humans are funny

Category: gay parents

  • 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.

  • 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