Can't Go to Bed Prior to Breathing a Sigh of Relief Here

The postings on this site are my own and don’t necessarily represent IBM’s positions, strategies or opinions.

Re-posted from internal IBM community for LGBT IBMers & Friends

As I pulled up to Cousin Joe and Joy's house in Tenafly, New Jersey, I recalled all of the times I spent there with my contemporary cousins, their kids, when I was a kid. Who knew then that Johnny and I would grow up to be gay and lesbian respectively? Johnny and I did, each within ourselves, but no one else was allowed to know, including each other.

Johnny's dad Joe died a few nights ago. His mom Joy died several years ago. Johnny, Teddy, Carol and Lizzy all are orphans now -- too grown up a status for this age and not a club I want to join anytime soon. My mom is 86.5 and I'm praying that she's around for many more years....

When I arrived, Johnny was out, taking another relative back to the airport. I had only a few minutes, as I needed to return to Armonk for a colleague's retirement party, and since I planned to go back again this evening. In the very short time I was there for Joe's shivah, Lizzy said to me, "Did you hear that our president said he believes in same-sex marriage today? Moveon.org sent the news to my phone, right in the middle of the funeral."

Ahhh. How could I feel any relief and joy in the midst of a shivah for a relative I loved? And ultra-energized, too.

Johnny's and my dad used to go to Joe's study and look at the cool maps that Joe collected and talk about who knows what. Johnny and I used to walk around their neighborhood during family visits, as dissatisfied adolescents, but not confiding in each other about our ultimate discontent at that point. When my dad (z"l) died in 1982, Johnny was the only relative tall enough to inherit my dad's gorgeous winter coat. Here's a photo that Pat took of Johnny and me in San Francisco, where Johnny lives, a few years ago on Twin Peaks (it's not winter-time and I bet he still has the coat, which was built to last):

Driving back to Armonk, I listened to National Public Radio, which was interviewing a gay journalist Andrew Sullivan, who said he felt that his president was acknowledging his humanity finally. That's just how I feel, too. I couldn't go to bed without breathing an extra sigh of relief here among our community.

I recognize this is just the U.S. president, but certainly, I celebrated when Spain enabled same-sex marriage to happen, even though it was "just Spain" because anywhere in the world -- whether local or distant -- that acknowledges all of its citizens' equality and humanity seems worth celebrating.

Joe's obituary appeared in the "The New York Times" today and as I ripped it out of the hard copy, I noticed that on the back was children's author Maurice Sendak's obituary. Fortunately, I had already read it online last night. I was so pleased to learn that Sendak had a companion of 50 years, and that he was gay, but was sad that he did not tell his parents.

My dad died four years prior to the time I was willing to acknowledge my sexual orientation, but Johnny's parents both knew and supported him. I wish our dads and Johnny's mom had lived to see this day and I thank God that my mom did.

Recalling My Mother's Former Vigor

The postings on this site are my own and don't necessarily represent IBM's positions, strategies or opinions.

...and My Youth

"Mom, you looked frail today when I first saw you," I said without meaning to, and then, "I mean, not weak, but rather, too thin." (Unfortunately, she looked both, but I did not want to encourage the power of suggestion.)

"I know. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw it," she agreed. My mother appeared more physically vulnerable than I've ever seen her, other than the morning after her major car accident, which was three months ago today.

After we said goodbye, I felt suddenly desperate to see a childhood friend, who would remember my mom and me when we were much more vigorous. This friend and I were best friends from age two and a half to age nine or 10.

One of my friend's daughters was wearing an adorable sun-dress that my friend used to wear, which her mother had made for her when she was a kid. Sitting with the child while my friend attended to another one in the other room, I felt like I was sitting with my friend again, at her early-childhood size.

"Your mother used to like to play School and she was always the teacher," I told the five-year-old, who was looking up at me through her little glasses -- a brunette version of her mom at that age -- "She tried to teach me Math....It didn't work -- not because your mom was not a good teacher; I was not a good student."

My friend's daughter kept looking at me and I felt like a giant, and was compared to her. "Your mom also taught me to play jacks and Backgammon. Do you know what Backgammon is?"

My friend's daughter showed me a fantastic piece of mica that she had found and I praised it sincerely. My friend and I agreed that both of us enjoyed collecting rocks when we were growing up.

