Dear Mom,
My hand is shaking as I try to write this letter to you. I found your address, or at least what I believe to be your current address, in an old shoebox that I found in the attic yesterday. I had gone up there just to have a quiet place, to have a place to think about some things. I figured it was quiet and that Dad wouldn’t think to look for me there. I was looking for a place to sit by the window when I saw the shoebox. When I opened it, I found one of the last letters you sent us a few pictures of you. Instantly, I began to think of the mom I never knew nor thought I would ever know. The last time Dad or I have heard from you was five years ago exactly today. I know you left when I was a baby, but I figured you would at least have the minimal decency to keep in contact with us. I mean, we were your family at one point. What happened?
I don't even know why I'm writing to you other than the fact that I am your son and I think you should have some idea as to what I'm doing with my life. Frankly, I don't even care if you simply tear this letter to shreds once you receive it, but deep down I need to know that at least I tried. I like to think that I hold myself to higher standards than you ever did. That was harsh, but I do like to think it's true. I also like to think that I wouldn't leave my family.
Dad's still upset, and I don't know how you feel about that. He hasn't been the same I'm guessing since you left although I was too young to remember the person he was. He’s been quiet, at least for as long as I could remember unless you had a real conversation with him. Then, he has the most wonderful laugh and facial expressions. All of the stoic hardness melted away and he became another person. The only thing is that he’s cried less and less about you over the years. When I was still a little kid, I would find him crying about you. It seemed each memory, even the most subtle, was enough to remind him of you and it would bring on the tears. Years have passed though, you’ve stayed away, and he’s become more private with his feelings about you. Otherwise, he's pretty much stayed the same. Sure, his hair is starting to gray on the edges now and maybe he's just a tad bit wiser, but he really hasn't changed.
We still live in the house, and we keep up on the maintenance pretty well. The siding is still as white as the day it was put on, on account of us cleaning it at the beginning of every spring, summer, fall and winter. A seasonal cleaning, Dad calls it. He says it helps the house keep its charm. We still have your flower and vegetable gardens out back. I tend them every day when I get home from school, regardless of how much homework I have. It's the one thing I do in your memory. I don’t exactly have a green thumb, but I understand the idea that plants need water, sunlight and some attention to survive. I'd like you to know that the rose bushes are blooming beautifully, the tomato plants are quickly ripening and that the zucchini plants-while just flowers right now-look as if they will become a fine component of some hand cooked vegetable lasagna I’m hoping to add an herb section next summer as well. I’ve been slowly expanding the garden since you left and it’s now taking up about a quarter of the space in our backyard. I’m sure that if you saw it now, you’d be proud of what it’s become from the patch of weeds I’d originally found it as when I was six.
But mom, I really have missed you. There's so much I wish I could tell you all at once. I can't believe the idea of writing a letter to you hadn't come sooner. I guess it's a little weird. I mean, no one writes letters or anything anymore. We’re kind of in an age dominated by emotionless messages sent wirelessly through either email; or a massive social networking site. I prefer letters though. They have a more personal feel. It feels more private. Regardless, I wish I could have told you about loosing my first tooth, or about all of the teachers I've had, or about my sixteenth party, or about how I taught myself to play the guitar, or how about I'm a straight A student, or about anything that's gone on in the past twelve years. You’ve missed so much of my life mom. You’ve missed practically everything. But, mom, there's something—well, someone—that I really want to tell you about. Mom, his name is Isaac.
I'm sure you're wondering who Isaac is. Well, if you're still reading that is. However, you probably won’t be able to figure out who he is on your own. No, mom, Isaac is not my little half-brother, or my best friend or my cousin. Mom, Isaac is my boyfriend. And mom, I'm gay. I really hope you don't rip this letter to shreds now that you’ve made it so far into it, or start crying, or any other of those over the top dramatic things that parents allegedly do when their children come out to them. I only see that in books, television shows and movies. I don’t think I believe in that actually happening in a majority of cases. I don’t understand how parents could get so angry with their children. I know all parents might not understand it, but that comes with time. I just want you to accept me, mom. Please. That's one of the main reasons I'm writing this to you. I want you to know this. I needed to tell somebody, and not just anyone. I needed to tell someone whom it mattered to. Who would actually care and maybe listen. You're only the second person I've told. The first person was Isaac, obviously. I'm going to tell Dad, soon, I promise. It's just a little bit more difficult since it's in person and well, he's a guy. I don’t know how he’ll take it. Deep down, I’m scared that he won’t accept me or will never be able to understand it. I’ll do it when I’m ready. I just hope that’s soon. I hate to keep Isaac a secret from him. I always felt I’ve been able to tell him everything. No one else at school knows either, although it's harder and harder to hide. I hate having to act fake in front of everyone else. I hate having to laugh along with their jokes about it, terrified that if I hesitated to even once, they would instantly know. After I tell Dad, I'm going to tell everyone. I'm just a little scared about that right now. I don't want them to hurt me. Kids are brutal.
