Wordless Wednesday – No words, just pictures. Allow your photo(s) to tell the story.
Spring 1950
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I hesitated several times as I approached the front door of my mother’s house. How was she going to react when she saw me for the first time since I announced in a letter to her that I was gay?
You can choose your friends, but you can’t choose your family.
After ringing the doorbell, her footsteps seemed to take forever to reach the front door. It was as if life had gone into slow motion, making me wait even longer to find out her reaction.
“Why did it take you so long to tell me?” were her first words as she flung her arms around me. “The kettle’s on, and I’ve got your favourite biscuits in,” she started to sob.
I’d been expecting a completely different reaction, expecting to be on the next train back to London, but ended up staying a few days.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” she asked as I took my first sip of tea. “When can I meet him? I’ve always wanted to go to a gay bar. I hear they’re so much fun and much safer than the bars around here where women get hit upon all the time.”
“Mum!” I said astoundingly.
I couldn’t quite believe that my mother was treating me as if she’d known I was gay all my life. She probably had, but the fact that nothing had changed was a welcome relief. Her love for me was as evident as it always had been. I crossed my fingers and wished and hoped that all my family would react like my mother did.
“Have you told Phil?” I asked.
Phil was my stepfather, and the way my mother was acting, I doubted she had told him.
“Oh, yes,” she announced. “He can’t wait to see you. He’ll be home in about an hour.”
But not all my family were like Mum and my stepfather.
September 1987
‘Your mother has told me’ were the first words after ‘Dear Hugh.’
From there, the letter I’d opened went downhill quickly.
‘People like us are not homosexual or gay or whatever you want to call it. Nobody here is homosexual. You don’t belong here anymore. It’s not the sort of thing that happens to men in our family or area…’
I couldn’t bring myself to read anymore. I tore the letter up and threw it away.
How could a member of my family say that? Thank goodness I was living and working in London. But I was concerned that the letter writer had my address. My mother had probably given it to him. Should I tell her what he’d written? I felt that the family member who had written the letter had just blown my family apart. It brought me down to earth with a painful bump!
But it didn’t end there. A few weeks later, another grim situation hurtling towards me at a hundred miles per hour finally caught up with me. But this one was different. It was a silent rejection where nothing was said. But the reaction to me coming out as gay contained all the words that told me what was about to happen.
It would be over 30 years before I saw or said anything to my father again. Not even a surprise visit from two of my aunts (his sisters) some months later could heal the division, although, to be fair, I don’t think they really understood the whole picture.
Sadly, that was the last I saw of one of my aunts. She passed away before my father accepted the situation of who I was and not who he wanted me to be.
The other aunt was more tolerant when I visited her for the first time after reuniting with my father. However, there was no mention of me being gay. Not even the partner I’d been with for over 20 years was mentioned. But during other visits, things gradually came to the surface.
“Isn’t it about time I met John?” she asked. “I’d have thought he would have wanted to meet me by now.”
Crosswires came to my mind. I hadn’t wanted to push things. While all my aunt was doing was wanting me to take the lead in introducing her to my life. We both ended up laughing about it.
Days before she passed away, she’d tearfully told me how hurt she had been by not being allowed to stay in touch with me for all those years. ‘I couldn’t take sides,’ she told me. I never found out what she meant by that.
The one I had to allow to get away
My grandmother was the family member I thought would be the most accepting of my coming out. But, sadly, I never got to tell her. Life had dealt her the dementia card, and I didn’t feel it was right to tell her, even when she was in the early stages of this horrible illness.
Ever since I can remember, I felt she was looking after me and guiding me. Even after she died in 1994, I continue to feel her presence (not something I’ve felt with anyone else). I guess being her first grandchild has something to do with it.
Directions and decisions
After visiting my mother in May 1987, visits home became less frequent. Unfortunately, most of the family had not reacted kindly to me being gay, and I had decided that the best thing I could do was to keep away from those who were upset by the life that I was proud and thankful for. In turn, I accepted that I had to allow them to live their lives as they wanted.
As the years passed, I regained contact with some of those family members who had not accepted me and, thankfully, had the changing face of society and the improvement in attitudes towards gay people to thank for bringing us back together. It was tough, but I was thankful that things were changing and that my family accepted me for who I was.
Other family members
The fact that, in the past, there had been other male members of the family who had never married never seemed to raise any suspicions that our family could have had gay people as a part of it. It may have been talked about, but never while I was in the room.
“Isn’t it obvious that there must be gay people in all families?” I’d once asked an aunt. She only nodded her head and would quickly change the subject.
I doubt if any of those bachelor male family members ever ‘came out.’ It would have been difficult at the times they lived. I was thankful that attitudes towards the LGBT society were changing. Plus, of course, it was no longer a crime to be a gay man.
This made me more determined to live my life how I wanted to, not how others wanted me to. Family or no family, I was who I was.
