My parents arrived for Thanksgiving with my sister in tow and, as a special surprise to me, my grandmother.
Cindy confided to me that Grammy had warned her that the folks at home would be burning crosses on her
lawn when they found out about me, and that if they could not change my mind with this visit I would be cut
out of the family will. I guess she had come to take part in a gay intervention. I hoped the rest of them had
slightly less aggressive agendas.I found them at their Santa Monica hotel the afternoon of their arrival, and I decided to walk them down the Third Street Promenade. It was a perfect, blue-sky L.A. day. After fifteen minutes of strolling, we picked an Italian place that had a table available outside. We-everyone but Grammy, who wasn't ready to face me yet-sat silently and looked over the menu. The waiter came, we ordered, and when the menus had been collected, the conversation turned to the weather and how the local teams had been faring in football. I could tell the "topic of interest" was being politely ignored, and I gathered my strength. It was time to throw down.
"So, Dad," I began. He was sitting directly across the table. "I guess we should talk about me being gay."
Silence. We all sort of tried to look at one another. Clearly everyone was surprised by my outburst.
Dad had not expected to be challenged in such a manner, and I could tell Cindy was looking away, perhaps to stifle a laugh. I looked desperately toward her for support. She looked at my father.
He said, "Well, Jay, all I have to say is: if you're going to do that, you might as well kill somebody."
I think my sister's bread fell out of her mouth.
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