New Object

Hi, my name’s Andrew. I’m a sophomore here at Haverford.

So when I got here I came out to a bunch of people I didn’t really know, and most people
were like “duh”, “big surprise”, or “you mean he used to say he was straight?”

Right, well, it wasn’t all that easy coming out to my mom, You see, parents, unlike
college freshman I had known for about three weeks, think they know you best. So they
have all these expectations of you, and all these weird conceptions of who you are. So _
you can imagine how freaked my mom was when I told her last January that I’m gay.

I had spent the new-year with my rather naziesque calvinist cousins who still believe in
the sixteenth-century theory of pre-destination. I couldn’t tolerate listening to the
Christian crusaders inquire me about why I didn’t have a girlfriend, I couldn’t be in the
closet anymore. Tired of their fag jokes and constant use of the word ‘gay’ in the
pejorative, middle-school sense of the word, I was about ready to explode. This put me at
the risk of making a major decision in a rash and not-well-thought-out matter like I often
do when I’m pissed off. I was gonna tell them I was gay, like announce it at the dinner
table and give my 80-year-old grandmother a heart attack, the exact goals of this not
being known. I guess it was just my way of being defiant; I wanted to thrust my gayness
in their faces.

But I didn’t, the cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents still don’t know; I figured
I should spare myself a “you’re predestined to hell” lecture by not telling them. In the end
I only told my mother, my mother being the most reasonable person in my family and
someone I had always felt very close to. The evening after returning to Boston my mom
and I walked the dog together. We passed by our bitch-ass neighbor’s house and let the -
dog sniff around in their yard and relieve itself. As fluffy positioned himself for a bowel
movement, I blurted out: “Mom, there’s something I have to tell you.” “Yes, the dog has
terrible diarea,” she responded. The stench filling my nostrils, I said “No Mom, I’m gay”.
She paused for 5 seconds, and said “But you don’t fit the stereotype”. Now of all
responses I had expected, this was just too much. I mean, what planet was she living on?
She gathered her thoughts for a moment. “Why do you have to call yourself that?” she
asked. “Well why do you have to assume I’m straight?” I asked.

That kept her quiet for about 15 minutes. But I knew it was not gonna be so simple. Upon
returning to the house I pop on reruns of ‘I dream of Jeanie’ and begin drooling over |
Major Nelson in his sexy blue uniform. She entered the room and said “how can you just
sit there after telling me something like that”. To preoccupied with Major Nelson, I
managed to utter an “I dunno”.

But then the drama unfolded. Raising her voice she says, “You think you can just tell me
this and then what are you gonna do tomorrow? Come into my house with your lover and —
have sex in my living room!?” I swear to God this is what she said. What had I ever said
about a very non-existent lover or the living room furniture that made her think that my
goal in telling her was to have sex on her sofa? Go figure. Well the rest gets mushy, and
is full of the “T still love you” stuff, and the “But you’re gonna get AIDS” stuff. I think it
was just a pretty big thing for her, as it had been a big thing for me back when I had a
huge crush on Desi Arnaz in 6" grade and figured ‘I wasn’t like the others’.

But my Mom’s wicked cool, on crack sometimes, but still wicked cool, so I knew she'd
pull through. Last April, when I was beginning to stress over exams, came the final
indication of my Mom’s acceptance. Knowing I’m like the biggest Joan Rivers fan on the
face of the earth, she mailed me this book: “Jewelry by Joan Rivers”. It’s like the funniest