Happy Mother’s Day, Mama!I’m sorry I don’t call as much as I should. I know I don’t write, well, ever. But honestly, who writes cards and letters anymore? I don’t even keep stamps in the house. If you held a gun to my head, I still couldn’t tell you how much a postage stamp costs these days. Are they fifty cents yet?
I’m sorry. I shouldn’t include the image of someone threatening to shoot me in a Mother’s Day letter. You shouldn’t be distraught on your special day. You should be wearing a large corsage, and having breakfast in bed. I myself am not a huge fan of breakfast in bed. I find I get toast crumbs in the strangest places, and those lap trays always scoot around when you try to tear off a piece of your waffle, which knocks the orange juice over. It’s kinda like using whipped cream in romantic encounters- seems like a decadent idea, but it’s really just a lot of cleanup.
I also should not be talking about sexy whipped cream in your Mother’s Day letter. Crap.
Oh, crap, I said crap. This is going terribly. I’m just going to start over.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mama!
I’m sorry I can’t be with you on this special day, but know that you are in my thoughts and in my heart. Not just on this day, but every day. Particularly when I see a screaming child in a shopping cart terrorizing his mother, or overhear a kid asking an embarrassing question in a public place. That always brings back memories.
I’m sorry I can’t be with you on this special day, but know that you are in my thoughts and in my heart. Not just on this day, but every day. Particularly when I see a screaming child in a shopping cart terrorizing his mother, or overhear a kid asking an embarrassing question in a public place. That always brings back memories.
I want you to know that, in case you had doubts, you were a really great mother. You weren’t one of those perfect moms like Claire Huxtable, or the Fresh Prince’s Aunt Viv, or Harriette Winslow on "Family Matters" (it is widely accepted that all the best TV moms of the early ‘90s were African-American.) I admit there were plenty of times I wished you were just like those sitcom moms, mainly because they often arranged musical numbers in their houses involving the whole family. That was something we were really lacking in our house, but I have since made my peace with it. As a grown man, I often have musical numbers at my house starring just me, so I didn’t miss out completely.
But the lack of choreography notwithstanding, you loved me, and I knew it. And you were perceptive enough to recognize you had a kid who marched to a slightly different drum. You didn’t always know what to do with that information, and you may not have been fully prepared for how different that drum really was, but you never let me forget I was loved.
I see kids now who are coming out at fourteen, or fifteen, and that boggles my mind. What would things have been like if I’d done that? I wonder if either of us could have been that strong. I know the most unexpected benefit of me coming out to you has been the closeness we’ve shared since. It’s amazing what happens when you trust loved ones enough to be honest with them. I am very grateful for that. I know this journey has not been easy, but in my defense, think back to my childhood: Being my mother has never been easy. That’s not because I was a gay kid, it’s because I was a bizarre, difficult kid. The gay thing was a seperate challenge altogether.
Our journey together isn’t over. You taught me to believe that it isn’t enough to be content in your own life; you have to help others find peace in theirs. We’ve had a long road to get to the relationship we now enjoy. The next step is taking that relationship into the world. Don’t worry, I won’t make you march in a parade.
It’s as simple as this: If someone makes a gay joke, you call them out on it. If someone speaks against same-sex marriage, you tell them about the couples you know. When you’re talking with the ladies at church, bring up the 11 year-old boy who saw no way out of the pain caused by bullying, and ask what communities can do prevent such tragedies. This is activism on the most basic level: Defending and supporting the people you love.
I love you so much, and I’m proud to call you my Mama. Enjoy your day.
Your Son
But the lack of choreography notwithstanding, you loved me, and I knew it. And you were perceptive enough to recognize you had a kid who marched to a slightly different drum. You didn’t always know what to do with that information, and you may not have been fully prepared for how different that drum really was, but you never let me forget I was loved.
I see kids now who are coming out at fourteen, or fifteen, and that boggles my mind. What would things have been like if I’d done that? I wonder if either of us could have been that strong. I know the most unexpected benefit of me coming out to you has been the closeness we’ve shared since. It’s amazing what happens when you trust loved ones enough to be honest with them. I am very grateful for that. I know this journey has not been easy, but in my defense, think back to my childhood: Being my mother has never been easy. That’s not because I was a gay kid, it’s because I was a bizarre, difficult kid. The gay thing was a seperate challenge altogether.
Our journey together isn’t over. You taught me to believe that it isn’t enough to be content in your own life; you have to help others find peace in theirs. We’ve had a long road to get to the relationship we now enjoy. The next step is taking that relationship into the world. Don’t worry, I won’t make you march in a parade.
It’s as simple as this: If someone makes a gay joke, you call them out on it. If someone speaks against same-sex marriage, you tell them about the couples you know. When you’re talking with the ladies at church, bring up the 11 year-old boy who saw no way out of the pain caused by bullying, and ask what communities can do prevent such tragedies. This is activism on the most basic level: Defending and supporting the people you love.
I love you so much, and I’m proud to call you my Mama. Enjoy your day.
Your Son
