Most parents of homosexuals, being heterosexual themselves, don’t plan on having homosexual children, and so how they handle such a surprise will vary, depending on several factors such as education and temperament. My own relationship with my heterosexual parents was remarkable enough that I think it to be worth sharing, but it will be more understandable if I give you an idea of what Mama and Papa were like.

First of all, they achieved a happy marriage, in that when the romantic passion waned, as it inevitably must, they settled into an easygoing but mutually respectful friendship. A loving relationship with a lot of laughter. This kind of relationship was also shared with my older brother and sister, as well as with me after I arrived in 1932.

According to my parents, children were to be treated as much as possible like miniature adults, figuring, I suppose, that we would grow up faster that way. For example, at age seven or eight it was explained to me in simple and understandable terms why we were New Deal Democrats, and why Franklin Delano Roosevelt was the greatest man who ever lived. (Years later, somebody pointed out that perhaps only Jesus deserved that honor. “That’s all fine and dandy,” Papa answered, “but F.D.R. got things done for poor people.”)

So I knew early on where babies come from, but the fact that some people were not interested in making babies was somehow overlooked. Not avoided, just overlooked.

Music was an important part of family life. Everyone was expected to do something musical. As for me, I was a reasonably good organist, certainly the best in White Deer, Texas (population 733). Hardly fabulous, but as G.B. Shaw once wrote, “in the land of the deaf, the one-eared is king.” However, in my second year of high school, I started studying the harp, encouraged by my father. You see, the harp is the Irish national instrument, and Papa loved singing Irish songs and wanted an appropriate accompaniment. (And as far as the kids were concerned, when Papa had an idea, it was automatically a good one.) In any case, I fell in love with the harp and would eventually make a career of it.

Largely self-educated, Mama and Papa were indefatigable and omnivorous readers, resulting in a broader weltanschauung than that of the neighbors. Moreover, religion was of little or no interest, making them appear somewhat wondrous and strange to a community that consisted mainly of committed Catholics or Southern Baptists. (Although Mama would go to whatever church she thought had the best music. Papa didn’t bother, having had, some years before, a head-on collision with the Nicene Creed.)

But most importantly to me, they were my confidants, and I shared every part of my life with them without thinking it in any way unusual. This made my life very trouble-free until the onset of puberty when I discovered that the other guys were starting to moon around a lot about some girl or other, an activity that held no interest for me.

Fortunately, I was smart enough, and had read enough to know what this meant. Among my reading was a pulp magazine of the day called “Sexology,” which I was daring enough to buy off the magazine rack at the drug store, and which furnished some information about homosexuality. Also amazingly enough, the high school library had a copy of Tchaikovski’s autobiography which contained some sexual information of more than routine interest.

Now it’s all very well to know at age 14 that you’re gay, but quite another to find out how it works. Physically, I mean. I was, in short, a child looking for a molester. At age 16 I found one, or rather, he found me. He thought he had to get me drunk in order to mess with my waterworks, when actually all he needed to do was lay his hand on my knee. But he didn’t know that. He also probably didn’t know that I had never touched alcohol before, which accounted for my throwing up all over the place at the end of the evening. (Happily, the seduction was nicely out of the way before I got the queasies.)

Shortly after that I discovered the modest gay community in Amarillo, about 40 miles distant. This included my first visit to a gay bar. It took the better part of an hour for me to screw my courage to the sticking place in order to walk through the door. Once inside, however, I was home free. Underage? Certainly. But they were happy to bend the rules if you were young and pretty.

From the very beginning I knew that to be gay was to be something very special and wonderful. And during my lifetime I have found nothing whatever to disabuse me of that notion.

It’s hard to imagine anything more thrilling than discovering one’s sexuality. It’s almost more than the teenage mind can handle, and I was bursting to share the good news with the world. But as far as Texas in 1947 was concerned, it took no brains to figure that the exciting news about my newly realized sexual orientation would get a reception colder than a stepmother’s kiss.

And naturally, I was apprehensive about my parents. As far as I could recall, homosexuality had never been discussed and I had no idea what their real feelings were. But I felt it dishonest to conceal what was so important to me. Moreover, in my family secretiveness was thought to be selfish, and therefore, bad form. It also raised the suspicion that you have something ugly to hide.

All this being so, I decided to brave it, beginning with Mama. One hot summer evening over our iced tea I deliberately led the conversation in the appropriate direction. Then with my heart in my mouth, I told her. My approach was understandably tentative.