Notes from the author.
‘You can choose your friends, but you can’t choose your family.’ I hear this quote often and always tell myself it whenever I find myself outside of the family circle.
I’d always been independent, which helped me get through the parts of my life where I had little contact with other family members. During these times, friends and even work colleagues were my new family.
Fortunately, I was never short of friends. Most people seemed to take a liking to me, and I never worried about those that didn’t. Just as those who had not accepted me as gay, it was their loss, not mine.
I was lucky. I always had friends I could turn to when I needed them. Talking always helps and has always got me through difficult times.
Today, I am lucky and thankful to be surrounded by family I know care and love me very much. And while many of those family members who rejected me when I first came out as gay have since left this world, I forgave them for the directions they took. Things were different back then.
But thank goodness that things for the LGBTQI community in the majority of the world have improved and are much different today. Family, though, that’s a different matter.
There is an abundance of support available for the LGBTQ+ community. One fantastic resource in the UK is the Gay Switchboard, where individuals can seek assistance and guidance. They can be reached by phone at 0800 0119 100 or by email at hello@switchboard.lgbt.
Please feel free to share support details for LGBTQI people in other countries in the comments section. Let’s spread positivity and acceptance together!
Next month: – Friends. I always found it easy to make friends and developed many friendships over the years. Some were great fun, while others led me to situations I’d never thought could have happened.
In the 1970s, I faced discrimination in my first job for being gay. Progressing to a more accepting workplace in the 1980s, I finally came out openly to colleagues. But even today, despite the changing times, fear and discrimination still persist in the workplace.
June 13, 2023, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less), write a story about fathers in general or a specific father. You can use different names — Papa, Daddy, Fabio. What is significant about a father? Write a homage, rant, comedy, tragedy, or anything in between. Go where the prompt leads! See ‘June 13: Story Challenge in 99-words‘ for more details.
The Fatherhood War – by Hugh W. Roberts
In a whirlwind of chaos, a father attempted to conquer the art of nappy changing.
Armed with wipes and a nappy that seemed to defy logic, he engaged in an epic battle against a giggling, wiggling baby. Hilariously mismatched socks were his battle armour, and a superhero cape decked his shoulders.
As he bravely dodged tiny feet, the father’s face turned into comical distortions. With a triumphant cry, he emerged victorious, the nappy expertly secured.
But, alas, victory was short-lived, for a naughty giggle signalled an incoming surprise attack. In the war of fatherhood, laughter was the ultimate weapon.
Written for the 99-word flash fiction challenge hosted by Charli Mills at the Carrot Ranch.
Flash Fiction Friday
***
Enjoyed this piece of flash fiction? Then you’ll love ‘Glimpses.’
Glimpses
Glimpses
28 short stories and pieces of flash fiction take the reader on a rollercoaster of twists and turns.
I probably talk or think about death more often than others.
I don’t talk about sex as much as I do death, but is that a problem when entering the autumn years of your life?
Many people I know don’t like talking about death. Do you? Many don’t enjoy discussing sex but is it easier to talk about than death?
Is it odd or natural to think and talk about death and sex simultaneously? You tell me.
Which one do you feel most comfortable discussing?
Once upon a time, sex was a subject people didn’t like talking about. I’m going back to my early years here when sex was a hush-hush subject, almost taboo.
There was little information available about sex while I was growing up. The reaction I once got from my elders when I asked, ‘where do babies come from because I know the stork doesn’t bring them?‘ was like watching the faces of those watching the gory scene in a horror movie. ‘Is it something about a man and a woman solving a puzzle?‘ I went on to ask.
When I asked those questions, I got looks of shock, horror and embarrassment. My grandmother walked out of the room while my mother and father tried to change the subject quickly.
Lockdown talk
During the lockdown, my partner and I talked about death. But it was only while updating our wills. We couldn’t get past the point where we would talk about our deaths and what we wanted to happen when that time came. ‘We’ll talk about that another day,’ I told myself, yet death can come to any of us anytime. Can you imagine the problems we cause by not talking to each other about death?
Although nobody likes talking about death, we read, write and watch it happening in books, on television, in theatres and cinemas. It seems natural when reading, writing or watching it, but when talking about our deaths or the death of somebody we know, there comes the point where I hope somebody else will take the lead, and the subject will quickly change.
Why am I talking about death?
I have written about death here, but the truth is that what I call the otherside of death (where the person dying is not me) is approaching; it becomes a subject we can’t avoid. I have an aunt who is nearing the end of her life.
At 95 years old, some say my aunt has had an excellent innings. She loved life, but she wouldn’t like the life she is now living. I think I followed her for the love she had for life. However, she has spent what is left of her life in a hospital bed for the last three months. Her final words to me before she went into a deep sleep were, ‘I want to go home.’
