The Big Leap

The Big Leap
Coming Out Stories
By Michael David C. Tan

And then again, ‘You’re not joining your school’s debate team?’

‘I’m too loaded as it is,’ I reasoned.

‘You know you can do better than any of them!’

‘I’m loaded as it is,’ I repeated. I didn’t think he was hearing me.

‘Well, you know you can.’

So, yet again, I had to do better than any of them.

That became the norm. They set the standards, I was just to fulfill them. And how could I not, when they let me be me. And I should be happy for that. At least they acted like they were. And what more can a gay son ask for?

‘Where’s your other son… that gay one?’ my Dad’s drinking buddy asked him once.

‘There,’ was all Dad said, as if not wanting to be drawn into the conversation.

‘Still gay?’ he was asked.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘But that boy may be gay, but he’s a big achiever – the next captain of his school’s volleyball team, a representative to an international inter-schools debating competition, consistent dean’s lister…’

‘At least,’ his buddy said.

‘Yeah, at least,’ Dad said.

There was nothing that they could do about my being gay, indeed. But there apparently was something that can be done about how I was to be gay. I am out. In a way. But in their terms. Completely under control. And I don’t find anything to rejoice in that.

Case No. 5:

‘Are you happy?’ Mom and Dad looked really serious.

‘I am,’ I said. ‘At least I think so, right now.’

‘That’s all that matters,’ Mom said.

‘For as long as you can be responsible for the consequences of what you choose to do,’ Dad added, standing up then, and left with a pat on my shoulder.

That we are our own entities had always been what was imparted to us – a lesson of learning to stand on our own, and knowing we’ll be alright if we can do that.
Not that everybody understands. There was this one time, when my professor flunked me in Religious Studies because I was ‘highly immoral, flaunting my deviant sexuality by reporting to his class wearing make-up and female clothes.’ He told Mom of his objection, but she said that as long as I did well in his class, even if what I wore wasn’t to his liking, then I was doing my part as a student – and a good one at that. So he had to give me a passing mark against his will.

Kunsintidor or lenient. That’s how they refer to our parents. And that’s not too far from the truth, because, indeed, I admit I came from a family that isn’t entirely normal.

Many blame the lack of attention from their parents for their chemical dependence. Or hate their family for not supporting them in their undertakings – ‘And look how I ended up pregnant – without a father to boot!’ Or rush to the counselor because they wanted to choke their parents while they were sleeping for their unreasonable strictness. Or sneak just to hang out with their friends. Or have to tell them they’re not gay because they may be disinherited, or worse, disowned.

We never had to do any of those. So when I told Dad and Mom I’m gay, all they asked was if I was happy with that. And since I was, that was that.
Once, Dad caught me kissing a boy, I was more than embarrassed than he was. And I told him so. More because I didn’t want to think I was abusing their benevolence. ‘Son,’ he solemnly said, ‘you are what you are – and we not only accept that, but love you for that.’

‘I’ll try to be more behaved,’ I said, still uncertain.

‘Don’t sweat on that,’ he kidded. Then, to the guy I was kissing, ‘You staying for dinner?’

I do belong to an “abnormal” family. And I sure am happy I do.

*REPRINTED WITH PERMISSION FROM QUEER SIDE STORIES

		1 \| 2 \| 3