just so that i might inevitably arrive. and
my father. but it was the 1960s. five
whole years. i was an easy birth, as she
recalls. the arrival of the twins (my
brothers) and my sister nearly killed her,
and these facts were oft repeated in the
small house in which i spent most of my
first seventeen years. when i began to
earn enough to live comfortably—a too
short era which i intensely miss—i would,
once a year or two, get my mother an air
line ticket to visit me in san francisco. it
became a tradition that i sincerely miss.
on what i believe was the first of those
trips, as we were halfway up the last
block of mason on a trek to the top of
nob hill, within the shadows of grace
cathedral, she burst into tears out of
the blue, and confessed that it was
her fault that i was gay. i laughed a
bit at first, and listened to her tell
of reading about a study of how an
above average number of kids who
came into the world after receiving
one of the treatments she had gone
through had turned out to be gay.
through her tears she kept saying
‘it’s my fault. it’s my fault.’ all i
could be was grateful for the treat
ment that had potentially given
her a gay son. and i told her so,
repeatedly, said i was very happy
and even proud of the person she’d
brought into the world, and could
not imagine being any other way.
and it’s true. while nothing i said
that afternoon seemed to comfort
my mother on the subject, i kept
telling her that if my being gay
had anything to do with any of
the medical fertility treatments
then i owe her even more grati
tude than ever. i kept saying
various iterations of ‘if so, then
thank you.’ that after all was
said and done, and the tears
were dry, she remained sad,
as if she’d created a monster,
as if being gay were a mortal
sin, a malady; that she’d not
be swayed, at least on that
one day so many years ago,
saddened me. but it does
remain just as true that it
does not matter at all to
me why i fall for the type
of humans that i do, i
certainly would not want
it any other way. and i
often send out thoughts—
as i do right this very
moment—of gratitude to
whatever tinctures and
procedures my parents
endured that landed me
here.
on what i believe was the first of those
trips, as we were halfway up the last
block of mason on a trek to the top of
nob hill, within the shadows of grace
cathedral, she burst into tears out of
the blue, and confessed that it was
her fault that i was gay. i laughed a
bit at first, and listened to her tell
of reading about a study of how an
above average number of kids who
came into the world after receiving
one of the treatments she had gone
through had turned out to be gay.
through her tears she kept saying
‘it’s my fault. it’s my fault.’ all i
could be was grateful for the treat
ment that had potentially given
her a gay son. and i told her so,
repeatedly, said i was very happy
and even proud of the person she’d
brought into the world, and could
not imagine being any other way.
and it’s true. while nothing i said
that afternoon seemed to comfort
my mother on the subject, i kept
telling her that if my being gay
had anything to do with any of
the medical fertility treatments
then i owe her even more grati
tude than ever. i kept saying
various iterations of ‘if so, then
thank you.’ that after all was
said and done, and the tears
were dry, she remained sad,
as if she’d created a monster,
as if being gay were a mortal
sin, a malady; that she’d not
be swayed, at least on that
one day so many years ago,
saddened me. but it does
remain just as true that it
does not matter at all to
me why i fall for the type
of humans that i do, i
certainly would not want
it any other way. and i
often send out thoughts—
as i do right this very
moment—of gratitude to
whatever tinctures and
procedures my parents
endured that landed me
here.
