Recently, I was outed to my son. Well, more accurately, I was pressured to out myself. And in doing so, I was told that some people would cheer me, and some would be deeply offended. “It’s a package deal,” I was warned. In this case, a very weighty package deal that felt like it was being shackled to my ankle just prior to me being pushed to the edge of a very high cliff.
Let me clarify. This was not an outing related to my sexuality. No. My son was never kept in the dark in that regard. He has seen me wield an impressively butch assortment of power tools, and he has seen me festooned in an embarrassingly tragic array of drag. Of course, I don’t mean to imply that either one of those endeavors, on their own, or in combination, is determinative of someone’s sexual preference. I simply cite those two, contrasting examples in an attempt to convey the notion of individual, human complexity. Mine and everyone else’s. We are all uniquely forged. The point being, that I have never pretended for my son to be anyone other than who God wrought me to be. So, no. This outing was not about me being gay. This particular outing, rather, was meant to expose my passionately, progressive, political proclivities. (Mr. Popper’s Penguins is my son’s favorite movie, so that last gratuitous alliteration was specifically for him.) You see, when it came to my intense dislike of our 45th President, I was accused of telling a story that was not completely authentic. Specifically, it was asserted that I was being dishonest to some family members about my beliefs and behaviors related to my revulsion of Trump. And then, by extension, I was apparently expecting others to lie for me to conceal my thoughts and actions. I was also called out on my hypocrisy for targeting some Trumpistas while giving others a pass.The result? I was admonished and told that I should stand completely in my truth.
Before I continue, I want to go on the record. By no stretch of the imagination do I want to suggest that there is a direct equivalence between the unimaginably painful experience of someone’s sexuality being forcibly revealed, and a thinly veiled ultimatum for me to speak my political truth to my son or risk the ramifications of my truth being spoken for me. They are vastly different in many regards. But as a gay man, I recognize a kinship in the two circumstances. When threatened with exposure, I felt afraid, trapped, and highly vulnerable. I knew that no matter what happened next, someone was going to get hurt. Someone was going to lose. And for the very first time in my son’s life, I could imagine a scenario in which he might begin to love me less. Maybe he would fall into the deeply offended portion of the previously mentioned, take it or leave it, package deal. I was terrified. That fear is what pushed me to the edge. And seeing no way out, off the cliff I fell.
So there I was. Falling from a great precipice. Flailing. Desperately trying to figure out how I could explain to my 9-year-old child how and why I was distancing myself from Trump supporters in our family. Why I was intentionally putting people he loves at arm’s length.
Now, while you have in your mind an image of me plummeting from a great height toward a disastrous splat, let me elaborate just a little on the Trump-related beliefs and behaviors that I mentioned. I think it is important to know exactly what it was that I was being asked to share, so you can better appreciate the freefall I was in, and why it seemed at the time like a frightening truth to try and contextualize for my son.
You see, a few months prior, I shared with some people in my most inner circle that I would no longer extend invitations to, or accept invitations from, people that I knew had voted for Trump. Family members included. This declaration was partly fueled by a simmering resentment I had been carrying since my Gay wedding in the early December of 2016. An event that was attended by some folks who had just one month earlier helped to elect a president who would go on to nominate, and push to confirm, three Supreme Court Judges. A trifecta of conservative arbiters who likely will spend their long, conservative tenures working to delegitimize marriages like mine. To this day, I am angry that a handful of Trump-supporting wedding guests had the audacity to stand in my backyard and witness a union that they had just voted to help undermine.
Don’t forget, I’m still falling.
In addition to distancing myself from familial Trumpsters, I went on to say that I didn’t think that these people deserved to have a relationship with my son. That was my opinion. Frankly, it continues to be my opinion. I feel compelled at this time to reference that infamous, old adage, “Opinions are like assholes. Everyone has one.” I most certainly do. Not a pleasant analogy, but true enough. When pressed on this opinion, I went even further. I said that any person who continued to support someone who represents so much that is morally reprehensible does not deserve the love of my son. Not that I necessarily feel the need to justify, but, for what it may be worth, I want to be understood. I am a father. For me, my son’s love is the most precious gift imaginable. Do I think that gift should be given to people who sanction a man that, among a litany of other moral transgressions, bragged about his privilege to physically assault women? No, I don’t. My opinion is that my son’s love is far too valuable for that. As odoriferously repugnant as that may be to some, it is my opinion. I do, of course, also recognize the ironic truth that my son’s love may be exactly what these Trumpophiles need. Perhaps my son’s particular brand of affection is the magical antidote to the hatred and division that is so fiendishly propagated by their Dark Lord.