I'm sorry if you find this first letter to be a little lengthy, but I just have two more things I want you to know about. First of all, you probably want to know when I knew I was gay. Don't be embarrassed about it mom. It's a very natural question to ask. Since you left when I was three, I wasn't exactly aware of it yet. Three isn’t an age where you understand love and passion just yet, even slightly. Once I could actually start remembering things though, I immediately knew I was different. It wasn't one of those cliché things where I had an easy bake oven and I had dreams of being Annie on Broadway or something. It wasn't like that at all. I played sports, watched the games with Dad and loved video games. But when I was around the other guys, I just felt a little bit off. I guess it had a lot to do with the media being very heavily heterosexually dominated. I mean, even in all the cartoons and kid shows you see, the guy always goes for the girl or the girl always goes for the guy. I didn’t understand that concept. It was out of the reach of my understanding.
I didn't know what gay was until I was ten actually. I wasn’t a sheltered child; it just wasn’t something that I’d been exposed to until then. My fifth grade class took a field trip to New York City to go to one of the museums or whatever and we passed through this place called “The Village.” I don’t know if you’re familiar with that slang, but I learned that it is synonymous with Greenwich Village. My friend, Cassidy, and I were sitting behind our teacher, Mrs. Johnson on the bus. It stopped on a red light and I looked out the window, peering around at the crowded shops and bustling businesses. I noticed a small coffee shop where people were walking in and out, holding different sized cups of coffee. There was a rainbow flag outside, flapping in the wind. That was the first time I'd ever seen one. Immediately, being a child and all, I tapped Mrs. Johnson on the shoulder.
“What's that, Mrs. Johnson? That flag, right now there,” I asked, then patiently waited for an answer. I looked at her, anticipating with widely opened eyes. I continued to stare at the flag out the window. I remember thinking that it was very pretty, even prettier than the American flag. I don’t mean to sound disrespectful. I liked the American flag and all back then, but this one was much more colorful and aesthetically pleasing to me.
Mrs. Johnson stayed silent for just a second, thinking how to answer. I could tell she was pondering. She looked out the window, then adjusted her glasses, indicating to me that she was nervous. Mrs. Johnson always adjusted her glasses when she was nervous and didn’t know what to say. Finally, after clearing her throat, she told me in a soft voice, just slightly louder than a whisper, “Elijah, that's a pride flag. It represents the gay community. The rainbow is their symbol. It’s quite common in this part of the city. It’s well-known for being a prominent gay community.”
“Gay community?” I inquired in a perplexed tone, well as perplexed as a ten year old could possibly be. I was ten years old. Never before had I heard the word gay, or at least hearing it directly and trying to comprehend it. I was curious, and once again waited for her to answer. The light changed green and I now looked back, watching the flag flap in the wind. It was long before I noticed that there were many others, all hanging outside of storefronts along the street.
“Yes, Eli. Gay is when boys like other boys and girls like other girls.”
“That happens?” This was earth shattering to me. I suddenly understood. I felt a thousand different emotions at once. I felt happy because I was fairly certain I figured out why I was so different. I felt sad because I didn’t realize this until now. I was confused at why I didn’t hear of it before and I was angry for the same reason.
“Yes,” she laughed nervously again, adjusting her glasses once again, “It does.”
