, all I see is the same overcoming of hardship that we have all had to face in some form or another in our own lives. If you have not yet experienced something that the majority of society would consider difficult, then it is likely that three things are true: (1) you probably haven’t earned much respect, (2) you probably have a lot of self-doubt and (3) you are probably a teenager.

I’ve experienced several additional and entirely different hardships since my dad came out and my parents got divorced. Each of them made me feel sad, stressed and very depressed. And each time I knew that things would gradually get easier. When (not if) things take a tragic turn in the future, things will get easier. That is something I can count on, just like Sunday breakfast.

Hi, My Name is Erin, and When I Was 15, My Dad Came Out of the Closet.

When my parents announced that Sunday morning that it was time for a "family meeting," my stomach lurched and the golden, glistening fried eggs I'd just eaten threatened to reappear. My younger brother, Mark, and I jeered and jabbed at each other on our way down the stairs, but part of me knew something wasn't right. While we joked in whispers that we'd better start doing our chores more diligently, the silent scream in my head warned me to stop time, to take the brittle hands of the clock and snap them like sticks, freezing us in this moment forever, untainted.

As soon as we sat down on the couch across from my parents, we knew this wasn't a meeting to assign more chores or rake us over the coals about something we'd done wrong. Mom was crying. Ever the lawyer, Dad was pacing with a legal pad and it wasn’t long before he began his opening statement. He was preparing to defend himself. “This is about honesty, integrity, respect, and my love for all of you,” he began nervously and somewhat formally. I suddenly couldn't stop looking at the dirty off-white carpet beneath my feet, its fuzzy fibers unraveling in places. I felt myself unraveling, too, things inside me twisting and pulling against each other. I wanted to take a loose loop of wool and run with it, clamp my hands over my ears and shout, "I CAN'T HEAR YOU," like a young child often does when there's something she doesn't want to hear.

Dad announced he was moving out, his sentences littered with awkward but telling third-person references “Your mother and I are getting divorced because your father is a homosexual.” He couldn't own it himself, the secret he'd just spilled from his lips. It was like he was speaking about someone else who wasn't there. He said he'd known he was gay since he was 12 years old, but thought he could hide it, squash it down, and lead a normal life. He thought he could pretend it away by marrying Mom. I tasted my breakfast in the back of my throat. I hoped that this was either a very realistic dream or April Fool's in November. Of course it was neither. As the tears threatened to roll, all I could think about was that I needed to get out of that house. I needed a friend. I needed air. I needed to think. This couldn’t possibly be happening. A lot of my friends’ parents were divorced, but mine never seemed like potential candidates---they always got along so well and things seemed relatively normal. I was also quite certain none of my friends had a gay parent.

As soon as they were done talking to us, I tore upstairs and called my best friend *Michelle. She was out of town at a soccer tournament. I called *Joe next. I think I blurted out, “My parents are getting divorced.” He suggested we meet at the nearby park and do homework together. I borrowed Mom’s car and left as quickly as I could. I think Mark retreated to his room, and only Kevin, the youngest of the three of us (nine years old at the time), remained with my parents to ask lots of questions I don’t think they were prepared for.


I got to the park and could barely speak. Just lots of tears, sobbing, and snot. I remember copying some of Joe's Latin homework. Amo, Amas, Amat, Amamus, Amatis, my dad is gay? My brain wouldn’t process anything, especially not Latin vocabulary and verb conjugations. I was on auto-pilot. Miles upon miles of senseless thoughts raced through my mind, colliding and causing traffic jams. Joe lent me an old handkerchief he found in his jacket pocket. At 15, he was ill-equipped for such an emotionally charged situation, but he did the best he could; he held me while I cried and he tried to make me laugh. As the afternoon sun waned and the skies began to darken, I knew I'd have to return home and face the challenges ahead.
 
Stay tuned for the next installment, my brother Mark's perspective on the very same day....
 
(*Some names have been changed.)

My 33rd Birthday---My First From-Scratch Cake

Getting all set up with ingredients, tools, etc.

Working on the batter, adding the vanilla extract.

Fortunately I had a little helper named Abby.

Pulling them out of the oven. I think I overcooked them a tad. Could've been more moist.

Starting the chocolate frosting--damn, have forgotten how to flip/turn the pics.

Frosting the cake with homemade chocolate butter cream, yum yum!

Carefully inverting the second layer

Sadly I do not own a cake stand. Need to add this to my list. Plastic flowered tray instead.

Little helpers like to lick the frosting off the mixer attachments.

Izzy LOVED the cake. It was okay. I honestly felt like the boxed stuff is better. Of course this was just my first attempt, so who knows...I think I screwed up a few things, like using salted butter instead of unsalted, and failing to sift the dry ingredients beforehand. Live and learn, I guess. But it still felt really good to prove to myself that I CAN actually make a REAL cake that doesn't come out of a Betty Crocker box. That's a decent accomplishment for my 33rd year.
Right??

Walking for Alzheimer's

On October 3, 2009 I will be participating in the Memory Walk for our local chapter of the Alzheimer's Association. I am also serving on the board this year for the first time and am so honored to be doing so. The Memory Walk is our signature fundraising event and proceeds will be used to support a wide range of services and programs for the more than 50,000 individuals and 200,000 family members & caregivers in our bi-state area as well as for research advancements to cure this devastating disease.

As many of you know, Dan's grandmother, Helen, suffered from and eventually succumbed to Alzheimer's. She was like a grandmother to me and I miss her dearly. She is the main reason I am doing this.

Here is a link to my site where you can learn more. Please consider making a donation to support me & the Alzheimer's Association through the Memory Walk. If everyone I know donates a dollar, I'll be so excited!!!
Click here: http://kansascitymw.kintera.org/erinlynn76

My mom's house post-Katrina

Standing on Mom's back porch looking down her driveway & across to neighbor's house.

You can see where the water level had been along the side of the house.

Looking up the block from Mom's house. Other people were trying to get into their homes, too.

My brother, Kevin, at the intersection closest to Mom's house. This was several weeks post-Katrina, and as you can see, the water was still slowly draining out of parts of Metairie.

Looking down my mom's block.

My mom's bedroom. Because mom doesn't live in Lakeview (which was one of the hardest hit areas), her flooding was not quite as bad; however, you can still see that the water came up several feet in her bedroom and then the mold did the rest of the damage.

Mom's bathroom. Water still on the floor and in the tub, draining slowly because there was nowhere for it to really go...

Looking across the street from Mom's house, view from her front steps.

Looking out her front door. Kevin and his friend Lee had to take a canoe to get there.

Lee helping Kevin paddle down the block.

Another view looking down my mom's street.