Still falling.
In my defense, I did repeat on numerous occasions that my son’s love was not mine to withhold, or to dole out. I trust in his judgement, his grace, and his capacity for forgiveness. In that respect, he is already a far better human than me. I recognized these qualities in him from the moment he was born. I knew immediately that I would spend a lifetime working to become the kind of father that he deserves. In that spirit, where he was concerned, I always kept to myself my opinions about the Trumpkins he loved. I actively supported his relationships with those I thought less than worthy. I believed that was the best way to honor his journey. To allow him to discover his own path. His own truth. To establish and cultivate relationships as he saw fit. I was, and continue to be, thankful for all the love that he has in his life. Regardless of party affiliation.
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At some juncture, however, withholding my opinions from my son became misconstrued as duplicitous. Me trying to be respectful of his relationships, was somehow interpreted as a request for others to be dishonest. That was never my intention. I was simply trying to prevent my political beliefs, and the steps I needed to take to honor those beliefs, from influencing my son’s feelings about people he loves. Nevertheless…
SPLAT!
So there I lay. Confused and broken. Even so, I managed to gather myself sufficiently to have an age appropriate conversation with my son. I explained that although his loved ones may have differences sometimes, it did not affect their love for him. I said that even when those differences drive family members apart, their distance from each other would never take them away from him. In addition, at the behest of those who requested that I proactively address the issue (or else) I used the situation with our family and Trump as an example.
Thankfully, in the end, our son digested the information with very little upset. I believe that is partly due to the fact that he feels securely loved by every member of his family, and partly due to that fact that he is intrinsically a pretty remarkable kid. In addition, at the end of the day, I know how much he values truth. Even in situations like this, where the truth was an unpleasant one and probably one that he didn’t really need to hear.
In the aftermath of my outing, I have taken much time to reflect. Without question, I bear some responsibility. I allowed myself to be pushed out onto that edge and I alone stepped off. And although the drop was frightening and the landing hard, I got back on my feet. I took stock of just how far I had fallen. I grappled, trying to understand why. What kept ringing in my head was the directive I had been given to stand completely in my truth. But wait, I thought, isn’t that what I do? Isn’t unabashed veracity totally my thing? I thought that I had squarely faced and successfully conquered my mountain of secrets and shame. After all, I had literally turned my life into an open book. Well, to be precisely literal, an open blog. Through my writing, I have spent the past eight years dissecting my truth, extracting the deepest entrails of it, splashing it across the internet, and imploring the world to look. Insecurity, indiscretion, disease, maleficence, deceit. Again, quite literally, warts and all. Everything is there. (Well, not everything. Not yet, that is. You can still hit the subscribe button up there on the right, or at the bottom if you’re on your cellphone, to be alerted about future posts. That shameless self-promotion was inspired by the enterprising, young, YouTube phenom Unspeakable. My son would be proud.)
The bottom line? I don’t just stand in my truth. I stomp in it. I sit, I dance, I writhe, and I wallow. Admittedly, the process is not always perfect, and the prose not always pretty. To that I freely concede. But I thought that all of my truth-telling was aiding somehow in my spiritual ascent. And after so many precarious hand grabs and perilous footholds, I felt secure in the belief that I had reached some kind of safe plateau. A higher ground. But no. For once again, somehow there I was. Back at the bottom. Looking up at my mountain of shit. It was a painful but exhilarating reminder that there is no ultimate peak. No summit where I will someday be able to plant a triumphant, redemptive flag. Nope. The trek up the mountain is never-ending. And as treacherous as it may sometimes be for me, and as stinky as it may sometimes be for others, I am determined to continue. To examine, to document, and to take responsibility for who I am and the life that I lead. As accurately as possible. And I continue to have faith that this venture will help to move me in the direction of the human and the father that I hope someday to be. The one that the world and my son deserve. So, once again, I face the cliff and begin the climb.
And yes, it is true. As I awkwardly clamber up, some may cheer, and some may be offended. After all, everyone is entitled to their own assessment of who I am and what I have to say. In the end, however, there are only two opinions that really matter. The definitive judgement of what I believe is a benevolent God, and the candid insights of one particularly precious, pint-sized person. Undoubtedly, those days of reckoning will come. And to the best of my ability, I will face them both with integrity, humility, and all the humor that I can muster.
In the meantime, if there is anyone you know who may be interested in my opinions, political or otherwise, please feel free to point them in my direction. Or, simply refer them to my website. Either way, I am always happy to share my uniquely candid asshole with anyone who might care to hear it.