humans are funny

Category: gay dad

  • People who live in glass houses should not have pencil mustaches

    In Catholicism, the choosing of a baby’s godparents is a big deal. In case the child is ever orphaned, those godparents take over. They must be carefully inspected because their lifestyles have to match that of the parents. They should be close friends or relatives who can be trusted with the emergency upbringing of a child. In most families, they do not have to kill anybody or put horse heads in anyone’s bed.

    Since my dad was an atheist, I am pretty sure he didn’t take this task of searching for the perfect substitute parents very seriously.

    He asked a dude from his office.

    This was 1980 and he worked for IBM, so I’m sure there was some excited water cooler talk between the two of them. (The eighties did have great water coolers.) I don’t doubt he got to know this man well. They probably made fun of Carol in accounting and maybe expensed some lunches together. But godfather? Man who might possibly have to raise his daughter one day?

    If it was a joke on the whole idea of baptism, the guy still said yes! He probably leaned over the cardboard wall of his cubicle, uttered some quip about MS-DOS or staplers, and then agreed to take me in if my parents ever died. He went to the baptism. He poured water on my little head, and BAM– godfather. His job description also said he must pretend to care about my drawings and recitals and just kind of ‘spot’ me until my parents died.

    The plan was working.

    And then my dad came out of the closet.

    Suddenly, this sideliner of mine wanted nothing to do with me. I wonder what his thought process was at the time? “That girl might grow up to be a gross lesbian, so I take back everything I said when I splashed water on her at the church.” Or perhaps “Jim’s a fag and he’s gonna try to stick his dick in me. I better run. Help!” (Please note that the below picture proves this was absolutely NOT a legitimate fear.)

    Whatever his fears, he decided he no longer wanted the duty of being my substitute parent. I’m not sure how it affected the talk around the old water cooler, but I’m thinking it was awkward. I’m thinking Carol from accounting did some whispering from her cubicle about my dad. “How could Jim be a homo?” she surely asked. Homosexuality was still considered a mental disorder back then, so I can’t blame them for wondering. I just hope some of them were whispering about my deadbeat goddad as well.

    I never really knew the man since he deserted his duties when I was only three. I’ve wished for a substitute father just a few times. Like when I went to buy my first car and cried throughout the entire process (It’s not that I’m emotionally unstable. The salesmen were peeling onions that day.) I have always at least wondered who the guy was and how he could REALLY be that scared of associating himself with a friend who turned out to be gay.

    And now my mom found a picture of him after all these years:

    That’s the judgemental guy?
    Him?

    I’m slightly relieved this man wasn’t in my life. And also more angry with my father for choosing him. A pipe and a pencil mustache? Really? Come on! A PIPE? What if I grew up with a god-oedipus complex and learned to think that pencil mustaches were attractive?! I already have a problem with my attraction to men like my actual father (unemployed depressed Latinos). Thank the lord I didn’t have that pencil mustache in the mix. And this guy looks boring. His wife can’t even keep her eyes open when they’re together. I’m thinking it’s probably better that he and his hatred weren’t in my life.

    But I’m wondering (if he’s not already dead) how he’s dealing with all the legalized gay marriages and the greater acceptance of homosexuality. Are you freaking out, man? By the looks of this picture, I sort of have a feeling you either spend your days complaining about squirrels or you, yourself, are actually married to a man. I just have a feeling. I’d love to know. If anyone knows this man, come forth! I swear I won’t be mad and give you shit about my abandonment issues. Swear. If you still have a pencil mustache, I might be a little scared. But not mad.

    Note: I am aware that judging one based on his style of facial hair is just as evil as judging one based on his sexual preference. However, let’s all be honest: a pencil mustache is much, much worse.

  • The truth will set us free. And also make us mad for not knowing it beforehand.

    “What you don’t know doesn’t hurt you.” That’s what they say. I think they should amend this to “What you don’t know doesn’t hurt you until you find out what it is that you haven’t been knowing.”
    Maybe I’m not the best one to go around amending quotations.
    “To err is human. And also something everyone does.”
    “To be or not to be. That is the question a lot of people ask when they’re high.”

    Well, whatever. The first one is in definite need of amendment even though they said it and they are always right. But they haven’t been singing Janet Jackson’s ‘Rhythm Nation’ on a bus full of Girl Scouts when the entire troop turns around and laughs.
    What I didn’t know was that the lyrics happen to be ‘We are a part of a Rhythm Nation’ instead of ‘We are a part of a big erection.’
    Oh.

