Friday was a me-holiday. The sort of very special holiday that only I celebrate. It's even more personal than a birthday, because on birthdays other people usually celebrate with me.
I did nothing special for the day. I went to work as usual, I had a slice of re-heated pizza for lunch. But it was definitely a holiday all the same. Well, more of an...anniversary, really.
Nine years since I came out to my mom. October 11, 1993. My junior year in high school. I had been planning what I was going to say for weeks.
Me: Mom. Did you know that, um. Some people think of today as a kind of. Holiday?
Mom (distracted by paying bills): Yeah, it's Columbus Day, why?
Me (completely taken aback and unprepared for the Columbus-Day revelation): Um. I mean, that's not the one I meant. I meant that some people celebrate. Um. It's National Coming Out Day. So I thought this would be a good day to tell you that. I'm gay.
After which, of course, her head snaps up, her eyes narrow, and she asks that question I've heard repeated in so many coming-out-stories: "What? How do you know?"
The aftermath of my pronouncement, besides me running away to play rehearsal (ha!), included my godfather/psych professor at a local community college (who I'd seen once in my life) coming over to ask me what it was, exactly, about men that I found attractive, and whether I was interested in oral sex, anal sex, or if I had actually considered vaginal sex. While my mother glared at me from the couch next to me. (In later years, I have often wondered why he was so very very interested in my sexual appetites. Seems a bit...overly prurient, no? Oh, and have I mentioned that he was a 45-year-old bachelor who liked showtunes?)
My mom also spent a good amount of time drinking a lot margaritas and panicking at my friend's mother, whom she had never previously met. My friend, B, had come out to her mom a few months before, and when my mom was not busy blaming her for somehow contaminating me (how does that work, again?), she was using her mom as a kleenex.
All this hysteria only lasted a week or two. I came home from rehearsal very late one night (I had been spending extra time away from home to avoid any additional, painful interrogations) to find a brand new Fiske Guide to Colleges sitting on top of the stairs, along with a note saying, "Sorry I've been weird." It was not brought up again for several years, at which point my mom stopped in the middle of hanging a picture to look at me and say, "If you get sick, I'll kill you." It got dropped again, and only recently are casual mentions of boyfriends being acknowledged by mom or sister, rather than completely ignored. It's getting there, folks.
Anyway, this weekend I was, coincidentally, hanging out with B, the same friend mentioned above. (Yep, this fall marks 10 years of our friendship -- another remarkable anniversary.) I asked her if she remembered what Friday was the anniversary of, which of course, she did, because that is the kind of superstar she is.
"Did you send your mom a card?" she asked.
"No, I was thinking of waiting for the tenth anniversary to send her a card -- and maybe a present."
"What kind of present?"
"I don't know. What do you think?"
"A bottle of margarita mix and my mom's phone number?"
I think that is a perfectly wonderful idea. Tenth anniversary, here we come!