Read Online Stories for Boys: A Memoir by Gregory Martin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gregory Martin
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three counts.
Jon Stewart said,
Count number one: his balls are not plum-sized. They are, at best, apricot-like. Secondly, the description of his penis as “inside another man,” that has not been my experience…
My father? Gay? My sixty-six year old father? That had not been my experience. How had I missed that? Hadn’t I been paying attention? But when my father first told me he was gay, that afternoon in the ICU, in his hospital gown, I knew it to be true, though I had never once suspected it. I felt surprise followed immediately by inevitability. No. Yes. It was only later, when the shock of those days began to wear off that I felt impugned. Stupid. What I couldn’t reconcile, and what I struggle to reconcile even still, was the most common of feelings – I thought I knew him . If I didn’t know my own father, who else did I not know?
Inquisition
I PUMMELED MY FATHER WITH QUESTIONS. WHEN DID he first admit to himself that he was gay? Where did he go to have anonymous sex in Nebraska? Where did he go in New Jersey? In Virginia? In New Mexico? Had he ever had a relationship? Had he ever wanted one? Had he ever known socially the men he knew sexually? How could he have been such a political conser - vative all those years? Was he still a Republican? How much did he worry that he would be caught? Had he known all along that he would attempt suicide if he were caught? When did his father stop abusing him? Why didn’t he tell my mother about his father’s abuse? Had he worked as a traveling pharmaceutical representative so he could be gone for multiple days in a row and not have to be so cautious about being caught? Was that part of his conscious thinking? Did he tell himself that he couldn’t tell my mother the truth because he was afraid that she might have another “breakdown”? Did he tell himself that his care for my mother while she was manic or catatonic somehow made up for his secret life? Did he tell himself that she would not be able to go on without him?
Question after question in no particular order. There was vengeance in these questions, a satisfying vindictiveness. I knew most of these questions, if not all, were excruciating for him. But part of me wanted to hurt him, wanted him to suffer these questions as some small penance for all the pain he had caused. But behind this, also, was a sincere desire to know him. Who are you?
He told me about the rest areas off the interstate near Portales, New Mexico, and Morristown, New Jersey, about the public restroom near Children’s Zoo in Lincoln, Nebraska, about the basement bathroom at the community college in Rockville, Maryland. He never invited a man into our home. It always happened in a public place. When I asked him how it could possibly be that he never got AIDS, he didn’t say anything for a very long time.
Then he said, “I was always oral.”
Now it was my turn to be quiet. I didn’t want to know this, but I had wanted an answer, and he’d given me one. Finally, I said, “You can get AIDS that way.”
He said, “It’s not nearly as likely.”
“Didn’t you worry that you would give Mom AIDS?”
“Yes, I did. I worried about that.”
On the phone, my father answered my questions, one by one, with reluctance and resentment and without elaboration.
No. He’d never had any relationship with any man. He’d never wanted one. He had a relationship with my mother.
Email was different. In writing, he sometimes went on at length, telling me about his past, his feelings, then and now. Perhaps this was better persona management on his part. Perhaps it was easier for him to be the person he thought I wanted him to be – thoughtful, reflective, remorseful – over email. How was I to know whether my father actually meant what he said? After all, he’d spent his entire life successfully being the person other people wanted him to be. But I felt that too much was at stake between us for cynicism. Anger, yes. Cynicism,
Jon Stewart said,
Count number one: his balls are not plum-sized. They are, at best, apricot-like. Secondly, the description of his penis as “inside another man,” that has not been my experience…
My father? Gay? My sixty-six year old father? That had not been my experience. How had I missed that? Hadn’t I been paying attention? But when my father first told me he was gay, that afternoon in the ICU, in his hospital gown, I knew it to be true, though I had never once suspected it. I felt surprise followed immediately by inevitability. No. Yes. It was only later, when the shock of those days began to wear off that I felt impugned. Stupid. What I couldn’t reconcile, and what I struggle to reconcile even still, was the most common of feelings – I thought I knew him . If I didn’t know my own father, who else did I not know?
Inquisition
I PUMMELED MY FATHER WITH QUESTIONS. WHEN DID he first admit to himself that he was gay? Where did he go to have anonymous sex in Nebraska? Where did he go in New Jersey? In Virginia? In New Mexico? Had he ever had a relationship? Had he ever wanted one? Had he ever known socially the men he knew sexually? How could he have been such a political conser - vative all those years? Was he still a Republican? How much did he worry that he would be caught? Had he known all along that he would attempt suicide if he were caught? When did his father stop abusing him? Why didn’t he tell my mother about his father’s abuse? Had he worked as a traveling pharmaceutical representative so he could be gone for multiple days in a row and not have to be so cautious about being caught? Was that part of his conscious thinking? Did he tell himself that he couldn’t tell my mother the truth because he was afraid that she might have another “breakdown”? Did he tell himself that his care for my mother while she was manic or catatonic somehow made up for his secret life? Did he tell himself that she would not be able to go on without him?
Question after question in no particular order. There was vengeance in these questions, a satisfying vindictiveness. I knew most of these questions, if not all, were excruciating for him. But part of me wanted to hurt him, wanted him to suffer these questions as some small penance for all the pain he had caused. But behind this, also, was a sincere desire to know him. Who are you?
He told me about the rest areas off the interstate near Portales, New Mexico, and Morristown, New Jersey, about the public restroom near Children’s Zoo in Lincoln, Nebraska, about the basement bathroom at the community college in Rockville, Maryland. He never invited a man into our home. It always happened in a public place. When I asked him how it could possibly be that he never got AIDS, he didn’t say anything for a very long time.
Then he said, “I was always oral.”
Now it was my turn to be quiet. I didn’t want to know this, but I had wanted an answer, and he’d given me one. Finally, I said, “You can get AIDS that way.”
He said, “It’s not nearly as likely.”
“Didn’t you worry that you would give Mom AIDS?”
“Yes, I did. I worried about that.”
On the phone, my father answered my questions, one by one, with reluctance and resentment and without elaboration.
No. He’d never had any relationship with any man. He’d never wanted one. He had a relationship with my mother.
Email was different. In writing, he sometimes went on at length, telling me about his past, his feelings, then and now. Perhaps this was better persona management on his part. Perhaps it was easier for him to be the person he thought I wanted him to be – thoughtful, reflective, remorseful – over email. How was I to know whether my father actually meant what he said? After all, he’d spent his entire life successfully being the person other people wanted him to be. But I felt that too much was at stake between us for cynicism. Anger, yes. Cynicism,
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