Why do we cry when our children come out and tell us their secret?

I suspect we shed some tears of grief, some tears of shock, and many tears because we know that the world today is not quite ready to treat our gay sons and daughters fairly. We cry because we know their lives will be even harder than they otherwise might be. We cry because we know there are those who would harm our flesh and joy just because they are who they are. We cry because their lives, their plight, their lot is out of our hands. We cry because we cannot protect them from the injustice we fear they will know. We cry – and then we dry our tears.

They are our children. We love them. We resolve to be there for them. We kiss and hug them and then we go back to our lives, our jobs. So I dried my tears and went back to work and no one knew my secret. I was a teacher then, helping young people learn. I worked for a hunger relief organization, helping others, total strangers, to eat.

And I loved my son and I walked around with the gnawing pain of knowing how others would so harshly judge him – not on his character, not on his intellect or talent, not on his humanity – but by whom he might love. Sometimes the pain made me writhe in my sleep. Sometimes the discomfort was overwhelming. But I went back to my life (my job, my husband).

Monday mornings at work I could talk freely with my colleagues about my weekend – a simple pleasure I knew my son would be denied. On my desk a picture of my family – another simple joy probably not there for my son. And every morning before leaving for work there was the newspaper. I read and re-read every article about gay issues. Mostly they added to my anguish – gay rights equated with special rights, policies like “don’t ask, don’t tell,” and gay bashing. It all seemed so ludicrous to me.

Straight people have no such restrictions on their speech and no fear of harassment for holding hands in pubic places – more simple joys denied to my son. Pain heals with time I thought. But I was wrong. Every time I kissed my husband “so long” at the airport, a sign flashed in my head: DENIED TO MY SON. Each time I said “I love you” to my husband from my office phone, the sign blinked: DENIED TO MY SON. Each time we take a walking holding hands, that same sign screams: DENIED TO MY SON. The pain and frustration, thought less immediate now, grows as my awareness grows.

I’ve learned a lot from my gay son – lessons of immeasurable worth. I’ve learned about dignity, courage, and truth. I’ve flung the doors open. My son is not a secret. He is just who he is. I am proud of him and I love him. I volunteer for PFLAG. I want my son to know the simple joys that I have know. I want to leave this world a better place for him. That will be my greatest simple joy.

I know now that what is is not what it should be. I know that oppression can only survive through silence. I will not be silenced. I am empowered and PFLAG has given my single voice volume to be heard.

My anguish has turned to energy and the discomfort transformed into decision. I have dried my eyes. The tears have turned into triumph fortified with the knowledge that I can make a difference. I sleep well at night now.

Please join me and help give all our children, sons, and daughters, brothers, and sisters, friends, and colleagues, the same simple joys you’ve known all your lives.

--Reprinted from PFLAG Fresno Newsletter.