    I didn’t know the truth.
    I’d seen the cassette cover, but my ears heard what they heard.
    I’m still not sure that, at eight years old, I really understood everything about erections. All I did know was that Janet and her crew of hot ladies got into some warehouse and wore slutty costumes while they sweat and danced in order to give some mysterious guy a huge erection.
    I mean, it actually does make sense.
    And if that’s what you know, then it’s what you know. Until you learn something different.

    Sometimes you imagine something to be a certain way. And so it is. And it’s not until you venture out that you learn what’s really ‘true.’ Like to a new school. Or a friend’s house. That’s where I had one of my other very early revelations: Melissa’s house. In my abode, I learned that it’s normal to head on to bed without underwear. I just figured it was something people did the world over. It was a truth. Just like the big erection. Just like: all kids eat frozen fish sticks, dads only visit on weekends, and being on a diet is a natural part of being a mother.

    But at Melissa’s house, the truths were flipped. Her mom drank regular Coke, her dad lived in her house all week long, she had no fish sticks in sight, and when I woke up on top of the sleeping bag in the living room with my T-shirt flipped to expose my tiny vagina and her brother staring at me from the hallway, I felt like something was amiss.

    That’s when I figured that some things I learned to be true just aren’t. Not everyone in the world sleeps with their crotches to the sky. And if they do, they don’t do it during slumber parties.
    And there was another truth that was staring at me and I didn’t even see it. Well, I saw it. I just didn’t see it because it didn’t go along with the truth I learned. Like many people, I learned that men like women and women like men and that’s how it is. So I just thought my dad had a really good friend with whom he lived and shared a bed. Yes, they cooked together. Yes, their hands occasionally brushed over one another at the dinner table. But they were just friends because I was six and had NO idea that the truth I learned about love wasn’t the only one. This went on for years. Because if you learn something one way, it’s so so hard to convince your mind there really is another way. Not even leather vests or rainbow flags can give it away.

    Nope. Seriously didn’t know. Even after professional portrait time.
    (I’m the one with inappropriate headband use)
    (note: aren’t gay dads cute?)

    The truth is right in front of us, but our brains won’t allow us to see it. I think this is what M. Night Shyamalan has been trying to teach us for years. I think we got it with that one movie though. Hey Shyamalan, We’re good. We get it.

    What else are we not seeing before our eyes? What about Earth? First we learned it was flat. Then we learned it was round. Really, it’s a piece of debris in a large abandoned warehouse in some universe that none of us can comprehend. Some weird alien types filmed a music video there, gave some guy a huge erection, and accidentally dropped Earth in the corner. And all we self-important humans are just flecks of dust on this neglected warehouse Earth. The sun is really a neon light that flicks on by timer in a neighboring warehouse. Since Earth is so small, our time goes by more quickly while it’s really been only a few weeks in the other realm. And there’s a sign up on the wall in this abandoned warehouse that says ‘demolition 2012.’ The Mayans saw it, and simply put it in their calendar. So in actuality, they aren’t super smart. They just have really great vision.

    I’m feeling Twilight-ish series potential in this story.
    Shyamalan: this could be your new thing.

    The good news is that, if we try hard enough, we can control our minds to believe whatever ‘truth’ we wish, and so I’m suggesting we all decide to believe that we’re happy. And that the moment we die everything becomes super fun. Oh, and can we finally all believe that everyone is equal? Please? Let’s all just believe in those truths together, and life will be grand. Oh, and that Laurenne is really skinny and has very clear skin and is always right. Definite truths. Start believing RIGHT NOW.

    Ok, off to go ride a unicorn. It’s not a Toyota Scion. I truly believe it’s a unicorn.

  • Dead Dad Part 2: acceptance, leftovers, and magic wands


    This week was shocking. So many friends and strangers and bloggers and dads reached out to me to let me know how much they related to my Fathers Day tribute. Or how much they cried. Or how much it made them feel (It’s here if you haven’t seen it).
    And hearing all this is really the most wonderful thing to hear. Knowing that my words have moved someone to tears is astounding. And unreal. And feels so fucking good. That’s really my life’s goal– to make people feel something.

