notepad. “Serodiscordant?”
“Where one person is positive and the other negative, like Marco and his partner, Terry.”
Lukas shook his head. “Do you lie awake at night thinking up these terms?”
For the team building in the second hour, I divided them into two groups and had them talk about their families.
“My mother’s been wonderful,” said Lukas. “She admits she dresses much better now because of me. Our family, you see, has been fashion-challenged for generations.”
“And what about your father?” asked Chad, who was facilitating that group.
“Oh, my father’s ashamed of me. Has been all my life. I’m a great embarrassment to him. But then, he is to me as well. Absolutely no sense of taste!” His group, with the exception of John, laughed.
“So, your father doesn’t accept you as gay?” said Chad.
“My father doesn’t accept me as anything. You’d think he’d have gotten over it by now. Like, maybe I’ll still turn butch someday?” He added in a sing-song voice, “I don’t think so.”
“Same with my dad,” said Reggie. “Supposedly because the Bible says it’s an abomination.”
“Oh, my dad tried that on me, too,” said Lukas, “but, really, he doesn’t know the New Testament from the Old. He couldn’t tell Luke from Leviticus.”
John cleared his throat. “Maybe if . . .” All heads turned to him. “Maybe if you tried to act a little more . . . well . . .”
Lukas sat back in his chair, theatrically crossing his arms and legs, which, given his string-bean frame, made one think of how pretzels must be made. “Yessssssss?”
“Maybe more . . . you know.”
“Mas-cu-line?”
“Yes.”
He immediately unwound himself. “Oh, I tried that. Honestly, I did. When I was younger, I tried to walk like other boys, tried to control my hands from flying around. I went out for all the sports at school until the coaches begged me not to. Tried to show interest in “guy” things. Dad would be telling our neighbor the Portland Trail Blazers won their game last night, and I’d say, ‘Fabulous! How many touchdowns did they score?’”
Then, for the first time in these four weeks together, we saw Lukas’s flippant and flamboyant manner fade. “I wanted him so much to love me. I would have done anything for his approval. But by the time I was fifteen, I stopped trying. I knew it was hopeless. I was this way, for whatever reasons, and knew I couldn’t be any different.” He took a deep breath and set his shoulders. “So, I decided then and there that my father would just have to learn to accept me as I am.” A sadness washed over his features. “But he never did.”
“Your father’s still not able to accept you?” asked Chad, who I could tell was practicing Active Listening from his psychology course.
“When I go home to visit Mom now, he walks out of the room. I don’t think we’ve said more than ten words to each other in as many years.”
“Thanks for sharing,” said Chad.
I watched John watching Lukas and thought I saw genuine commiseration on his face— for Lukas’s father. Was he thinking, Thank God, at least my son is a man?
• • •
Steve usually dropped in each night before he left for home, sometimes observing part of the sessions. I could tell he was pleased with how the team was developing. He stayed the entire evening on the fifth night when we conducted a midway evaluation. The feedback was very positive: Every member was enjoying the training, felt he was learning new and important skills and knowledge, with John adding that the program had spiced up his and his wife’s sex life. “We’ve tried out a number of, uh, behaviors I’d never thought of before. Now, when I come home from training, Maggie often has candles burning, my dinner on the table, dressed in her negligee, greeting me at the door with a glass of wine. She’s fully supportive of my volunteering.” To which the group clapped, hooted and cheered, and John broke out into a wide smile. He was becoming one of the boys.
Later, in the team-building portion, I divided them into two groups, where John once again mentioned “my gay son.”
“You always refer to him that way. Like, that’s his only quality?” asked Chad.
“No. No, he has many fine qualities.”
“For example?”
“He’s probably the brightest of my sons, certainly the most sensitive, sensitive to other people’s feelings. Has been since he was a child. I feared for him back then, that he’d be hurt by people not as sensitive as he was. But I needn’t have worried. He also has a strong inner core.”
“Sounds like you love him.”
John looked surprised at the statement. “Of course I love him. I love all my sons.”
“I believe you. Have you told him or any of your sons that?”
John admitted he’d not told any of his sons he loved them since they were children. “It would embarrass them and me. And besides, they know it.”
“Oh, how do they know?” asked Chad.
“It’s understood. Always has been.” He crossed his arms, signaling Chad not to take this any further.
Chad shifted focus to the group, asking, “How many of your fathers have told you they love you since you were twelve? Raise your hands.”
Not one of them raised his hand. Chad turned back to the colonel. “At least you’re not alone, John. It’s a father-son thing. I’m sure it’s understood.”
Floating between the two groups, listening in, I realized that I would have been the only one who could have raised his hand. Dad in the emergency room, his eyes glassy, face red, looking so incredibly distraught as he stared at his eighteen-year-old son lying there, coming out of the intentional drug overdose. He’d said the words, but I hardly heard them, drugged up on the drugs they’d given me to counteract the drugs I’d given myself. And feeling shitty because I’d failed in the attempt to end this life he and Mom had given me. Dad said the words but I shifted my head away, just wanting to sleep and be left alone. I’ve thought back to that moment many times over the years. It was a lost opportunity. He never said it again.
I turned away from the group, closing my eyes. Father, forgive me.
Saturday, February 25, 1995
1:00 a.m.
Providence Hospital, Portland, Oregon
Her fingers caress the rosary beads, lips moving silently in prayer. I’m surprised to find an older woman sitting across from me, facing me. I didn’t see her come in. Weathered, worn face, salt-and-pepper hair draping over her shoulders, she wears a shapeless dark dress and shawl. Latina, my guess.
And she’s staring at me.
I
