elegantwaste's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- fathers and gayness Walking up to the door of my building from the Pride parade, wearing fishnet, a shirt that says "i do bad things", cool pants with a rainbow belt, and gay-themed buttons all over my bag, and with two friends dressed in equivalent clothes, I saw my dad waiting for me. (My dad, by the way, is the only person in the world I'm in the closet to. Because I have issues with my dad, big ones, and the thought that he wouldn't accept me anymore -- and really? he wouldn't -- breaks my heart. I can't do that yet, even if it means that he doesn't know who I am, even if it means lying sometimes.) My dad lives a 2 hour ferry trip away, so I don't see him all that often. But he passes through town on his way to his other house in Manitoba semi-often. And whenever he does, he catches me at the worst times. New Years Eve, 2001: My girlfriend has just made a giant bowl of very potent punch which us and two other friends have been sampling during the creation process. The door rings: I think it's a friend arriving for the giant party I am hosting that night. My dad is there, with his 75-year old girlfriend. Well, one of them. We ended up offering them punch, which they drank. Berle, the lady, got so drunk that she couldn't get up out of the la-Z-boy and was collapsing into giggles, and telling stories about how she used to pick up boys when she was our age, and warning us against this. This she told to four lesbians. My dad shimmied, and asked if we had boys coming. As soon as the door clicked behind them, we DIED laughing. It was one of the funniest things. February, 2002: it's 11 in the morning, my girlfriend and I have just woken up. Still in bed together. The bell rings, it's my dad, with two lady friends this time. And then every time he visited since last summer, my girlfriend has been here. Enough so that he asked after her yesterday. He even asked "is she still a friend", which she is so I said "yeah," but, y'know. ouch. And he must know, but he doesn't. Not even with my rainbow, my own admission that we had just returned from the parade ("the gay parade?" he asked), and the constant present of butch women and no mention of even one boyfriend in the four years I've been here. He wrote me a cheque, though -- a cheque that is substantial. An amount of money that would allow me to go to NY for a little while. And pay off my credit cards. Eeeek. 10:28 p.m. - 2002-08-05 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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