I can relate to how she feels. Whenever I have been ill and not at home, I’ve always wanted to go home. If we allow it, being in familiar surroundings can help. Well, it always works for me. But does it help when nearing our final days?
As she faded in and out of consciousness, my aunt reacted to some voices in her hospital room yet ignored others. I wondered if she could choose which voices she wanted to respond to and which she chose to ignore? Does she have any control over what she hears while her life slips away?
Why do some people die quicker than others?
Truth be known, I wouldn’t say I like watching my aunt’s death being so drawn-out. The family all agree that she’d hate to be at the point she is – having to live the drawing out of the last days of her life in a deep sleep in a hospital bed. ‘There’s nothing else we can do for her except keep her comfortable,’ the medical staff tell us. ‘But keep talking to her because hearing is the last sense to go.‘
Really? Is hearing the last thing the dying sense? How can they possibly know? Have some of these staff lived previous lives, or has somebody who has left this world told them that’s what happens? It seems odd to say. I can not work out how they know.
When my father died in October 2020, his death was swift. He died within 24 hours of being taken ill. There were no weeks of being unconscious in a hospital bed. Yet when my mother died in September 2015, she took many weeks to die after we were told there was nothing else they could do. Why do some people die quickly, yet others seem to take weeks, months or years to pass?
Are those who have long-drawn-out deaths having to pay for what they may have done during their lives, or is there something or someone who has overall control over how long it takes for us to die? Do some linger because there is some unsettled business to attend to, or do we have no power over how long it takes to take that final breath?
Where do we go just before we die?
Years ago, I believed there was a waiting room we entered when dying. We sat there waiting for our name to be called before going through another door that took us on our next journey. Some remained longer in that waiting room than others. But while we wait, we are occasionally permitted to briefly go back through the first door to check what is happening in the world we are leaving. Perhaps we’re not quite ready to go because we’re waiting for somebody to come and say goodbye?
I’ve often asked myself why my mother took so long to pass away. Did she not want to go, or was she told she had to wait her turn? In life, we queue. Do we have to queue to die?
When we die, are we leaving behind those still alive, or do the living leave us behind?
I probably talk or think about death more often than others. Many people I know don’t like talking about it. How often do you talk about death?
Perhaps I should have talked more about sex? But would anyone have wanted to discuss it with me?
What are your thoughts on why we dislike discussing death or sex?
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One of the biggest regrets of my life is that I never sat down with my mother and told her that I am gay. I chose, instead, the easy option of writing to her and telling her that I was a homosexual.
Facing Mum for the first time after writing that letter, I felt very nervous as I travelled to her home. I hesitated several times before walking up to the front door, ringing the doorbell, and announcing my arrival.
What a shock I got when she came towards me with open arms and, as she gave me one of her wonderful hugs, heard her whisper, “I always knew, I don’t know why it took you so long to tell me.”
Me and mum. Taken sometime in the 1980s, just after I had told her I was gay.
Not all my family was like mum, though. Some told me they were having difficulty accepting what I was because it wasn’t the sort of thing that happened to men in the area we came from. Hurtful words, but I already knew that the best thing I could do was to keep away from those who were upset by the life I was given, and let them live their lives as they wanted.
Over the years, I regained contact with some of those family members and, thankfully, have the changing face of society to thank for bringing us back together.
The fact that, in the past, there had been a few other men in the family who had never married never seemed to raise any suspicions that the family included gay people. It may have been discussed, but never while I was in the room.
I don’t know if any of those men ever ‘came out.’ Probably not, but it must have been tough for those who were gay when they lived. This made me more determined to live my life as I wanted and not as others expected me to.
Moving to live and work in London in 1986 was one of the most important decisions I’ve ever made. Although the city acted like a wall that seemed to shield gay people, I was still struggling to ‘come out.’
It was a strange situation because the first two jobs I took in London were in industries where other openly gay people worked.
When I took my next job, which would last 23 years, it took me six years to come out, and that was only when I heard the words “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?” Of course, nobody cared that I was gay, yet for all those years I had been terrified of what some of my work colleagues would think about me had I ‘come out’ of the closet.
Fast forward to today, and being gay is widely accepted by much of society. Or is it?
When we moved to our current home in South Wales, both my partner and I felt a little hesitant about whether people would accept us. There are fewer residents here than in the area where we had lived for over 30 years. We were returning to that place where I’d been told that ‘being gay didn’t happen.’ We could not have been more wrong!
People have been so welcoming, and we’re as much a part of the community as anyone else. Strange, though, is that every now and again, when I meet somebody for the first time and am asked who the other guy who walks our dogs is, I find myself hesitating before saying, “He’s my partner.”
Maybe some of the scars from our past never heal?
Swansea Bay. A 5-minute walk from our new home.
All photos in this post belong to me, Hugh W. Roberts
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