Man Up! (17 page)

I
realized I was gay in the shower one day with Barbra Streisand. It happened while I was lathering, rinsing, and repeating with Pert Plus (the original
multitaske
r—​shampoo and conditioner in one). As I was belting out the chorus to my favorite song from
Funny Girl
, “Oh my man, I love him so, he’ll never know…,” it hit me.

This was during my Barbra Streisand phase in high school. I’ll always love her, but for a few months back then, her songs were on heavy rotation in my head.

On a clear day you can see forever, and on that particular day, just like Barbra Streisand’s flawless voice, everything was crystal clear. It felt like an out-of-body experience as my perspective shifted and I saw myself for what I really was: a boy with impeccably cleaned and conditioned hair singing a stunning Streisand standard about the man who got away. I mean, duh. I can only compare it to staring at one of those Magic Eye posters. You know, those prints with the weird images that look like nothing more than static on an old TV until you manage to focus
just
right and suddenly an image of a dolphin seems to magically reveal itself when you least expect it. At that moment in the shower, I was like, “Oh, now I see…”

Suddenly everything made sense. My mind was racing. “
That’s
why I always wanted Jason Priestley’s home address!
That’s
why I wish I was best friends with Delta Burke from
Designing Women
!
That’s
why I’m not afraid to push the fashion envelope by boldly mixing plaids with stripes! And maybe,
just
maybe,
that’s
why all my sexual fantasies are about men!”

DING DING DING!
Either the microwave popcorn was ready, or I was on to something.

Now, despite being called “gay” and “fag” all my life by bullies and my boss in the spinach fields (remember chapter 1?), I didn’t really comprehend what those words truly meant. To be honest, I’m not sure the kids saying them did, either. These days, if a kid is called gay, they have a friendly familiar face that comes to mind. They can think,
Oh, I’m like Ellen or Rosie or even that funny guy with the voice from
Chelsea Lately
. So
that’s
what gay is.

But, remember, this was a different time—there were no gay people on TV. Well, no
out
gay people at least. And there were certainly no gay role models in my small town, either. As naïve as it sounds, I kind of just didn’t really know what being called gay meant. It was simultaneously mean and meaningless.

But back to my life-changing shower. As I let this epiphany wash over me, my life up to this point flashed before my eyes, like a movie montage after a mind-blowing, totally unexpected plot twist is revealed. Yes, all the puzzle pieces fit: The undeniable gravitational pull I felt toward not only female friends but just about anything considered dramatic or showbiz adjacent, the way certain parts of my young body tingled whenever I watched professional wrestling, and my penchant for adding a generous sprinkling of deliciously sweet golden raisins to my mother’s homemade chicken salad sandwiches (trust me, try it and it’ll rock your world).

Along with the suds that were swirling down the drain, also went any confusion as to why I had always felt slightly different from most everyone, with the possible exception of our town’s premier hairstylist, the confirmed bachelor Mr. Franco.

I was at once a new person, and yet the same person I’d always been, if that makes any sense. It was instinctual, even my DNA was G-A-Y.
People, people who need people, are the luckiest people in the world…
And it just so happened that I needed people with penises. Big whoop.

The moment this shift occurred, I never looked back. I hopped on that gay train and went full steam ahead, right out of the closet! The first person I ever told was my ex-
​girlfriend
, Carrie. She’s the gorgeous gal whose girl groin I had agreed to gobble only a few months earlier. Remember her? The natural blonde who helped to crack open my closet door? Given our history, I felt that I could tell her anything without being judged. After all, she had “opened up” to me.

I revealed everything to her as we sat in my Ford Tempo in the parking lot of Cinema Five after seeing
Spice World: The Spice Girls Movie
. She had dressed up as Baby Spice. That was the one area where Carrie and I disagreed. I was a diehard Ginger Spice fan.

“Carrie, can I tell you something?” I took off my oversized sunglasses and put them in my Spice Girls unisex tote bag.

“Sure.” She tilted her head sweetly. “You can tell me anything.”

I took a deep breath. “I’ve never told anybody this before. Nobody. Not one person. Nobody at all.”

“I know what
nobody
means, Ross. What is it?”

“Okay. The deal is, I think I’m pretty sure that I might possibly be, maybe, totally kind of sort of, well…gay.”

And then? Silence. Why didn’t she gasp? Her face didn’t even change at all. Frankly, this simply wasn’t the dramatic reaction I was expecting.

