I NEED to stop talking about myself for just a bit.
I’m tired of thinking about me.
Wouldn’t you be?
So let me tell you what was going on with my parents.
While all that was going on with me, Mom and Dad were going through their own stuff.
Brought on by me of course. So when you get down to it, there really is no way for me to totally stop talking about myself, at least in a way.
Here’s the thing.
Mom and Dad really wanted to be good parents. To be involved and interested and all that stuff. They were the kind of parents who really wanted to be friends with their kid.
Especially since I was their only one. Mom had a couple of miscarriages after having me, so I think they, and Mom in particular, held on to me all the harder.
And being their only son, and wanting to be my friend, to them, meant sharing my secrets. And what plans I had for my life.
But most of all they wanted, while at the same time really didn’t want, me to tell them about that night.
Not out of any need to hear all the details or anything like that. They wanted to know so they could help me. So they could make me feel better. And make themselves feel better for being such good caring liberal-type parents.
I wasn’t having it.
It’s not like I don’t love them; I do. They’re my parents. And they are, when it comes down to it and as much as I hate to admit it sometimes, good parents. Maybe even better than good.
But I didn’t want to talk about it with anybody, much less them. And the more they asked or suggested or hinted or gave me that look, the more I resisted and closed down.
So I put up a wall. A couple of walls. A couple of walls and a moat. A couple of walls and a moat filled with alligators and flesh-eating piranhas. I wasn’t about to let them anywhere near me like that. Or give them the satisfaction of breaking me down.
I could and would, I decided, handle it myself. Obviously I wasn’t doing that great a job yet, but I was working on it. I just needed to try harder, I’d tell myself.
And so, since I wouldn’t let Mom do her mom thing with me, no matter how hard she tried (and believe me, she tried), she went looking for somebody who would.
If she couldn’t help me, if she couldn’t get me to share my life and secrets with her, she’d find someone else who would.
She started volunteering once or twice a week at a local support group for LGBTQ teens held at the LGBT center not too far from here.
I’ve got to say, she loved it. She loved everything about it.
And each and every night when she came home, she couldn’t stop talking about it.
She loved being able to be a mom to other gay and lesbian and bi and trans kids. She loved leading group discussions. She loved talking to the kids one-on-one.
She loved it that they turned to her for advice. Or just for someone to hear their stories.
I was sorry I couldn’t do the same for her. But at the same time not sorry.
At dinner one night she told us about a kid whose parents had kicked her out of the house when they learned she had a girlfriend.
Another night she told us about one kid who had been terrified to tell his very religious parents he was gay and was surprised when they told him they knew that, they had always known, and that God made him the way he was and they loved him and always would.
I wished I could believe that Nate’s mom would have been the same, but I don’t think she would have been.
Ever.
She told us about one kid whose school wouldn’t let him bring his boyfriend to the prom. And another kid in another district who was allowed, even encouraged, to bring his date to the prom, where they were named prom king and king.
I couldn’t even begin to imagine that. At other schools, yes. At mine, not a chance.
But, as Mom told me pointedly, so much of anyone’s experiences are the luck of the draw. “Some parents aren’t so accepting as others,” she said, giving me the look.
“I know, Mom, I know,” I said.
What else could I say?
“I’d like you to do me a favor,” she said. “Would you once, just this once, come with me to the support group?”
“Mom, I can’t.”
“Yes, Collin… you can. There’s a young man there around your age. He and his friends were walking home from a party last week, and some other kids jumped them. Was it because they were gay? The police don’t think so, but Jeremy has convinced himself that that’s why.
“As you’d say, he’s having issues, and I want you to be there for our next meeting. He’s reluctant to talk about it—sound like anyone you know?—but I think having you there might help him open up.
“Would you do it, please. For me?”
With the look she gave me, her eyes tired but insistent, I knew the “please” was meaningless. I was going to be there, no questions asked.
And so I went.
And as much as I hate to admit it, I’m kind of glad I did.
There were already close to twenty kids when we got there, guys and girls and a few undecided or unsure or somewhere in between, from all over the area.
People smiled when they saw Mom walk in, which was kind of cool. And when they saw me walk in, I could hear gasps of breath from a bunch of the kids. Then they stared.
And then the strangest and coolest thing happened.
They started clapping. And kept clapping. For me. Like I was a hero or something.
Or like I’d done something amazing.
Then it hit me. I had survived. And for them, worried about what their lives would be, what their lives could be like, that was enough.
If I could survive that night, they knew they could survive as well.
So I smiled. Really smiled for the first time in what seemed like a very long time.
Maybe even since that night.
I could feel my face turning red. I looked at Mom, who smiled at me with what looked like tears in her eyes and a look that said see? I told you it would be all right.
Everyone pulled their chairs into a circle. I sat next to Mom and listened, just listened.
Aaron talked about a guy he liked, but he didn’t know how to find out if the guy liked him back. Or if the guy was even gay.
Michelle talked about breaking up with her girlfriend because she found out she was also dating a guy.
Mark and Ken talked about their relationship, and how Mark’s dad had a harder time that he was dating a black guy than the fact that he was dating a guy at all.
Kendra talked about how to handle guys who see her holding hands with her girlfriend, Rachel, and ask wouldn’t she really prefer a man?
Zeke asked about the chances of getting infected with HIV if he didn’t play safe only once, and whether PrEP was the way to go.
And on and on, gay kids asking the same questions about their relationships as straight ones.
Since I’d never been in a relationship or even been in love or even gone on a date, it was totally cool to hear.
And as it kept going, Mom was there. Answering questions, asking questions, being a mom to kids who weren’t her own. It kind of made me wish she wasn’t my mom so she could be my support group mom. If that makes any sense.
Finally Jeremy, the kid who had gotten beat up on the street the previous week, spoke.
There were still a few bruises on his face and a couple of cuts that hadn’t quite healed, but what I saw right away was his bruised expression. It was kind of the same face I saw when I looked in the mirror, a sadness and fear and sense of knowing behind his eyes that was, to me at least, unmistakable.
It was almost like looking in a mirror.
He told us how he and a few friends were walking home from a party when it happened. Three guys rushed up and just started in on them—punching and shoving, and then, when they were on the ground, kicking them over and over again. It happened in a matter of moments. The guys never said a word. And it was over before they knew it.
Nobody was badly hurt, but Jeremy was still afraid. Afraid to even leave the house except to go to school and back.
He knew being afraid didn’t make sense. He told the group that he knew what happened was totally random. That it was like being hit by lightning or something. But he was still afraid.
He could still hear the silence of the guys doing the beating, a silence filled only with the sounds of him and his friends pleading for them to stop. The shuffle of shoes. The thud when a kick hit its mark. The sudden intake of breath.
I didn’t know what to say. As he told us what happened, I knew deep down what he had gone through. And what he was going through. I looked at Mom for some direction.
But Mom knew exactly what to say. Or do.
She stood up and walked over to Jeremy. And hugged him. Hugged him tight.
She told him that he was strong, that he had survived it, and that proved he could survive anything.
With that, he started sobbing, like it was the first time since the attack.
Like it was the first time he had let himself do so.
He cried and cried, and Mom hugged and hugged and wouldn’t let him go.
When he stopped and then she stopped, it felt like something had changed. That he had released something from inside him.
And he knew it. Mom knew it. Everyone there knew it.
He looked at me and smiled. I smiled back.
And wondered, being as self-involved and self-centered as I am, when it would be my turn to feel better.
Or if I ever would.