“That's disgusting,” Cassidy blurted out, sticking out her tongue. Her whiny high-pitched tone said simply two words that made my stomach sink. That wasn’t just a normal reaction. I could feel hatred and anger behind it, something I felt I would have to face for the rest of my life. Even then, I could tell it would not be easy. Not even Cassidy, my sweet friend who loved animals and would always try to make someone feel better when they were sad approved of this. Not surprisingly, I didn't talk to her that much after that comment. Actually, I don’t think I talked to her at all after that day. I didn’t tell her why of course; I already knew how she would react. That was okay with me. I understood why the friendship wouldn’t work. I understood why I was different from all of the other boys ever since. I am gay. And from that point on, I was okay with it. It's just who I was, and I tell myself that everyday. Sure, in the world we live in, it’s impossible to have some doubts. How will this affect my getting into some colleges? How will this affect my career? What will everyone think once they know? But, I always try to keep a positive attitude. Sometimes, that’s just the only way.
I also want to tell you about Isaac and me. You obviously haven't seen me in fourteen years, so I just want to remind you of what I look like. Dad said you never did have a good long-term memory and I’m not sure whether or not you have any relatively recent pictures of me. I have very dark black hair. It's not that long, and it's spiky since I gel it every morning. It takes forever, but I love the way it looks. I have your blue eyes since I've compared ours in the few pictures I have of you, and I have Dad's softer rounded face, but not quite as fleshy. Mine's slightly more defined. I'm terribly short, however. I'm barely 5'3” although dad tells me I'll grow more in the next few years. I hope he's right. Isaac, in my opinion, complements me. He's blonde—well dirty blonde—with green eyes. He has a round face too, like mine, and he’s about five or six inches taller than me. Looking at both of us, you would never declare us automatically as being gay teenagers. We’re both fairly masculine and wear normal clothes. Neither of us act overly feminine nor have high pitched voices.
We met at the library about a month ago. I was there to look for a book I was interested in reading. I’m a bit of a classic book junkie, so I was looking for a copy of The Catcher in the Rye. I had heard it was quite an exceptional piece of writing, full of teen angst, longing and all of those wonderful emotions we hormonally charged adolescents experience. I was walking to the shelf when I noticed Isaac poking through the classic shelves. He was immediate eye candy. He was dressed casually, actually more urban styled. His hair was falling in his face as he bent down to look at the books on the lower shelves. Timidly, I walked over to the shelves and tried to look for my book. As soon as I pulled it off the shelves, Isaac looked at me and then said, “That's an excellent book. Let me know if you like it.” I froze for a second, feeling my cheeks immediately blush red. I knew Isaac from a few of my classes, but he seemed like he was quiet, and as a result, I'd never talked to him before. But now I was here, inches away from me, and this very cute guy was talking to me. I responded, “Sure, I'll do that.”
He smiled, “You're Elijah, right? From my science class? I sit behind you.”
He knew who I was too. I stuttered, but continued the conversation. “It's Eli, and yes, you do. You're Isaac.”
“Okay, Eli. Nice to meet you. Well, talk to you. Have you ever read this?” he asked me, turning around the paperback book he was holding. He revealed a very used and beaten copy of A Tale of Two Cities. Charles Dickens. Very well written. Very powerful. An idol for any classic book junkie. I smiled, and told him, “It's one of my favorites. The passion contained those pages is simply phenomenal. Have you read it?”
“Five times,” he smiled, “I don't have my own copy, so I'm just taking it out again.” The conversation continued, as we walked downstairs, checked out our books and walked outside. We just talked and talked. Talked about movies. Talked about history. Talked about each other. We exchanged email addresses and kept in touch. About two weeks later, Isaac told me that he was gay. I smiled, reading the words I'd been hoping to hear since I'd first ran into him at the library. I typed him back two words: Me too. And that was that. That was the beginning. Another week went by with us enjoying simple acceptance. Then, in one note passed to me in science class, Isaac made it complicated once again. His note basically told me I was the cutest boy he ever met, even if I was short. He wanted to know if I'd like to see a movie this weekend. I didn't have to think. I wrote “YES” on the piece of paper and passed it back to him over my shoulder. The teacher gave me a look and I smirked. I'm going out with Isaac on Saturday. I'm nervous. I told dad I was going to see a movie with a few of my friends. IT made me even more nervous that I had to lie to him. I really hope I don't screw this up. I really like Isaac.
Lovingly from your son,
Elijah (Eli) Greene
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