Maybe she didn’t hear me. “Um, hello? I just told you that I’m gay.”

Finally she spoke. “Yeah, I heard you. Do you have any other breaking news? Like, I don’t know, the sky is blue?”

And then we both burst into a fit of laughter, that wonderful kind of cathartic laughter that comes from a place deep within and makes you feel like a gigantic weight has been lifted off your chest.

Carrie knew I was gay. She’d known for a long time and never brought it up or forced me to talk about it, because she also knew that until I was ready to say it myself, I wouldn’t be ready to hear it from anyone else.

What a feeling! My trusted confidante had increased my confidence and now I was free to be me! I can’t tell you how amazing it felt the first time I saw a good-looking hunk in the mall while walking with Carrie and casually remarked, “Oh, he’s cute!”

To anyone else, it might have seemed like a simple, offhand remark. But to me, it was a free expression of an aspect of myself that I’d never before articulated. It was bigger than big.

Cut to a few years later. I was a well-adjusted college student, out and proud on campus. With my freshman year behind me, I left Los Angeles and headed home to spend the summer at my parents’ house. I felt guilty, like I was hiding something from them, probably because I was. Sure, all my friends knew I was gay, my professors knew I was gay, even the UPS guy knew I was gay, but my parents seemed clueless.

It was totally my fault that they didn’t know. I was scared. I mean, you hear horror stories all the time about kids who are disowned and cast aside like a cashmere sweater with a little snag. Yes, as sad as it is, some parents consider their gay kids defective. Would mine think the same? Would they stop loving me? The bond between a parent and a child is supposed to be the epitome of unconditional love, but if that relationship hinges on not saying one single sentence, then there are, in fact, conditions. Would my parents’ love for me be that fragile? The stakes were just too high.

I weighed my options. I wanted to live my life as an open book, but at what cost? By sharing my true self with the people who meant the most to me, I ran the risk of losing them altogether. But despite the possible worst-case scenario, I felt compelled to open up and let my family know the real me. You see, I had to, or else I wasn’t being true to myself. This quote from Kurt Cobain sums it up perfectly: “I’d rather be hated for who I am, than loved for who I’m not.”

I had faith in my parents. I knew they wouldn’t hate me. But I couldn’t bear the thought of them loving me even a little less after I told them. I was the same exact person right before I said it, while I said it, and after it was said. But would they see me differently?

I remember lying on my mom’s bed as she watched TV, my face buried into a pile of pillows. I kept thinking to myself,
You can do this. You can do this.

Eventually my mom asked me, “Ross, are you all right?”

I’m not a highly emotional person, but before I even started speaking, my eyes were flooded with tears and I began to choke on my words. “Mom, promise you’ll love me no matter what?”

“Oh, my God, sweetie, of course! What’s going on?!?”

“Mom, I’m gay.”

She looked confused. “Honey, I know. You already told me.”

What the fuck was she talking about? “Mom, I never told you that!”

She was insistent. “Are you sure? I could have sworn you told me already.”

“Mother, I would know whether I told you or not! It’s kinda my story and I doubt I’d be freaking out and crying if I had already told you!”

She hugged me. “Oh God, honey. I’ve known since you were three years old! Shit, I don’t care! I love you! We can go to downtown Mount Vernon right now and, swear to God, give me a sign that says, ‘My Son Is Gay and I Love Him,’ and I’ll march up and down that street all night!”

If I was reading this in a book written about somebody else, I’d be rolling my eyes and murmuring, “Bullshit” under my breath right about now, but I swear on my dogs’ lives (so you know I’m serious) that was
exactly
how it happened. I will love her always and always extra for that.

My football-loving, gun-toting dad took a little longer to come around. He was never much for discussing emotions at great length, so instead of a big dramatic scene, he eventually just sort of quietly accepted it. After he died, my mom told me she once overheard him talking to his best friend, another good old boy. She told me his friend asked him, “Is Ross gay?”

Without missing a beat, my dad matter-of-factly answered, “Yep.”

That one-word answer spoke volumes. It’s just one little word with only three letters, but knowing he said it is priceless to me because I knew it was his way of subtly expressing,
Yes, my son is gay and if you have something to say about it, we can take this outside and I’ll kick your judgmental ass from here until next fuckin’ Tuesday.

