I’ll Be Homo for Christmas

Hey cowboy,

Christmas is a strange gay nightmare. I invariably fail it. Perhaps this is a hidden feature of homosexuality that we don’t learn until we’ve been in it for some years.

My best Christmas was spent drunk with friends and drag queens performing Mariah Carey’s “All I Want For Christmas Is You” in terrifying holiday drag. I was wearing a naughty reindeer getup which is only a jockstrap and some felt antlers. My friend was wearing a Santa hat and a latex catsuit. Everyone got blisteringly drunk.

This was last Christmas. The very next day, still coming down from my drunk funk, I drove home.

Dad has become a hugger. I haven’t quite grown comfortable with it, but I hug him back, delicately, like hugging a bull. When I was young, people said I looked like him. I never saw the resemblance. In his youth, he had flaming red hair and I’ve always been a brunette. But all traces of resemblance have gone now. His red hair has faded to gray. Our skin is different; mine tans easily, his is freckled and damaged from years out in the sun. I have a beard and earrings. I am muscular now because of weightlifting.

I am big, but he is strong, strong as an ox. He’s pushing sixty and still goes out to chop wood, build fences, dig trenches, and build footbridges over the river. He wants to die this way and he will. I envy his death. With HIV, I will die old and weak, a tired queen with cancer in some big-city hospital bed, my sassy friends gathered around me saying, “Girl, we’ll be here every step of the way.” He will die at twilight, sweat under his shirt, in an open field, with tiny purple flowers at his feet, collapsed after a day’s work.

He’s a surgeon, but his strength is the strength of mid-Georgia farmers, men who worked at the quarry and the sock mill. My strength — like so many of my features — is superficial, a product of protein supplements and barbells. Mine was built for sex. His was built by life and its rigors. I am so in awe of him.

On my visits home, he tells me I should come home more, and I know he means this. He misses me. But I’m not sure which memory he misses, which version of me he’d like me to present. My presence is, for the most part, a tense shadow. I am his great failure — his godless son, his faggot son. We are, in many ways, each other’s equal and opposite. I inherited his rage, his intelligence, his stubbornness. We embody ideological differences and are locked, unshakably, to our beliefs. I am proud of that in me and he is proud of that in him. I would never want him to relent, not for a moment. If he did, who would I define myself against? Our horns are locked and we cannot move forward or backward. We are stuck here, half-ready for a fight, at any moment. As I walk in the door, as we give gifts, as I pour the cider — every second I am bared, tense.

Last year, when I came home for Christmas, I missed dinner. My family was seated at the table when I walked in. “Look who made it home!” Dad said.

“Yes, I made it.”

“Your sister made a great dinner tonight.” A note of dissapointment in his voice.

Rebecca looked at me: “I left you a steak in case you want it.”

Steak. They never eat steak. Steak is a special occasion. Then I realized this was a gift for me and I missed it. Christmas lights were hung in the kitchen. I imagined them doing all this last-minute, then waiting in silence until finally deciding to eat. No one told me a time to arrive by. As I ate the waiting steak, they cleared the table and Dad started the interrogation. “How was the drive?” “How is school?” “Tell me about your classes.”

I had little to tell. Classes were hard. My work was hard. I wanted to tell them about the drag queens and the glow-in-the-dark paint parties. I wanted to tell them about my HIV. I wanted to tell them about the man who tied me up in his bedroom every Tuesday. But all this was the living art, the work that, in their eyes, did not count for the future. I know I’m being unreasonable — every parent wants to know their child is prepared to face the world of work — but after a life lived here on a quiet farm in Georgia, the drag shows and paint parties are lessons I can’t encapsulate, an education I badly need.

None of this would have made any sense to them. The work I was doing at art school was fine, but most of it could not be shown to them, not while they were footing the bill.

As a family, we expressed love through money. They supported my career at art school and I didn’t speak a word about my sexuality. During my first year at college, I made the mistake of explaining a class, Color Theory. They laughed. “This is what I’m paying for,” Dad said. The class was about paint mixing, understanding how light affects hue, how light can be manipulated. “It’s chemistry,” I said. But it wasn’t chemistry, not really. It wasn’t tissue and bone, incisions or symptoms, practical things that had objective value in the world.

