Lessons In Acceptance

“I’m so incredibly stoned!” announces my brother, Alex, as he climbs into the driver’s seat of his Nissan Xterra and slips on his metallic, hot pink, rose colored sun glasses. His girlfriend, Annie, gives him an incredulous look and slumps into the passenger seat. Next to me, my girlfriend, Celia, snorts out a laugh and I simply glance to my other side at my best friend, Allison, who is obviously trying to ignore my brother’s seemingly proud announcement. We are heading to the authentic southern style Atlanta restaurant for dinner with my Mom and Dad. Little did I know, The Colonnade is an infamous diner and my two vacationing friends were unknowingly accompanying me to the most awkward dinner imaginable.
“Guess where we’re going?” my mom quizzed me before we had left.
“I have no idea Mom, please enlighten me,” I sighed.
“The Colonnade! You’ll absolutely love it. Fit right in. It’s where all the gays take their families to eat!”
She seemed so enthused by the prospect of taking my girlfriend and I there that she could barely contain herself. She acted as if she’s discovered some secret club. Some private homosexual den, and she alone had the information I need to access its many wonders. Mom was finally realizing some twisted dream of going to an authentic “gay haunt” with authentic gays. Allison calmly asked whether or not they feel comfortable eating there and my mom quickly assured her that nothing in the world would make her more pleased. I can already see where this dinner is headed.
Ever since I came out of the closet, my mother has gone as far as possible to make me feel accepted. It was as if tragedy had befallen me, and my mother was the only person on the planet who could save me from my misery, loneliness, and inevitable social suicide. The day I finally told her, she was talking to me from the lower floor of our home as I stood at the banister upstairs. We were probably discussing the weather, the latest death and return of Vanessa the evil stepmother on her favorite soap opera, perhaps what she planned to shop for later in the day, when suddenly, and without any form of warning, she blurts out, “You’re gay. I know it and you need to tell me the truth.” I stood there shocked. White knuckles tense, gripping the railing in front of me. “Wha-what?” I managed to stammer. Quickly, I run through possible excuses for my behavior in my head; “No, mom, I’m not gay. I just don’t like boys.”
As I gathered my courage, Mom slowly crossed her arms over her chest and glared at me, one eyebrow raised in expectation. “Well?” she continued. Finally, in a rush of words I admitted that yes, I was in fact gay. There was an odd emotional mix of relief and extreme panic as I let the word vomit spill out of my mouth. In exaggerated and emphatic horror I sat down on the wooden floor board of the stairs, gasping for air. I wanted to make it look as intense as possible. I wanted her to know that her reaction was incredibly important to my happiness and survival. I wanted her to feel guilt before she ever thought of cursing me for my blatant homosexuality.
None of these things happened. My mother simply turned on her heels and trudged head down into the bathroom. I was certain that she had just decided she no longer had a daughter. The Charlotte that she loved was now with the angels and instead she had a demon sitting in her house that she knew had to be immediately exorcised. I ugly cried. Gradually, I raised my arms up to hug and comfort myself as I thought about my sudden aloneness and how I would have to somehow pay for the impending move to the University of Kentucky on my own. Suddenly, I felt so spoiled. I was used to my parents’ approval and support, both financially and emotionally. This was a wholly new experience. At least she had yet to berate me and tear me apart like I had expected. World War III had not begun… yet.
Mom eventually emerged from the bathroom with a far softer expression on her face than I had expect to see.
“Come sit on the couch,” she says.
Hands flat, face covered in tears, I pushed myself up from the stairs feeling more like a child than I had since I last came screaming home with a bloody knee to have my mom give me a Reptar bandaid and a “make it better” kiss. I would have given anything to slow my brain down so that I could internally brace myself for what was about to be said but before I had the chance she sighed and began speaking.
“Sweetie, there is nothing that you could ever tell me that would make me stop loving you. I’m completely unsurprised that you told me that you’re gay. I really feel like it explains a lot and I am so glad that you finally trusted me enough to be honest with me. I obviously have some questions for you, but I just want you to know that you have my unconditional support.”
