Part 8: The Day That Closet Door Opened

Well I can still remember the day I was forced out of hiding and made to jump into my reality!

Even though I knew I shouldn't be ashamed or afraid of who I was, I guess I just wanted it to be on my terms. I wanted it to be my secret to tell and my life to bring to light.

I had just turned 17 and I had my first boyfriend. It took me long enough to just admit to myself that I was gay. Being gay in 1997 wasn't as easy as it is these days. We didn't have gay-straight alliances, safe spaces or even support from our teachers. Back when I was in high school, being gay was a dangerous place to be. I remember walking though the halls of my high school and being taunted and being called names and even have random objects thrown at me. Teachers would even turn and walk in the opposite direction when they saw some of these things happening because they didn't want to get caught sticking up for the gay kid. There was one other student at my high school who was obviously gay. He never acknowledged that fact and even had “girlfriends” to help him hide. He was lucky, he got in with the “it crowd”. The only person who I had admitted who I truly was to was my best friend Angelica. I remember I told her over the phone. It was a long conversation, but she didn't make me feel as if I was wrong or going to hell, as I was so often told.

I was working at Sitel which was a call center in Corpus Christi. During this time in my life, it was the rare case that I was living with my father and step-mother. One day before work I was talking to my then boyfriend then, Benny. We talked on the phone for hours, even if it was just to listen to each other breath. So hopelessly in love as first loves tend to be. Since we couldn't see each other too often due to circumstance, we spent every moment possible on the phone. I can't remember what we were talking about, but I'm sure it was just how much we missed each other. Well, unknown to us, we had an audience. My step-mother on the other end listening in on mute. We didn't know it yet, but it would be life changing.

We went about our day as if nothing were different. Well, to us, it wasn't. I went to work around 12pm that day. My shift was normally 12p-9pm. I offered to stay late and work overtime. At that time I didn't have a means of transportation so I depended on my father to drop me off and pick me up from work. So I worked until 11pm that day and waited about 45 minutes for my father to pick me up. I sat there in front of the building waiting by a fountain, listening to the water and stared at the Catholic cathedral that was across the street. I had many conversations with God in that very spot about who I was. Asking him about all the events that had happened in my life at such a young age. My father yelling at me to get in the car broke my daydream as I started up at the statue of Saint Peter. As I got into the car, and after he had been 45 minutes late to pick me up, I wasn't greeted with a “hello” or “how was work?” Rather a “What the hell were you doing? Get your head out of your ass!”

I could already tell this was going to be an interesting ride home. Instead of being confrontational or engage in heated conversation, I just stared out that open passenger window and hummed Sarah Brightman to myself. We were maybe about 10 blocks away from their house when my dad just blurts out, “Are you a faggot?” Stunned, I didn't know how to react or what to say. I sat there for what seemed like 30 minutes in awkward silence. Then he asked again “Are you a fucking faggot?” Of course I denied it. Fearing for my own safety and well being. “No! Why would you say that?” Then he says the words that made me shiver down to my spine “Well, your step-mother heard you talking to another faggot on the phone! You said you love him and shit! Why would you say that if you weren't?” Knowing right there that I had no place to hide or deny who I was, I just said “OK dad, whatever” We finally get home and I go up to my room and my father is mumbling under his breath. So at around 2:30am, he busts through my bedroom door and tells me to get off the phone with that “faggot” I was on the phone with. I quickly got off the phone and sat up in fear. He looks dead into my eyes and says “No son of mine is gonna be a faggot! You need to get out of my fucking house!”

I had gathered whatever belongings I was allowed to take with me and packed my suitcase. I called my grandparents and let them know my dad was kicking me out and that I would have to go stay with them for a while. My grandmother was so excited. My grandfather not as much, seeing that he would be getting out of bed to pick me up from my fathers house. I didn't know this at that time so I began to walk towards their house. Taking any shortcut I could think of. My grandfather finally found me when I was a few blocks from their house. I had manage to make it across Corpus on foot at 3am without someone trying to steal my suitcase! We pull up to their house and I see every light in the house on. We pull into the driveway and through a small, square open window with curtains that were ruffling in the breeze I see a shadow. It was my favorite window to look through. It was directly above the kitchen stove. I see the shadow of my grandmother. I knew she was cooking for her “Monkey”. Throughout my years with my grandparents I had looked into that window so many times seeing my grandmother cooking and smiling and humming. She loved to cook. She always poured her love on any plate she touched.

Before we went inside, my grandfather turned off his car, took off his seat belt and asked me if I was OK. I hesitantly said yes and he replies “OK, let's go inside. I love you” I love you too grandpa.

I walk in the house and there was everyone, wide awake! My uncle Moe was in his room with the door open watching a rerun of some old movie. The TV in the living room was on and of course on telemundo! Then, I walk into that tiny, yet mighty yellow kitchen where my grandmother stood. She tapped the spoon on the side of the pot before she put it down to turn to me. With her silver, curly hair she turned to me and says “Come here my Monkey, are you OK?” Tear filled eyes I ran to her and let my face bury into her. Surrounded by her oil of olay scent and night gown, I felt safe. She tells me to sit down. She pours herself a cup of coffee and asks if I want one. This moment lives with me everyday. It was the first time I had tasted coffee. I guess that's why I love it so much. I apologized a million times for waking them up at such a late hour. Of course my grandfather walks into the room at that moment and says, “Don't worry about it! We were about to get up anyway.” I knew he was lying but trying to make me feel better.

That night turned into day and I knew I would have to face the reality of what had happened because gossip travels so fast in our family. I dealt with it as it came. I didn't have too many naysayers. Most of my family was really supportive. Then, my grandma asks me “have you told your mom?” I hadn't told her yet. I was so scared to be rejected by another person who was supposed to be there and love me. I finally worked up the courage to call her. I called her and she quickly answered. She told me “Hang up and I'll call you right back” Because back then, to talk to someone in a different state was called “Long distance”. It cost per minute to talk to someone. So that my grandparents phone bill wouldn't get charged she called me back on her dime. Well, we had small talk for a while and it seemed as if I was skirting around the subject and I was. So as she was about to go because we had been on the phone for a while, I asked her to hold on a second. I took the phone into the other room. Luckily we had a long cord on our phone. We didn't have cordless phones yet!

So, I told her I needed to tell her something and that it might change how she felt about things. I asked her if she was sitting down and she asked why. So I said, “So, you want to know why I don't live with my dad anymore?” “Of course!” she said. I couldn't say it, but I knew I had to. I stayed quiet for a while and she asks if I was still there. So I just said it! “Mom! I'm gay!” It was dead silent for what seemed like forever! Then I hear her breath as if she had been holding her breath the entire time and she responds “But, you're so tall!” I didn't know how to respond to that so I sort of laugh-cried through it. She says “That's OK mijo. I love you” Then she says she has to go because she's gotta run to the store. So we get off the phone.

This next part I've never told anyone but it's vital to my story.

When my mom hangs up the phone, she didn't put it on the receiver correctly and she was still on the phone after we said by. I could hear her crying in the background. As if I had broke her heart. In my heart I feel that at that moment she was more scared than disappointed. She was scared for my safety and for my well being. She never once made me feel that me coming out to her was ever bad or shameful. She has many times been worried about me being harassed or harmed. I know that it's because of all the support I've had from my family and my mom, that I've been brave enough to face this world that would otherwise wish to see me fail.

If telling my story can help one person who's hiding who they are because of fear, it's time well spent. If my words can melt the heart of any parent who's rejected their child because of who they are, these are words well said. If me telling my story helps anyone understand who I am, thank you for taking time to know me.

Sending each and everyone love & light