My parents are doctors. The work they do is essential. We have always spoken differently, understood different concepts, but I can communicate things that are tactile — burnishing, etching, spreading ink — because this is closer to scalpels and skin. But my true language is forbidden. Foucault. Anti-truth. Marxist. These words are best left unspoken.

During the interrogation, I wondered what they would like to hear. My new class, Design Four, was out of the question — it taught time as an artistic element, as with installation sculpture and outdoor work. Active and negative space. Compositional decay.

We fell back on a neutral topic: what they’ve been working on, what projects they were doing around the house. They were building a bridge or repairing a barn or building a treehouse. Then my dad attempted a discussion on sports.

“Alex, you need to know about this game,” he said. “Your friends at school will be talking about it and you need to know about it.”

My friends would not be talking about it. The last conversation I had with friends was about the word “patriarchy,” which they decided was too resonant of elitist liberalism to be seriously discussed. “Perhaps we should find a new word?” my friend Astoria asked, setting down her glass of wine. “Of course patriarchy is real and should be talked about, but the word is terrible.”

I offer my Dad this: “My school has a mascot. For the soccer team.”

“What is it?”

“We’re the bees. I just found out.”

“Alex, you’ve been there for four years.”

After dinner, I carried my bag upstairs to my old bedroom. The room was unchanged, untouched since I lived there, but I saw the most controversial books on the shelf had been put in the closet, which I felt was comically ironic. Ah, but they missed a few: Naked Lunch by Burroughs and The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins remained on the shelf.

I stepped into the bathroom where I first studied my body and knew I was gay. When was that? Five, seven years ago? Since then, my body had changed. More muscles, more tattoos. If my younger self could see me now, he would giggle with excitement. But I did not feel proud or handsome. Would I always be so unsatisfied?

I turned on the shower and stripped. I was never sexually active when I lived here, so I never douched before sex in this shower. Douching was now a tired sexual ritual. I wondered if my parents knew I did this. Do they think gay men just fuck shit? Probably. I wondered if they’ve questioned whether I’m a top or a bottom, or if they even know what these words mean. Do they wonder, “Is my son the ‘woman’ or the ‘man’ during sex?”

They may assume, as many straight people do, that we’re all maniacally versatile, fucking and getting fucked equally in large, orgiastic pits. Maybe they see us like worker ants — hive-minded, ravenous fuckers and fuckees in stinking bedrooms smeared with feces. The last time my father spoke to me about gay sex, he said, “It’s poop. That’s all it is. Poop.” I have never felt so ashamed in my life. I assume he knows nothing about douching. 

My fights with him are my core ingredient — the element most responsible for who I am now. His face, aged and gray now, transforms in my memory. His jaw opens and his eyes become glossy and red with points of deep black. His skin turns the color of blood. He clenches his teeth and stands over me — strong, impossibly strong, with the fury in his eyes I remember since childhood.

When I was little, whenever I misbehaved, he grabbed me and held me down on the floor, gripping my face in his hands. He held his body on top of me, his face inches from mine, his hand squeezing my cheeks and jaw, sometimes with my tongue sticking out. I once bit my tongue and tasted blood, but he didn’t stop. He held my head in place so I had to look up into his eyes. His spit splashed on my face. “Apologize to your mother,” he’d say between grit teeth. I couldn’t speak. I have never been so terrified of a person as I was of him.

I still see him that way, this heavy, red thing on top of me, suffocating me. In my memory, I am always small, always scared. Now I’m older and stronger and have dreams about returning the gesture, of gripping his neck in my hands, holding him down on the kitchen floor, and forcing him to stare up into my face.

