Memoir Final Draft

The kitchen is warm in every way. The sun is shining through our window, highlighting my mom’s oak brown hair. There’s a pot of chicken broth on the stove, chicken and onions boiling in it. I see her hands cutting up dumplings, delicate and precise. Her hands are covered in flour, but I could still see their history. I could see the same care that she gave to me as an infant in the way that she handles the dumplings, treating them with a gentleness, an underlying protection as well. She cares for them. She cares for me.

Ever since I was little, I was different from the other boys who seemed to know this inherent difference just as much as I did. There was one day during second grade when I sat down with the girls during recess to draw dresses instead of play soccer or football with the boys. One boy, Colton, took the responsibility to make sure that I knew that sitting with girls was weird and “too gay.” He got all the boys to make fun of me that day, and it stuck for a really long time.

These comments were ruining the picture of school for me, but my mom was there. Always. She would always tell me to never pay attention to those who said those mean things. She told me, my hands in hers, “People can’t stand it when someone dares to be special, and God made you special.”

At night, I would put on my sister’s night gowns to dance around the house. I laughed and my smile was always wide. My mother was my mirror. When I smiled, she smiled. When I cried, she cried. She was my rock. I could always depend on her to be on my side, one hundred percent of the time, for certain. I was always baffled by that, and I always wondered how long it would last. Every mother wants their son to be nice and strong. And I was. But not in the same way like most boys.

“Jakie, you wanna pull apart the chicken for me?” I’m brought out of my daze. I cross the kitchen to come to my mother’s side, stepping over our black lab. He looked at me and I at him, his eyes looked worried. He could probably tell that there was something going on in my head. He always reflected the emotion in the room.

I was in fourth grade when we got him, that little black ball of fur that would turn out to be my lifelong companion. He was in a group of little black lab pups, running around among his siblings. They were all obviously adorable, but Pheonix came right towards me and sat in my lap for a nap. I was sold. I had to go home to convince my parents before I could adopt him, but I remembered which one he was due to his little white streak on his chest. He was special. He had an innate difference like me. I loved that about him. He knew that I was gay. We just had this connection where I never had to tell him anything, and he just knew. He always knew. And I think he was okay with it. Dogs are some of the most accepting creatures on earth. All they want in life is to be loved. That’s all I want in life too.

I reach down to scratch that white stripe that isn’t so little anymore before going over to the counter to join my mom. As I’m shredding chicken with my fingers, the warmth in the kitchen becomes more evident. I feel the blood rushing to my face with the help of my increased heart rate. My chest pounds. My heart wants to come out of my chest. It demands to be released. It’s tired of living in hiding, and it wants to be out of my ribs. My heart forces my mouth to move, “Mom, can I talk to you about something?”

I think she always had a feeling that this conversation would come up. Even then, it made my sexuality no easier to talk about. The thing with coming out is that a person seeks acceptance through the acceptance of others, and it is often why gay men are so fragile in the moments during and after their coming out experience. I wasn’t trying to give my mother new information; in fact, I was simply trying to explicitly see if someone could love me the way I am.

She responds, “Of course, honey,” with her gentle smile, placing dumplings into the pot. I gulp, tears well in my eyes. I see a flash of the impossible, of my mother hating me for my innate perversion, seeing not her son but an abomination of man. We never make another batch of chicken and dumplings. I never see her warm smile again. My dog barks at me, motivating me to do what he knows I need to do. He’s crying. My dog is crying. I’m crying. I can’t breathe. I can’t do this. She’s looking at me now, seeing my deterioration. I am a dumpling, and I’m boiling. I feel like I’m going to explode.

And she places her hand on mine. She doesn’t take this feeling away completely, but she does it enough for me to croak out that cliché phrase that I hate saying. “I’m gay” and I even hate writing it now four years later. I feel nothing, it all releases, and I weep. My mother, a 5’6″ woman, takes her 5’10” son and all his 160lbs in her arms. I couldn’t stand, but my mother caught me. She always catches me. I feel nothing more than love and appreciation. And warmth.

Our relationship was never the same after I came out to her. She’s treated me differently ever since, and I couldn’t be more grateful for that. There is no longer this layer of myself that I have to hide out of fear of being found. We were happier because I finally shared who I truly am with the only person in the world that knows me better than I know myself.

So here it seems a bit more reflection would help. Did you think she was accepting of your nature as a young boy, but then as you grew up you began to wonder if she’d suddenly expect you to change and become “Superman” testosterone + ? Explain what you’re thinking here (reflective narration – your inner thoughts

And tell us how if this was okay with him? The thing about dogs is that they really do not define us by gender. Wouldn’t it be cool if people thought about things more the way dogs do? Here you can pontificate on this a bit. It’s worthwhile!