Pop Quiz

In my mind there is real confusion as to who “knows” and who does not at work. There is one woman who spends much of her time in another office but is still part of my “hood”. She is divorced and over the years she has turned to me for perspective – I have seen both sides of matters of divorce and children, issues which impact her. I always planned to come out to her, but by now she may very well know.

It is a Friday afternoon, the tail end of a long tax season. Carole sticks her head in to say good night; it being the end of my day also, I volunteer to walk out with her. I point out that I have to be at the railroad at 6:04 to pick up my friend. Her head cocks towards me, a smile brightens her face and she asks: “A friend – normally I don’t ask but…” And it is fair – our relationship warrants the question, and it is clear – she does not know. There is not much time to think, an answer, any answer is required.

I look at her and say “I guess you are out of the loop. I am gay, I’m meeting my boyfriend.” I briefly note that I don’t talk about it in general but some have figured it out without my assistance. She does not really register a reaction – no approval, no approbation. It is a quick walk to our cars. We wish each other a nice weekend. We drive off.

I feel bad in a sense – it is a lot to just drop out of the blue, it was such a fair and innocent question. But what other answer was there – I know of her dating, her boyfriend. The only other answer that comes to mind would be to lie and I just don’t do lies. Maybe there is something to be said for overtly coming out, letting people know (at least the ones that matter) where I stand. Then they can ask and I can answer or they can choose to maintain their silence and therefore allow for mine. Fifteen years later we know – or at least I believe – that don’t ask, don’t tell failed the military and I suspect it will over time also fail me.

This episode has solidified one thing – next week as long planned, I will cross paths with the senior partner. I will come out to him because as I keep learning, people will figure it out or put me in a position of telling them, neither of which is pro-active. And as James Baldwin said, “they don’t tell me, I tell them.”

There is an epilogue of sorts. The next day I sent Carole an e-mail, an apology for the way the conversation went, for dropping a bomb: no apologies for the content. And she responded that she too felt bad for having put me on the spot. She wishes me well, as good a result as could be hoped for. But still everything I have said still stands.

Don't Ask, Don't Tell

When I posted about my unexpected being out at work, I was struck by a comment form Bear Me Out alluding to “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” and as the days have become weeks, it has resonated even more. It is my understanding that my gayness is widely known and presumably accepted at work. However acceptance does not necessarily translate into acknowledgement: And there is a difference. There are a few where there is acknowledgement and that seems to be an invisible border that once crossed leads to a new land. With that limited group there is humor and there is honesty.

A moment pops to mind when talking about two partners of mine – we have in the past rather crudely referred to one as being the other’s “butt boy.” Well recently when discussing them with the office manager, the woman of initial acknowledgement, I said: “Say what you want about me – they’re the real butt boys.” I thought she was going to choke on her coffee she was laughing so hard, laughing as was I. With the group who knows, who openly know, there have been other moments, both of humor and of honesty.

But there are so many others where I assume they know – it is a small eco-system, not much remains pristine – but I do not really know for sure. And even if my assumption is correct, I am unsure where their sensibilities lie, how much humor or empathy is really there. So I tiptoe my way, always being honest but also never being completely blunt. And maybe this is as it should be: I really do not know nor overly care much about their personal lives. But while I may not know who got laid last night, I do know who is married, their “domestic partners” names, a bit of their trials and tribulations.

So I will continue to display a picture of my boyfriend and me in my office – not overly large, not facing the door: facing my desk for me to look at. When I go to Fire Island this summer if someone is dense enough to ask: Where? I will answer: The Pines. (To anyone in New York that is as good as having a rainbow tattooed on my forehead.) And I suspect over time it will become more acknowledged, one person at a time. And that is just fine with me for the bedrock now is that I do not care if they know and while I do not rub their noses in it, I also do not self censor or in any other way hide the reality of my new life.

Tests

It was July 2006 that a daughter got married. My wife and I tried to make believe that all was well – I mean we were still sharing a bed, still imagining some miracle land where I would not be gay, where someone would click the ruby slippers. Of course that was silly and I suppose I have ended up wearing those slippers. Looming on the horizon was the next wedding – October 2006 and approaching fast. Well that was postponed and it was not until April 2008 that another knot was tied. Of course any illusion for me and the Mom was long shattered, but still it was a day of being together and being apart.

While the balancing was successful, moments together, but primarily a parallel existence of visiting friends and family, that was not the main event for me. You see the bride is technically my step-daughter, one who I raised from age eight, one who has absorbed my sensibilities, humor, and general view of the world. Her biological father, long remarried, is still in the picture and she has always tried to do right by him. But after twenty years, most under the same roof, she is much more mine than his.

I have reflected on this of late: a conversation with someone in similar circumstances telling me that they just cannot feel the same towards their step-son as their biological daughter. And on the other end, a friendship with a man whose children were adopted at birth – a fact I only learned in passing, a fact one would never know watching the interactions. For me it is easy – my daughter of twenty years is my daughter, same as my flesh and blood.

Of course weddings of blended families have issues unique to the circumstances and I am anything but stupid. My daughter has been planning the walk down the aisle for months – permutations worthy of a mathematician, compromises reminiscent of a diplomat. I have taken a back seat, an unusually passive role for I realize the difficulties inherent in it all. When she was first engaged I even told her of my agreeability, my desire not to create more issues than there already were. So when I learned I was going to walk her halfway down – never sure of which half – I was pleased.

Twenty four hours to go and her mother takes me aside: the biological father is not thrilled but worse the step-mom is freaking. It seems that this woman equates her step mom role of maybe a weekly dinner visit (with bad cooking to boot, or so I am told) with my step dad role of providing a roof and all that goes with it for decades on end. My daughter is devastated, her mom incensed but there is a choice here, a family war or my taking a back seat and walking down the aisle with the step mom on my arm.

The choice was obvious – no choice one might say. And I realize how far I have come for I think that four or five years ago, I would have been very hurt by how it all played out. But I am not hurt in the least for I realize that I was given an opportunity to be the true parent, the one who would forego for themselves for the sake of their children. And while this has nothing to do with the gayness, I cannot help but suspect that my accepting of myself has again helped me accept so much more.