"Are you still a fag?"

“Are you still a fag?”

“Are you still a fag?” What a cold thing to say on an already frosty October day. But regardless of the words and the weather, I could not stop sweating. I felt like the soft light in the therapists office had become as bright as the sun. I grabbed my collar as if trying to open more space to breathe, to exist. Nothing helped.

A huge silence ensued. I tried to mumble out a response, but nothing would come out. I tried to look at anywhere but their faces. I looked at the books that lined the shelves underneath the tiny window in the therapist’s office. I looked at pictures of his family and wondered if they had the same troubles. I tried to look at him, but couldn’t bring myself to hold his gaze. He wanted me to say something. He wanted me to confront them, but how could I? They were my parents.

Finally he broke the silence with a question. He turned to me and asked me if I had anything to say. I looked at him with fear in my eyes. What was I supposed to say? Wasn’t he there to protect me? Save me my eyes pleaded, but he gave me no response. With my hands dripping with sweat and my heart pounding, I wiped my hands on my jeans and looked up at them. I swear time decided to be my enemy: lifting my head to return their stare was an eternity in itself. I looked into their eyes, and said one word: “Yes”.

My mother’s gaze burned a hole into my very being, and my father couldn’t bear to look at me-he stared out the window as the wind tore through the bare and broken trees. I felt better upon admitting my homosexuality, and I found it easier to hold my mother’s eye. I was still scared, but I felt empowered as well. Once again a huge silence filled the room and swallowed the room into darkness. Brandon, with his quirky glasses and flannel sweater decided to do his job as therapist and mediator and started the conversation, what little of it there was, back again. He asked my parents if they had anything they wanted to say. The first question she asked was directed to him. “I thought you were supposed to fix him here”.

Here? Where was here? Here was an inpatient therapy program located in Overland Park, Kansas. This was the place my parents placed me upon first discovering my sexual preference for boys. In their minds I had a mental illness that could be fixed by being surrounded by therapists, and doctors, and other boys just like me. I was no longer their innocent little boy. No, I was a monster that liked to put on dresses and makeup and touch little boys. I was in a never ending quest to “turn” others into beast like me. I was going to burn in hell with Hitler and Heath Ledger and all the other queers. After 16 years of love and affection, I was not deserving of anything from them. I had become everything that my dad preached about on Sunday mornings and what my mother taught on Wednesday evenings. This was unacceptable to them.

Brandon calmly returned her gaze and explained in his gentle, but firm and knowing voice that there was nothing to fix. I was so relieved to have the attention on someone else than me. I was able to collect myself and prepare for the next attack, not knowing what form it would take-verbal, physical, emotional. My mother just looked stunned. My father was still looking out the window, but I knew he was soaking it all in. I almost wish he would have said something just so I could know what was going through his head.

She then resumed talking by saying that she was under the impression that that is what I was here for. Brandon again reiterated that there was nothing wrong with me. A small banter ensued between the two of them, and feeling comfortable, I allowed my mind to wander. I traveled to a fantasy world where I could be myself, but still have the love and support of my family. Everything was perfect. There was not hatred. There were no accusations of being a “fag.” I didn’t have to wear dresses and play with Barbies. I could watch football and rough and tumble with the boys without trying to “touch them”. I could be me.

This daydream shattered like glass as my mom looked at me and said, “So you wanna be a woman?” My eyes went straight from the ceiling to her. I felt a wave of anger sweep over me that trumped anything I had ever felt. “No!!” I exclaimed feeling the anger give me a false sense of confidence. “Why do I have to be a woman because I am gay?” This was the first time that I openly challenged their idea about my gender and sexual identity. Her response was wild and unexpected. “You like to suck dick don’t you?” “That’s a woman’s job”. You could have parked a Hummer in my mouth with room to spare they way that my jaw hit the floor. The anger refilled me like a hot air balloon. I lowered myself to her level and got crude as well. “Yes, I love to suck dick, and it feels so good!!” My mom’s face looked as if I had just slapped her. I felt good. I wanted her to feel like she made me feel. Maybe then she could start to understand…

She said nothing more, but my dad surprised us all as he got up in anger and said, “I can’t take this anymore!” “I’m leaving”. “I’m not coming back until he is fixed, and don’t ask me to come back until he is”, he said addressing Brandon. He looked at me with disgust as he walked out the door. My mother was already on her feet following him out. I put my head in my hands and started crying as my wails of pain and betrayal crept out the open door into the hallway. It took less than ten minutes for my parents to throw away 16 years.