    But I have a confession to make. I feel an obligation to tell you that that post took me 14 years to write. Not literally. I wasn’t sitting at a desk for fourteen years with a pen poised over paper. Then you would have probably never met me, and I would either be really fat or malnourished. But writing that piece required that I accept everything about my dad, which took a while. Accepting everything about someone is like inviting everyone on the entire street to your party. And being okay with the homeless people who show up and raid your vegetable crisper. You have to truly accept things that you may not like. Or things that scare you. And the hardest part is that you have to admit to yourself that your way is not the only way. TOUGH stuff. For me, it’s easier with dead people. I have yet to accept any boyfriend without requesting minor changes in personality and character. Yes, honey, I swear I love you but really you should be more motivated and also like the things I like.

    Parents are even harder to accept. You have an idea of who you want them to be, and when they don’t turn out like that, you have to just swallow it. I didn’t imagine my dad would be gay. But I accepted it. And just when things were cool, he up and committed suicide. Great. Hadn’t imagined that either.
    I gotta hand it to him– the man was an ace at surprises.

    When someone commits suicide, your entire perception of him is stained. Every good memory is accompanied by flashes of death or guilt or panic. For a long time, I would see a size 15 New Balance sneaker, and I would remember my father. And I would smile. And then immediately my brain’s channel would flip to him dead on his bed waiting for someone to find him. And then I’d undoubtedly remember his neighbor saying that he only knew my father was upstairs decomposing after he’d cleaned out his refrigerator and realized that the horrible odor was indeed not Korean leftovers. Yep, my decomposing father smelled like old kimchi.
    It’s gross. And perhaps horrifying. So I was positive those good memories were stained forever.
    I thought his goodness was gone. I thought I could never get the good back without a slap in the face with the bad.

    And then 14 years went by.
    And it’s finally happened. I’m at the point where I can imagine his brown slippers and see only 3-year-old me pretending they were boats. And then smile. And then move on.
    Only now can I listen to tapes of him playing the piano and simply remember his long fingers and how they swept across the keys like magic wands.

    14 years is so long. So so long. It could have been sooner. All I had to do was make the choice.
    But it’s hard to make that choice when you don’t understand there’s a choice to be made.
    My dad had a choice. He had life right there asking him to decide. He could have said ‘This is hard, but I’m learning how to get through it.’ Instead he said, ‘This sucks. I’m outtee.’

    Life’s all about those decisions. I have been choosing for years to say, ‘I grew up with a dead dad. That sucks. Whatever. I’m not going to think about it.’ And now I’m finally choosing to say, ‘This gives me a different perspective, and I’m going to learn what I can.’

    Once I made that decision, things became clearer. I figured out that my pops was just a man. Like any other man. He had problems and fears and traumas and delights. And he spent his life winging it. Just like all of us do. We’re guessing right now. And that’s all we can do. In 1996, he felt hopeless and helpless. And he guessed wrong. He made the only kind of mistake from which he couldn’t learn. Before, I used to wonder what he was thinking in those minutes before death, completely conscious about his decision and his imminent demise. Did he think about me? Did it take long? Was he gasping for air? Was he thrashing around? Did he change his mind? Did he regret it? Did he regret anything? Did he wonder if he’d left the iron on? Did he know he’d end up smelling like Korean leftovers?

    I’ll never know. But I have finally decided that I don’t need to know. I know that he was great when he was great. And I don’t need to spend any more time asking questions I can’t answer. Questions nobody can answer.
    I have chosen to finally move on. To finally forgive this man and see him as just that: A man. A man who made a mistake. A man who would undoubtedly take back that mistake. A man who would be here with me right now if he could.

    That’s why that tribute was so important to me. And that it means so much that other people got something from my years of work. 14 years in the making. 14 years to this moment where I can finally see our picture together and remember only the man whose feet I climbed onto. The guy who would dance me around the living room. That was my dad. That guy. That’s the guy I miss. That’s the guy who made everyone feel. Thanks again, Pops. You’re still teaching me lessons every day.

    Now… on to the difficult task of accepting the people who are alive.

    Me: Dad, I can’t believe you let Mom cut my hair this short. It’s hideous.
    Dad: You look fine. I’m the one with this horrible beard. It really itches.
    Me: Your beard is great. And those glasses. Just wait til 2010, and you’ll fit in with the hipsters in LA.
    Dad: Nah, I think I’ll head out in 1996 instead.
    Me: All righty then. It’s been fun. I shall remember this time we had together. Peace out.

  • A day for all fathers. Even dead ones.




