the shubaduh

by Trisha DiFazio

“Here’s why I think you’re gay,” Aunt Mar says to me from her wheelchair, holding up three arthritic fingers. Oh my god, is she about to count off?

“Number one,” she says, a lone crooked finger in the air. Yup, she’s counting. I want to slip through the couch cushions and fall out of the bottom of her assisted living facility. As I brace for impact, I think of all the coming outs I have done before this moment — some good, some bad, and some ugly.

I think about the first person I ever told, my best friend Toni. We had been friends since we were in second grade, we played softball together for years (spoiler alert). I played third base and she played first. I would fire the ball in her general vicinity and somehow, someway, Toni always managed to catch my wild throws. She always saved me. I wanted to tell her when we were 14, smoking her dad’s cigars at Bulger Park (we watched A Bronx Tale a lot). I would say, “Remind me to tell you something in 10 years.” Then she would beg me to tell her, but I wouldn’t budge. 

“10 years,” I would say. 

“You’re weird,” she would reply and we would go back to puffing on our stoggies like real debutants. 

Later in our teens, whenever we would be driving around town smoking cigarettes, or sneaking beers, or falling asleep at a sleepover, I would say it again “Remind me to tell you something in 10 years.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” she would say through her headgear.

I always thought that if I did eventually tell her my secret, I wanted her to know that it had always been there. I wanted her to know how much it had been on my mind, how heavily it weighed on me. 

Over the next few years, I would say it to her a hundred times. Then one snowy night, I just couldn’t keep it in anymore. We were sitting in my blue Mercury Cougar listening to our favorite song, “California Dreamin” and I started to cry. Toni was worried. Tears welled up in her eyes, the way a best friend can match your emotion without even having to know why.

“What happened? Are you OK? Did someone do something? I‘ll kill them. Who was it?”

“No, I’m ok. I’m going to tell you that thing that I said I was going to tell you in 10 years.”

Her eyes widened, she steadied herself for the news.

“I have been saying this to you since we were 14 because I wanted you to know how much I have thought about it. And I didn’t tell you because I was scared you will think differently of me when you find out that…that…” I started to hyperventilate and I couldn’t get the words out. Also, I’m dramatic.

“You’re what? What?” she asked.

“I’m gay.” I said, sobbing.

“You’re gay?”

I nodded my head. I could see the wheels turning in her mind. She was trying to figure out what she could do, or say, to show me that she loved and accepted me completely. She looked down at her hands and then did something that surprised us both – SHE GRABBED ME BY THE BOOBS. 

Now, we were both crying as she cupped my B cups in her hands and screamed in my face, “This is how much I love you! This is how much I don’t care!”

And there I was, a third baseman getting to second base with a first baseman. I felt the weight of years of worry and dread evaporate. I threw a wild ball and Toni saved me again. Eventually, I had to ask Toni to remove her hands from my breasts as she had forgotten during the conversation that followed. Also, Toni deserves an award from PFLAG.

“Number one,” I zone back in on Aunt Mar’s finger. “You’ve never had a boyfriend. You did go to a lot of dances, but I have never seen the same fella more than once.” Damn, Aunt Mar are you keeping a log?

“Number two,” she is not pausing for feedback. “You played a lot of sports.” 

“Aunt Mar!” I say in protest, but before I can make my objection, she is already on to her third finger.

“And number three,” she says, looking at me as her tone softens. “I think you would be afraid to tell me because…you think I won’t love you as much. But I want you to know that I love you no matter what.”

Cue the floodgates as a biblical amount of tears burst forth from my tear ducts. Again, the drama.  I am 30 years old. Aunt Mar is the last important person in my life to tell.

“It’s true. I am. I’m sorry I lied.” I wail. Aunt Mar, not a crier, suggests we go outside  and get some air. I push all 91 years of Aunt Mar out onto her patio and I crawl all 5 feet 9 inches of me on top of her and curl up on her lap.

She holds me as I cry.

“Do you have someone?” She asks. I nod, half-forgetting that my girlfriend was waiting in the car reading a book this entire visit. “She’s in the car. Want to meet her?” 

“Well sure, bring her on up!” Aunt Mar declares.

And then Aunt Mar met Karen, the girl who would be my wife. We talked and laughed and Aunt Mar told her favorite stories about me when I was a little girl.

Aunt Mar will pass away a few months later in that same apartment with her family surrounding her. I will be there, holding her hand for her last breath. 

As for Toni, my ride-or-die, she continues her work as a freelance coming out doula. She offers a sliding scale and gentle touch.

This year for Pride, I celebrate all the allies, the people who make it safe for us to be who we are. Thank you for your love.