Before my sexuality was the focus of so much discord, my father and I were very close. We rode bikes together through the woods, through town, for miles and miles. But then my homosexuality was revealed. It appeared in folded notes passed to a friend in class, wrinkled in my pants pocket. It was found as strange underwear hidden beneath my bed. My parents are medical missionaries in Zambia, and I went on one of these trips during my sophomore year of high school. I fell in love with a guy on the team and cried in front of everyone when we dropped him off at the airport in Lusaka. The night we got home, Dad walked into my room with his Bible and asked if I was “still dealing with this gay problem.” Yes, I said, I was — and I didn’t want to fight it anymore.

After that, there were no more bike rides. When I return to this bedroom, I remember the nightly devotions. At night before bed, he would come into my room with his Bible. We read passages together, aloud. The verses were chosen to address my sin. After reading them, I had to pray for the part of my body that needed protection from evil spirits and touch my hand there as I did so. I touched my crotch and prayed for it. I touched my head, asking God to guard my thoughts. I touched my hands, one after the other, asking God to keep me from impurity. I did this as he watched, making sure it was done.

Before I left home, I would dream of stepping down to the kitchen at night, bag in tow, the keys to my pickup heavy in my pocket. My truck was so loud, they’d hear it the second I turned the key. How much time would that give me to get away? Could I? In the dream, the air outside was cold, the truck was silent, the trees icy and black, and I slipped away without a sound just as the dawn began to break. In the morning, when I woke up, I knew could do nothing but wait. Someday I would go to college. I would get away — and they’d foot the bill. And that’s what I did.

My father is older now. He sits by the lamp in the living room wearing glasses, reading a book until he falls asleep. He asks if he can carry my suitcase upstairs, but I tell him no and grab it before he can do it. He asks me to join him on one of the projects around the house — staining wood, drilling floorboards, digging trenches. I tell him no, sorry, I’m leaving tomorrow.

In the shower, I got on my hands and knees and put my ear to the floor. I used to do this all the time in high school. Directly below me was the pathway between my parents’ bedroom and bathroom. I could hear their footsteps, they were talking as married people do at the end of a day. I could never can hear them clearly, but occasionally some words — or what sounded like words — came through.

My mother was probably in her white bathrobe, seated and beautiful, like an orchid. I loved the smell of her lotion and the way she looks without makeup. Her place in my heart has shifted over the years. I decided I would never need her again when she supported the nightly devotions, when she said it was a good idea for me to talk to our pastor. They drove me to the church once a week to sit with him in his cold office. He told me everything the Bible said about homosexuality, and I told him I wanted nothing to do with the Bible. At some point, the meetings stopped. I don’t know when she softened, but I think she realized after I went to college that she would probably lose me forever.

How sad it must be as a parent to realize you are too late. She has started scrapbooking our lives, mine and my sister’s, collecting report cards, drawings, and photographs in large leather binders. She hasn’t made it past high school for me, and I can’t imagine how she can go any further. She doesn’t know the rest, and never will.

Right at that moment, two words came through the floor: “tomorrow,” “engine.” Maybe Dad had to check the tractor engine tomorrow.

Then I became incredibly sad. I was filled with something like sympathy for them. They were given a child they did not understand. And I was cruel, too. I rebelled with fury at every turn. I lied and lashed out. I am my father’s son.

They knew I would grow up to be an unanswered phone call. I could see them, years from now, their hair white as sheets, quietly setting down the phone, having missed me again. I would live far away and return only when obligated — for holidays and deaths — but I would not want to. And it was love and only love that made them try to hold on to me.

I whispered down an admission through the floor that they were doing a good job, that I was holding out on them. Maybe it reached them, but I doubt it.

Love, Beastly

Like what you read? Please tip me or support my work as a monthly patron on Patreon. Patrons receive special perks, personalized messages, gifts, and merch from me.

1 Comment

  1. This has touched me deeply even though my relations with my family share little resemblance to what is described here. My father had always been accepting of my sexuality, but not of my emotion. I never lashed out and never did he, each letting reservoirs of anger build up dammed, unspoken. I’m not sure it is better. There is still a bag of pain held by a string of love which refuses to give. There is still wanting never to go back home for the holidays, and doing it anyway from time to time. Thank you for sharing you story. I wish whatever reconciliation is possible from here on out, for me and for you.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s