Refusal

I couldn’t look at her any more. Not after what she just said.

I had been furiously swiping at my eyes, throwing aside the tears that were pouring from them. My mother was doing the same thing, but her venomous onslaught never slowed.

I had just told her that I was gay, and what followed was a tirade of the most hurtful things anybody has ever said to me. After telling me how morally wrong and physically revolting she thought it was, but before telling me I would be cut out of her inheritance and will, she said something that cut just as deep.

She asked me how I thought I was going to be a sports writer after making “this choice,” saying there was no way I’d ever get athletes to talk to me as a homosexual.

I had all sorts of quick retorts for her biting words, never expecting that I would need to use them when talking to my mom. This one, though, was different.

She knew I wanted to write sports since the time I stole the section out of the paper early Sunday mornings in middle school. Sports and writing were my two passions, so it just made sense to combine the two of them for my future job.

I turned away from her, continuing to sob, wondering what I did to deserve such a bitter betrayal by the closest member of my family. She knew it would cut deep, and really, I think that’s one of the main reasons she said it. I don’t know if it was out of anger or shock or what, but those words were enough to really make me question myself for the first time in my life.

Growing up, my mom had always been my biggest supporter. My dad played a big role, also, giving me my toughness and unwillingness to settle for anything less than my best. But she always made me feel proud with my accomplishments, no matter how trite or little they actually were.

That’s what made coming out to her as awful as it was. I expected rage from my father and a sense of confusion or lots of questions from my brother and sister. I counted on her being the calming, soothing voice of rationality in the whole thing. After all, she played that role my entire life, so why would something like this change her now? Her reaction was the complete opposite of what I was expecting, and it led to a trying few years in my life.

We hardly spoke on the phone, and I never went back home unless I absolutely had to. My grades in school were the lowest they ever have been, I put on weight, and I had trouble falling asleep sometimes because I didn’t know if things with her and my family would ever be like they once were.

A series of problems with the undergrad journalism advising office, coupled with my poor grades, delayed my entrance into the j-school and made me wonder if I was ever going to get in.

Thinking back, I’m honestly not sure what got me back on track. I think part of it was seeing my friends starting to accomplish all of these great things in their fields, which gave my competitive spirit a jump. But really, I think it was my stubbornness and refusal to let myself be controlled that got my ass in gear.

The following year, I got involved with different organizations in my res hall and on campus, and I rededicated myself to studying for classes. I opened myself up to my extremely close friends, telling them some of the details of my family life and gained an incredible amount of strength from their support. I still don’t think they know just how much they helped me.

I stopped getting those oh-so-friendly reminders about being on academic probation from the university and moved into leadership positions in many of the groups I was involved with. When I got my acceptance letter into the j-school in my junior year, I knew my life was back on track. All that was missing was the emotional backing that my family had been able to provide throughout my life.

That Christmas break, I didn’t go home until the day before Christmas Eve, and I planned on going back to Columbia a few days after. As I was loading my stuff into my car, my mom walked out into our garage. She told me that she knew what she said back in my freshman year hurt me and that she was wrong to have said what she did.

The apology was unexpected, but not as much as the words that followed it: “I still love you.”

Still bitter, I mumbled something in response and drove off, but I mulled over in my head what she told me on the drive home and for weeks afterward.

I started writing sports for the Missourian that semester, and I started making calls home to her on occasion.

We talked about what her class at school was doing (she’s a fourth grade teacher) and about what the rest of the family was up to. She talked to me about how much she liked my most recent article that she read on the Missourian’s Web site, an accomplishment for her because she’s computer-illiterate. Eventually I was able to forgive her in my heart for what she did, and I was able to say “I love you” back on the phone and mean it.

The calls became more frequent, and are now a regular occurrence. A lot of the time, it’s us making small talk or her harping on me for forgetting to do something. I don’t mind at all.