My mom was a single parent and did a great job raising my sister and me by herself. I remember sitting in the back seat of her beat-up car one afternoon when she was dropping us off at our grandma’s house for the weekend. It was a long drive to my grandma’s and I guess my mom figured it was as good a time as any to see if her kids wanted to get anything off their chests. The three of us were very close, but it seemed like it came from out of nowhere that my mom kept reminding my sister and I that we could tell her anything. She reminded us that she’d always love us—no matter what we revealed. She said there was nothing either of us could ever do that would disappoint her, as long as we were honest with her.
It was at that moment that my sister decided to test the waters and tell my mom about her newfound habit of being an occasional “social smoker." My mom kept her word and didn’t yell at my sister or reprimand her. She calmly tried to talk her into quitting her “unhealthy habit that she was entirely too young for." I could see my mom’s eyes through the rearview mirror and knew she was holding back the million and one questions she wanted to ask about when, why, and how my sister’s new habit had started. I watched her facial expressions as my sister also admitted that she snuck out of the house a couple of times, once to meet a boy that she knew my mom would disapprove of. I’m not so sure I believed her, but my mom said she wasn’t mad—that it was my sister’s choice who she dated and as long as my sister was happy, she would be too. If I hadn't known better, I would have thought she was actually speaking to me, trying to send me some sort of subliminal message about my nonexistent dating life.
I could see the relief on my sister’s face after finally disclosing the secrets that had been weighing on the back of her mind for a while and I envied how she must have felt. My mom refrained from lecturing her and was just as relieved to hear my sister swear that there was nothing else she wanted to get off her chest.
After a minute or two, my mom and I caught each other’s eyes in the rearview mirror as she asked, “What about you, Honey? Anything you want to share?" I figured I’d throw her a bone and replied, “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I’m failing math, but the good news is I want to be an artist, not an accountant, so failing math in the eighth grade shouldn’t be too big of a deal.” Mom didn’t find my joke amusing and I honestly think she felt let down by the fact that I had nothing else to disclose, even when she innocently questioned whether I had a crush on anyone at school that I wanted to tell her about. I didn't think it was the right time or place to admit that the only crush I had at school was on my gym teacher, Mr. Davidson—not Mrs. Fallingsworth, like all the other boys.
I don’t think my sister’s revelations were exactly what my mom had in mind when she had that talk with us. I think it was her way of letting me know that she already knew I was gay and was just trying to give me the opportunity to come clean if I was ready to—but I wasn’t. A year or so later, though, I was more than ready. When I got to high school, I made a lot of new friends and a bunch of them were openly gay. When I brought my friends over to my house, my mother and my sister were both totally cool with them and it was then that I really knew being gay was no big deal. I had nothing to be afraid of and my instincts told me that my mom and sister would accept me just as easily as they accepted my new friends.
One day after school, I walked in the door and swung my backpack onto the kitchen counter. My mom was unpacking groceries from her after-work trip to the supermarket when we exchanged our usual mother-son greetings. Before I could stop myself, I just blurted out, “I’ve been meaning to tell you something for a while now and just need to get it off my chest. I’m sure you probably already know this, Mom, but...I think I might be gay.”
I can still remember my mom’s smile and the feel of her loving arms wrapped around me as she gave me a great big hug. I can still hear her whisper in my ear, “I know, Baby, I know. I’m really proud of you." It wasn’t like my mom was celebrating that I was gay—it honestly didn’t phase her one way or another—but I just think she was so happy to finally hear me admit it. Over an early dinner and good, honest conversation with my mom and my sister that evening, I learned that they both had already assumed I was gay since about the time I was in fifth grade. Mom said she had actually always had a feeling, even from the time I was a toddler. "A mother knows her babies,” she commented.
It wasn't until my senior year of high school that my friends and I decided to go to our first gay pride parade. While that was a memorable experience in and of itself, the proudest moment for me that day was that my mom and my sister were right there with us.