    People with dead dads don’t usually love Fathers’ Day. It sort of says loudly, ‘Hey! Look at how everyone has a dad except you!’ However, since ads for toolboxes and necktie sales are blowing up, we might as well take the day to remember our dads and acknowledge them even if they’re not around.

    I especially would like to pay homage to my pops, the weirdest and coolest dad I ever had. Here ya go, Daddy-O:

    As a three-year-old, I thought you were a giant. I could sit in your size fifteen slippers. And when you came to pick me up at pre-school, I would wait for the top of your head to bob around the glass above the lockers. You were the tallest dad, and of that I was proud.

    You had the driest sense of humor. I barely understood you back then, but now I think we’d crack each other up. Now I’d get your jokes. I wish you were here to discuss the state of Saturday Night Live. And politics. I bet we’d have drinks until late and laugh, laugh, laugh.

    You always loved a nice scotch. And after a few, there was no doubt I’d find you sleeping in a chaise at any given family party. You had a snore like nobody I’ve ever known. Silent yet never unnoticed.

    I bet if you were alive, I would call you up and ask you to read the newspaper in an accent. You should have made a living out of your impersonations. You could imitate any stereotypical twang, from ‘ghetto black dude’ to ‘Harvard scholar’ to ‘Indian 7-ll owner.’ I can’t believe you didn’t harness that. Or maybe if you had, someone would have shot you.

    I think by now I would have persuaded you to go on Jeopardy. You were considered a genius by Mensa standards, and I’m sure you could have won us millions of quarters from Alex Trebek. By now I would have appreciated your intelligence. Back then I just thought you talked too much. But seriously, Dad. I asked you if unicorns existed and you spent two hours talking about all the different horse species and where the myth of the unicorn came from. Thanks, though.

    You know what else you were good at? Wrapping presents. I used to think divorce was the way to go because of the silent competition between you and my mom on who would give better gifts. Yours always looked like they were wrapped by fairies. Ha. HA!
    That just came out on accident. I wasn’t purposely calling you a fairy.
    But let’s get that out in the open.
    You were gay.
    How cool is that? I love that you were gay. I love the fact that you had the courage to say it and live it. I’m so proud that you didn’t stifle yourself, even if it meant divorce.

    Unlike many at the time, I thought nothing less of you. You were my dad. That’s it. My big and tall gay dad. I know you knew I supported you. I know you knew I stood proudly in the audience watching you sing in the Chicago Gay Men’s Chorus. I really was proud. I wish I had made that more clear.
    But I was thirteen. I didn’t really know how to talk about my feelings so much. Now I’m much better. I bet now we would have long conversations about how it felt to finally be your real self or your first experiences frolicking with men. I would love to know.

    But thirteen was bad timing for me. I was insecure, ugly, and trying my hardest with padded bras to be popular. ‘Faggot’ was the most common insult in junior high. So I told you to tone it down when you came to the suburbs to watch me lead cheers.

    This has been one of my only regrets. You built up so much courage to let your real self out after so many years, and here I was asking you to put it back in once in a while for the sake of my popularity.

    I sometimes close my eyes and wish that had never happened. But time never lets me change it. If it did, I’d have completely erased the whole Hammer pants trend (You, by the way, were the first to tell me that those were out of style and that I should stop doing my bangs. You were right! Sorry I didn’t listen. You were gay; I should have known.).

    Now that I see this whole life thing from a different point of you, I would have treated the entire situation differently. I would have told you every day how proud I was of you for finally shedding the weight of your lifelong secret. I would have talked to you about everything. I would have asked more questions and given more hugs. I would have screamed to all the cheerleaders that I had the hippest, coolest, gayest dad around. I would have made shirts that said MY DAD IS A FAGGOT AND I LOVE HIM. I would have gotten NBC news to do a story on us and how cool we were together. I would have bought us matching earrings. I would have made all my clothes out of rainbow flags and worn them every day.

    But I didn’t. So I’m doing it now.

    I’m saying it here: Dad, I’m grateful that you ever existed. And that you were a bizarre quirky soul. You were silly and neurotic and cynical and hilarious. And I learned from each and every little piece of you. And I keep learning from the short time I got to experience life with you. Because you are half of me, and I happen to really like that half. I wish you were here so I could hug you harder than ever and tell you that you mean a lot to me. And tell you that I accept you just as you are. And wear your shoes.

    James R Sala, original hipster 1948-1996