I was floored. I couldn’t believe that my mother just fully accepted me. I was so sure that she was going to disown me and that I would be scouring GA 400 for just the right cardboard box to settle down in that I did not even begin to assume that she would not be livid. My father followed suit and hugged me, explaining that it was going to be a more difficult path but that he knew I was strong enough to handle any circumstance. In the moment, it was hard to fully appreciate how incredible my parents were for being as open, loving and understanding as they were. I have been blessed. So, with this knowledge, it was no surprise that when I brought my friends home from college that my parents, especially my mother, were so eager and thrilled to take us out to a known “gay” restaurant to show their support.
At The Colonnade, the wait staff is composed almost completely of flamboyant, middle aged, gay men and sour looking, haggard older women. The patrons are an odd mix. Young gay couples, singles with their supportive families (much like mine), and wealthy looking, southern belles enjoying a traditional southern meal. I almost feel as if we are on parade walking into the main dining room to be seated. I clutched my girlfriend to my side and glared around me at my audience. Granted, all eyes seemed to be on each party as they entered for the rest of the night, not just my group. All eyes deciding whether or not your outfit was just right, or whether you were holding your shoulders back, chin up. Surely no one actually cares that much about me. I have always had a way of thinking that I am more important than I actually am, a trait my family has always excessively teased me for. It is as if the whole universe truly does revolve around me and I am enough of a celebrity in my own head to deserve the attention I assumed I had gained in the dining room. This thought pattern could be diagnosed by psychologists as an entirely new level of self importance in which the subject believes they are more important and have a greater affect on people and circumstances than they actually do. Regardless, I am uncomfortable and suddenly incredibly happy that I had worn my new black tank top and straightened my bangs just right. God, bless good hair days.
Alex, my brother, seems to be wearing a permanent Cheshire grin. He glances around from table to table, delight twinkling in his eyes. It is as if I can see the potential homophobic, yet good natured jokes building in his head. Instead, I choose to focus on my mom’s particularly unique way of walking. She holds her head back at an awkward angle, chin down, arms angled and pinned up against her chest like a praying mantis with a plastic grin across her face. It is always hilarious and always worth mocking. To comfort myself I rationalize that, surely, the other patrons are staring at my mother’s strut and not my entirely normal outfit.
As we are seated, thankfully in the back corner of the room, I notice a portly waiter sashaying his way towards us. “I’m Sth-cott. Let me know if you need anything, or whatever,” he lisps in our direction. Fantastic. That is officially the cherry on my dinner ice cream. Our meal went smoothly and was filled with lively conversation and many laughs, despite the cardboard salmon croquets and wilted lettuce. Mom seemed to be in her element and cracked jokes while we devoured our food. At one point, Celia leaned over to me and whispered, “Just think, one day we’re going to be old lesbians and look just like the rest of them.” To my utter horror, I realized she was absolutely right. One day I would be wrinkly, unkempt and still socially unacceptable by the masses. There would be no comfortable retirement to a small, majority Republican town, where everyone knows everyone else’s business. I would have to learn to accept this fact. Mom began urging Dad to take our picture and he grudgingly stood up, capturing the most perfect and genuine moment ever burnt onto film.
Mom is lit up, Allison looks somewhere between shocked and amused, Celia and Annie are always good natured and look relaxed, I am looking miserable while trying to smile, and Alex is obviously high. I realize, however, that the most important thing to realize about this photo is that we are all together, happy, accepting. Despite my apparent insecurities and feelings of alienation, even from other homosexuals, I am accepted and loved for who I am by my family and friends. Those are the people that matter the most, far more than stuffy diners and aging retirees. I must learn to accept myself for who I am and embrace my differences instead of changing myself like she changed her name. As, Celia noted, I will one day be old, gay and judged by my younger counterparts. My hypocrisy never gained me any friends or fans. So, instead of hiding in corners and judging others, I must be wholly accepting of others so that they may be wholly accepting of me. The most important opinions are those of your loved ones and I am surrounded by the most fantastic people. Others before me have learned this, and I have been working on it in myself. Lord knows, I like focusing on me.