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I’m a bit baffled by this one.
I vaguely remember being at this play. I had to look up what it’s about, and it’s some sort of British Anglo-Political play about the state of the Anglican Church and the story of someone who is, from what I can gather, an Anglican priest. I, again, vaguely, recall being at the Royal Alex to see it. I got a student ticket to see it, and I am going to assume it was a rush seat as I know I had never heard of the play before. I know this because, being a Drama Kid, I have a pretty good memory of the plays I’ve read, seen, or been interested in. This is what makes this odd… It’s rare I see a play that I don’t have some recollection of.
I did some research to find out what was going on that would put me in Toronto in October of 1998. It was mid-first-semester of my 3rd year of University. I should have been in Windsor. But when I looked up the date, it all came back. October 8th is the beginning of the Thanksgiving weekend.
This is the weekend I came out to my family.
The REST of this weekend is very clear to me.
We were gearing up for a big Thanksgiving weekend Up North, so I had come in on the Thursday so I could drive up to Kirkland Lake with my aunt and her family. I guess I went to see this play, and being young and all about “the experience of theatre” I picked this one cause it was cheap, and I was probably able to get the rush seat.
The next day was the Friday, and I was out and about most of the day. I have always loved Toronto, and to have the time to wander about and see the city was always a treat. Still is.
I remember, however, coming home to my aunt’s in the afternoon, and being very very nervous. I had come out to all my friends in school back in April, at a pub (thereby hijacking my friend’s birthday celebrations), and for the months from May – October, I remember being very, very nervous that word would get home that I was a big ‘mo. Even though I was certainly closeted before coming out, it was a different feeling. When no one knew, there was no chance of being exposed. When someone knew, then it became an active quest to not let the cat out of the bag.
Plus, I didn’t want my grandmother finding out through the grapevine.
So, in the basement of my aunt’s townhouse, without any warning, I blurted:
“How do I tell Gramma that I’m gay.”
I should mention that I hadn’t actually come out to my aunt before this, so instead of getting a nice, gentle easing into the news, I vomited the information and the problem on her all at once.
She was, however, great about it. She said, Gramma loves you, it doesn’t change who you are, so I don’t think it’s that big of a deal. Very solid advice. I later, of course, learned that she was having a mini freak-out inside, not because it came as a total shock, but because of the means of delivery.
So that night, we all piled into the mini-van and headed north on the 400, then on Highway 11, for the 7-hour journey into the heart of Northern Ontario.
After a harrowing drive (I discovered how anti-lock breaks work because of a near-collision with the car in front of us and the ensuing side-trip into the median grassway) we made it home.
I don’t think I have ever been so tense in my life.
On the Saturday, my aunt and the crew decided to go visit friends, so I was left alone in the house with my grandmother for the first time all weekend. I was positively nauseous. Every bad coming-out scenario ran through my head, from being kicked out to slapped to my poor grandmother dropping dead on the spot. Of course, it never crossed my mind that it might go well.
We were in the basement of the house, and my grandmother was on her hands and knees in front of the preserve cabinet, digging through the jars of preserves and pickles, trying desperately to foist whatever she could on me. My gramma loved making the preserves, but for some reason, she didn’t like eating them. There was also the problem of the Blueberry-picking-mania that had occurred some 3 or four years earlier, where she decided, in a fit of productivity, to go blueberry picking every day for a month. We were up to our ears in blueberries for years thereafter.
So Gramma was digging through the preserves, holding them up to me one-by-one asking if I wanted this one or this one or this one, and I was behind her praying that I might just pass out, because I knew this was it.
“Gramma, I have something to tell you.”
“Do you want these?”
“Gramma, I have to tell you something.”
“What about these? Alright, what is it?”
“I’m not sure how to tell you.”
“I’m going to give you these pickles too. What’s wrong.”
“Gramma, I’m gay.”
Pause.
“Do you want these blueberries?”
I stood there for a minute, reflecting on the appropriateness of the response I got to what I had just said.
“Did you hear what I just said?”
“Yeah, I heard you.”
“And…?”
“Well, it doesn’t change who you are, does it?”
“Well, no…”
“Well then, it’s fine. (pause, as she finally looks at me) What, did you think I was going to disown you or something?”
Cue me bursting into tears.
It was a very liberating moment. I was sort of shocked at how well she took it, and for a little while, I was very, very proud of my grandmother.
Until…
We were later upstairs, everyone had come home, and we were getting ready for dinner. It was the usual family chaos, loud voices, people running around, very much the norm for my family.
Backstory: I have taken medication for an underacting thyroid since time began.
Backstory: I had worked, the previous summer, at a summer camp, where we referred to our campers’ mediactions as “meds,” which is a term I had since adopted into my lexicon, replacing the more vulgar “pills” that we used at home.
I was in my room, looking through my bag for my thyroid medication, when I realised I had left it in Windsor.
I came out into the kitchen, announcing to the general gathering that:
“I left my meds in Windsor.”
To which Gramma replied (or rather, bellowed):
“Oh my God, you don’t have AIDS, do you?”
*sigh*
Maybe the coming out didn’t go as well as I had initially thought.
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post script: Please visit my other blog, The Ramblings of a Stagerat, to read the companion post to this. Thanks.
The Ticket Stub Project 