I Bet I Can Guess

Anyone who has read my blog has probably picked up on the fact that my getting older has really made me appreciate my family more than ever. When I was younger, I hardly understood myself, let alone what made my relatives tick. However, through all my adolescence, there is one member of my family who, for years now, I’ve been able to share every aspect of what I was going through in my life. That person is my cousin, Donna who comes to visit me later this week. (And for the record, since everyone asks how we are related – our grandmothers were sisters.)

We’re a scarce nine years apart, but when you are young, that age gap is tremendous. For as many days as I spent over her house when I was a kid – she was this mysterious girl who flitted in and out while I spent time with her younger sister. She’d be off on dates, disco dancing, going to work, living a life I couldn’t imagine. We’d be in the kitchen making ice cream sundaes or watching TV and in would walk this girl who seemed to be so far removed from my life. As the years went by and I somehow couldn’t grasp the fact that I liked boys - despite dreaming about her boyfriend and pretending he was my pillow – I still found the age difference to be such a canyon between us.  I danced with her at her wedding, looking up to this woman who seemed so far ahead of me in everything – life, love, independence and education to name just a few. As I graduated college she helped me in my new and uncharted world. In fact, our very first dinner together – just the two of us –at the now defunct, Michael’s Grand Cru in Lynn, was not far from where she had her wedding reception. 

What did we talk about that night? I can’t remember, but I do know it was just the surface of my life – for my secret about boys weighed heavily on me. It was something no one knew, a clandestine topic that back in the early 80s was one that, once let out, caused fear or revulsion in many people. Where would I be if this woman that I so highly regarded and held in such esteem rejected me? No one in my family knew what I was going through and even when I moved to San Francisco in 1990, my “other” life was firmly behind the closet door. Of course, there were the whispered suspicions.  Where was his girlfriend, who does he know in that city by the bay? But, being 3,000 miles away, I could safely avoid the answers. My mother was the only one who knew – and together, as the atmosphere towards gays and lesbians was one of scorn and ridicule, we kept quiet. I disconnected from many, but as the age of electronic mail took hold (yes, I am that old - e-mail was not around when I first moved to California) – Donna and I remained in contact with each other. But our mails, like all of our dinners, only skimmed the surface.

And then one day, she was coming to the Bay Area for a conference. Alone, without her husband, she asked if she could spend a few days with me. Without hesitation, I said yes, but deep inside, I was terrified – how could I hide who I was in San Francisco? I lived in the Castro with two other gay men, my friends were drag queens (I had not yet summoned the courage to debut Shanda Leer) and there was no escaping the company I kept. For days, I agonized over what I should do. In the hours that proceeded that night – I have never been so nervous. Except for my mother, this was the only “coming out” scenario I planned. Because, back then, you “came out,” you found the right time and place to share who you were, and if you were lucky, the right words were said and the love was still there. 

As the work day came to a close and I drove to pick her up at her hotel, my palms were wet with nervousness and I could hardly breathe. There she was in the lobby, dressed in her little pink cowboy boots and perfect outfit. We drove to the restaurant and throughout dinner, we skimmed the surface of so many topics, with the one that I knew I had to approach weighting heavy on my mind. My usual ravenous appetite was nonexistent and I could feel the perspiration seep through every piece of clothing. 

Finally, it was time for dessert and we decided on spumoni. Maybe, I thought, the chill of the Italian ice cream would cool my feverish head. With my stomach in knots and the coffee before us, I simply said, in a chocked whisper, “I have something to tell you.”

“I bet I can guess,” she smiled coyly.

“Great, you do that,” I blurted out.

“Oh, no,” she laughed taking a bite of the dessert. “You have to tell me.”

And like I did years before with my mother, my hands shook, tears filled my eyes and my voice cracked as I feared the confession would destroy everything between us. And, then, it was over – my napkin soaked, the ice cream melting on the table in front us and her hand on mine telling me that it was alright – that nothing had changed between us, and that this was, in fact, going to be okay.

I don’t know how long we sat at dinner – I only remember the ice cream melted and that day was the first in our new relationship. From that moment on, we no longer stayed on the surface but dived with our heads first, fathoms deep into our lives. Today, there’s nothing she doesn’t know about me. From the pain of failed attempts at relationships, to the joys of drag, together over the years, we’ve laughed and cried all the while never, in all these years, running out of things to say to one another. 

That nine year difference is inconsequential now – and, I think, in a way, has made us even closer. And, though, I jokingly tell her that we are only in the same decade of age only once, we still feel as young as those two people who had that first dinner so long ago. A closeted boy and his much revered cousin have become so much more – we’ve become best friends. So this weekend, there will be, for sure, more stories to share, more tales to tell about life, love and our crazy but loving family. We’ll discover something new about each other and reminisce about times past and those that we have lost and loved. 

And without a doubt, we’ll have to tell someone that our grandmothers were sisters, but this time, at dinner, instead of coffee, I’ll order us some martinis and maybe, just maybe, I’ll ask if they could serve us a dish of spumoni.