We acknowledged how natural it felt for us to sit with each other and talk; we had seen each other in person maybe twice in our lives, since age 10. I brought up her dad, may his memory be blessed, and a bit about my mom, but not a lot, since we didn't want to upset her daughters by talking about the accident.

My friend's essential face in all its expressiveness was the same, and the easy laughter between us delighted me. My awkwardness at our not having seen each other much as teens or adults caught up with me at the end; as fun an exchange as we had had, where she said she remembered my favorite color and more, I still tripped over imagining how we could sustain the friendship beyond e-mail exchanges after this spontaneous visit. It was so much more fun than e-mail, speaking with her in person.

Maybe I didn't need to worry about how I'd entertain her husband and kids if they came over to our house, and maybe I could let myself be continually natural with her, or maybe the practicalities of our lives would make in-person visits challenging if they were too planned. Simply, I needed to be grateful that she was home earlier today when I called, and welcomed my visit.

Before I was leaving, she said, "One year, for my birthday, you gave me a purple, pink and maroon scarf and I always took it with me wherever I moved. Once, when my father-in-law was visiting us, he was cold, and I let him have the scarf. And he still wears it. And I think of you whenever I see it on him."

The Pesach Generation

The postings on this site are my own and don't necessarily represent IBM's positions, strategies or opinions.

No Longer Just Kids' Stuff

At last night's seder, the kids felt more like fellow conversationalists than ever before. Both of the nine-year-old twins wanted us to know that there was an archaeological discovery at the Red Sea that made it seem as though its parting might really have happened; they didn't name their research source, but it was still fun that they were engaging with the story of the seder in that way.

I loved sitting next to my 15-year-old niece and along with my two sisters, hearing four, and no longer three, similar female voices singing the Pesach tunes. Pat told my sister Deb afterwards, "Just like you've taught your kids the songs, Zoe can teach her kids." Pat was struck and touched, I guess, by the new generation's strong voice.

Lounging on the couch after the seder, I felt like I was a bridge between my generation and the kids'; three out of four of them squeezed onto the couch with me. We talked with them about their preferred presidential candidate and about Art as a more marketable profession than Music -- an assertion by one of my brothers-in-law. Pat named her favorite candidate, "...for exactly the reasons that Zach [our sitar-star, 15-year-old nephew] mentioned."

Homophobia Emerged Like a Bit of Missed Hametz

During dinner, Pat began reminiscing about Zoe as a baby, particularly when Deb brought her to Chicago to visit us when we were living there, and when Zoe was just five months old. Pat recalled a moment when Deb and I went into a 7-11 store and the baby was left in the car with Pat. "She took one look at me and burst into tears," Pat said.

My brother-in-law, I was sure unintentionally insultingly, yet idiotically, blurted, "Yeah, she was thinking, 'Oh, no! I'm going to be raised by lesbians!'"

We didn't confront him because we knew he wasn't being consciously homophobic, but it was always moments like those when I just wanted to tighten the cocoon around Pat and me and not venture into situations, where non-lesbian people could hurt us.

Ironically, my other sister Kathy had led a discussion earlier in the evening on the Biblical passage that appeared in the Pesach Hagaddah, “You shall not oppress the stranger, for you know the soul of the stranger, having been strangers in the land of Egypt.” Exodus 23:9.

Kathy spoke of how meaningful this was to her, since she had worked with immigrants in her role for many years, and how important it was for all of us to respect people, who were different.

Joy and Pain Are Fraternal Twins

Just as I was hurt by my brother-in-law's ill-considered quip, I was pleased by a quick comment his daughter Zoe happened to make during dinner. We were talking about our favorite colors. "Zoe, you used to love pink -- for a little while, anyhow."

"You taught me about pink," she said.

"What do you mean?" I had no recollection.

"I had thought there were only primary colors and you taught me about pink."

Last night, I learned that currently, one of her new, favorite colors is orange. During our drive home, I told Pat, who was happy for me and said, "We never know how we're influencing little kids." When I told Pat that orange was among Zoe's new favorite colors, she said, "Why don't you give Zoe your [coral] Armani gown?"

I'm going to. I wore it once to the GLAAD Awards in Los Angeles, and she'd love it.