Two Little Words

Hi Mom,

I’m gay.

Who knew those two little words could hold so much emotion? Yet I can’t bring myself to say them out loud.

I realized who I was last June—Pride Month, appropriately, causing a party of rainbow-hued butterflies to flutter with excitement and nervousness in my stomach. At 25 years old, I had a lot of time to make up for, a lot of people to tell, but you weren’t one of them.

A year later, I’ve grown into myself and my identity. I’m glowing with a light I didn’t know I had. However, for all the growing up (and glowing up) I’ve undergone, the only obstacle left is telling you and Dad.

Every time I think about opening up to you, I feel like a child about to confess that I broke the crystal lotus ornament you warned me to never touch (which did happen, by the way, and I’m super sorry about it). There’s a shadow of fear that grips my heart and squeezes my lungs. I’ve imagined so many scenarios of what could happen when I come out to you. The worst of the worst is you disowning me as your son and pushing me out of your lives. My closest friends and family have told me you’d never do that, and I want to believe that. But there are slivers of doubt that lurk in the corners of my mind. Their whispers slither through my thoughts, tainting them and turning me against you. I want to believe that your love for me will prove me wrong—the love that taught me how to read, the love that knows not to put bean sprouts in my soup because I hate their tasteless crunch. But nothing in life is guaranteed.

Outside of who I’m attracted to, being gay doesn’t change anything else you know about me. I’m still your son who helps you make dinner. I’m still your son who watches television shows with superheroes, witches, and Asian actors in them. I’m still your son who loves you for you.

You grew up in a generation with different values and beliefs. I’m grateful that you’re not the kind of person who would go out and actively protest someone’s right to love. But not being explicitly homophobic and being an ally of the community are two vastly different concepts.

Even before I knew I was gay, you would say microaggressions against the community. When you saw two women kissing on a show, you would comment, “Why do they have to kiss?” When I participated in my high school fashion show and wore eyeliner for the fun of it, you asked me, “So if you’re wearing eyeliner, does that mean you’re gay?” It was those remarks that chipped away at my subconscious, until it got to the point where I was convinced I was straight. Thinking otherwise would mean being the thing you disliked so much.

I was still willing to stand up for the community, though. I’ve asked you why two women can’t kiss. I shot back that I believe in animal rights, but that doesn’t make me a dog. Each and every time, you haven’t been able to come up with a proper response. Instead, you waved my words away like they didn’t affect you. You said our two generations think differently, which is true. You’re a product of your time, and that’s not your fault. That makes what you say understandable, but not excusable.

You’ve gotten better over the years. That is to say you’ve stopped making side comments related to the queer community—my community—because you know I’ll return fire.

I love you and Dad so much. Both of you crossed an ocean to start a new life. You planted roots in unfamiliar soil, and despite the harsh conditions, you adapted. You survived, so that I could thrive. I’m fluent in English because you didn’t want me to face the same language barriers you did. I graduated from college debt-free because you paid for the remainder of my tuition that my scholarships didn’t cover.

We both want me to be successful, but we differ in the how. You think success means having a stable, well-paying job and a big house and mortgages that are paid off. I want all of those things, but my definition of success isn’t as limited. It means being able to make mistakes and learning from them. Back in Cambodia, you couldn’t afford to make mistakes because one misstep could be the difference between life and death. Here, I have the privilege of being able to mess up, brush myself off, and keep going.

For me, being successful means finding happiness, and part of that journey involves the trials of love. Since coming out, I’ve gone on more dates with men than I ever did with women. I had my first kiss with a guy who broke up with me two dates later out of the blue. I’ve met men as bland as sacks of flour and those whose minds are as scintillating as their personalities. I wish I could tell you all about them. I wish I could go to you for dating advice that I’ll probably ignore but end up following later. But I can’t. Not now. Not yet.

But not never.

I will tell you someday, when I’m truly ready and when I know you’ll be able to listen to my words, not just hear them. That’s something for Future Me to deal with. Present Me is making up for lost time. I’m genuinely enjoying the exploration of who I am at this point of my life.

I hope you can find some solace in the fact that I’m not doing this on my own. I have so many wonderful friends who are here to lift me up, who don’t push me to come out to you if I’m not ready. Some of my cousins—your nieces and nephews—have also been invaluable because they can empathize with dealing with the chaos that is our dysfunctional family.

As happy as I am, I recognize you’ll feel confusion and maybe even disappointment. I’m sorry I can’t fit into your expectations. I’m sorry I can’t give you grandchildren in the way you were hoping. But I’m not sorry for being me. For being gay.

I’m proud of who I am, and I hope you can be, too, one day.

Love,

Your son,

Eric