I know that seems like a lot to read into a simple “Yep,” but I knew my dad and I knew what he meant. So did my mom, and that was why she told me the story.

I know I’m one of the lucky ones. Thank goodness more and more parents are responding this way. But we can’t deny the sad reality that for many, the reactions are very different.

One thing I’ve learned about life is that no one gets through it unscathed. You can’t control much of anything. The only thing you can hope to control is how you react to situations. I’m often asked for advice on how parents and kids should handle these kinds of coming-out scenarios. Personally, I can speak only for the kids. Be yourself and be respectful, but don’t try to change for anyone. Because the truth is, there are some things we can’t change about ourselves, even if we wanted to. And, really, why would you want to? You are not the problem. You are not defective. You are just right.

For parental advice, I defer to the best expert I know: my mom, Gaye. Yes, her name is Gaye. Gaye Mathews. Someone call the irony police. I called her while writing this and asked her the following question: “What advice would you offer the parent of a gay child?”

This was her answer. Please notice two things: (1) how adorably kindhearted she is, and (2) how her answer, even decades after the fact, is solely focused on the happiness and well-being of her son.

“Oh, wow. Well, I just wanted you to know that I was there and I wasn’t surprised. Of course, my main concern was you. My only fear was that you could be hurt. I wanted to go out and fight for you, because I didn’t know what else to do. It’s just a protective instinct that parents have. I’d tell parents this: your job is to protect, support, and love your children no matter what, so just keep doing your job.”

Moms—you’ve got to love ’em, right? And I’ve got a great one. Both my parents set an incredible example for me when it comes to acceptance and love. I’m blessed.

Before we hung up, I thanked her for her kind words of wisdom, reminding her how many people she might possibly help. But she wasn’t finished and continued to elaborate enthusiastically (as she’s known to do). “Having a gay son is fabulous! Everybody should have one. Ross, it’s like you totally
get
me, you know? There’s that special connection. Who else takes me to brunch and shopping and pedicures? And you always tell me the truth, even when I look like shit.”

As my dad would’ve said, “Yep.”

I
’ve been looking forward to retirement for as long as I can remember. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not at all fed up with the workforce. On the contrary, I love what I get to do for a living. It’s just that I can’t wait to be an active senior citizen. Why? Because I think I’ll be better at it than I have been at everything else in my entire life. If I’m anything, I’m a man built for grandkids, early-bird specials, and a personalized golf cart.

I have my retirement all planned out. I can’t wait to sit on my lanai in a wicker chair (by the way, I always picture my retirement fantasies in the house from
The Golden Girls
) and reflect on my life. I’ll have a wonderful, leathery tan and a long, silver ponytail even if I’m balding on top. Yes, I’ll be
that
guy.

I’ll also, for the record, insist on wearing only kimonos, turquoise jewelry, and slip-on orthopedic shoes at all times. I’ll smell like rose oil mixed with Vicks VapoRub, and I’ll live in my adopted hometown, the desert oasis known as Palm Springs. To make ends meet, I’ll perform at a club I’ll own called the Silver Fox Lounge, where I’ll captivate the audience with old Hollywood stories from back in the day about when I hobnobbed with showbiz legends like Screech and Snooki. The adoring crowd of retirees will request that I sing old standards like the Spice Girls’ classic “2 Become 1,” and I’ll close every show with my moving rendition of Christina Aguilera’s “Beautiful.” I don’t promise to always remember the words to
every
song, but I guarantee it’ll be as fabulous as it is elderly.

Most important, as I celebrate my golden years and wait to bask in the glory of that big lanai in the sky, I hope to reflect back and be proud of the life I’ve lived, from Balloon Day to this book and beyond. I want my kids and grandkids to know that every time I was scared of being mocked or put down or worried that I couldn’t do something, I manned up and did it anyway.

This is how I define
man up
: you are what you are, and the sooner you stop hating what makes you unique and start celebrating it and using it to make you stand out from the crowd, the better your life will be. For some unknown reason, I was lucky enough to figure that out at an early age.

Not to be a total cheese ball, but I truly wish the same for you. And with any luck, maybe we’ll run into each other in Palm Springs one day. You won’t be able to miss me—I’ll be the fabulously tan old man with a white wine spritzer, a lapdog, and a gigantic smile on my face…assuming, of course, I’m still physically capable of smiling after the facelift.