“Mama,” I said, “I think I may be a homosexual.”

“Well of course you are, my dear,” she responded. “Papa and I figured that out a long time ago.”

To this day I sometimes speculate on what their earlier discussions had been like. “Charlie,” Mama might have begun, “I don’t think we can look to Sammy to supply us with anything in the way of grandchildren.” Or maybe more succinctly—“Charlie, I think we’ve got a flamer on our hands.”

In later years I have wondered if perhaps they weren’t somewhat pleased in having added a homosexual to the family, hoping perhaps for another Wilde or Humboldt maybe. Or more probably Roger Casement, the Irish patriot, who was one of Papa’s particular heroes. (Later, after I grew a beard, Papa said I looked like him. I didn’t.)

I had two remaining years of high school before going away to college, and those last years at home were really remarkable. My parents were supportive in every possible way. Papa did have one regret, but he never voiced it until many years later when he was dying. He confessed that he always thought it a pity that I had no children to bring me the kind of joy that we had brought to him. I also suspect that a grandson had been on his want list, but if so it was never mentioned, at least not to me. (In any case my brother happily remedied that deficiency before Papa died.)

On the other hand, my mother turned out to be full of practical advice. For instance, what to do when suspicions arose, as they were sure to do since I had never shown any interest in girls. (On top of that, I played the harp, for crying out loud.) “Ignore them, hold your head up and admit nothing,” Mama said. “Rumors die fast if they have no fuel.” And so they do.

“You owe it to yourself,” she said, “to look as good as possible at all times.. You never know who you’ll meet.”

Mama also had some rather earthy pointers about behavior. “If you want a peaceful life, live without calling public attention to yourself. One wants some attention, of course, but try not to stand out like rat shit in the sugar bowl.” (Mama had, by the way, a great store of such pithy metaphors, similes and timely sayings. Another example, speaking of a distant cousin whose business dealings were not entirely aboveboard—“He’s richer than a radio evangelist, you know.”)

But perhaps her most valuable piece of advice concerned my search for a “partner,” as she called it. “Sammy,” she said, “if you want an honest, decent, courageous, and caring man, then you must be all of those things yourself. Opposites may attract, but the attraction is brief.” (Naturally I thought it wouldn’t hurt if he were also movie-star gorgeous.)

But my greatest good fortune was that at no time, ever, was I made to feel guilt. Being gay wasn’t a sin. It was in no way reprehensible because it was “just the way things are.” This gave me a great defense against the guilt that society was anxious to impose. My parent’s unconditional love was my armor against a homophobic world.

One of the most tragic things imaginable is the family that regards the homosexual child as some sort of vermin, bringing shame upon them all. The real shame is, of course, the family that exhibits such an unnatural lack of love. Love is, after all, what it’s all about, and as Confucius noted 2,500 years ago, the love of humanity begins at home, starting with the family.

So how did my story turn out? Looking back over the 60-plus years since my little conversation with Mama over the iced tea, I can truthfully say that I really did strive to be the man I wanted to attract. And after relationships both long (eight years) and short (half an hour, maybe?), I finally found the man I was looking for. Jesse was an honest, decent, caring, courageous man of integrity, gentle but not weak, who was absolutely and totally devoted to me and my interests. And did I mention movie-star gorgeous? For one thing, he had been a gymnast and had a killer body, all packaged in the beautiful clear skin that only Latinos seem to achieve. I’ll spare you any further description—just imagine beautiful. I’m sorry Mama and Papa didn’t live long enough to meet him. They would have applauded my good taste, and I do so adore applause.

Jesse himself has been dead now for nearly 20 years, but is still very much in my thoughts. Not in a morbid way, but as a collection of really beautiful memories that bring me a lot of quiet joy. Happiness is illusive, but contentment can be achieved. Today, when I meet young people who are looking for their special companion, I can only hope they do half as well as I. I say half as well, because while many men are gems, very few are precious ones.

Come to think of it, the same is true of parents.

So, like a kitten falling into cream, I had the best of everything. Given the time and place, my parents were an aberration. But as America goes through the process of becoming better educated about homosexuality, hopefully parents like mine will become less exceptional. And perhaps in time even commonplace. I hope so.

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Photo Credits: June, 1940 Marion Post Wolcott, Cajun children of Terrebonne, a Farm Security Administration project, Schriever, La.