Sipping Coffee

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My mother is my  hero times two. Yet until I was an adult, I saw neither the strength nor the courage that exits within her.

When I was a child, my heroes were always found in the pages of my comic books; the Fantastic Four, The Avengers, The Adventures of Superman. And while most boys my age wanted to be Captain America, I dreamed of being the Scarlet Witch. As long as the comic books remained open and the comforting figure of my mother sat at the kitchen table reading the latest edition of The Boston Herald, I was invincible. But childhood ends quickly, heroes stay within the ink-colored pages, and I wondered if my mother would grow tired and leave.

The superheroes had alter egos. The Scarlet Witch was also Wanda, but despite looking the same, no one noticed they were the same person. Was it simply because Wanda wasn't wearing a red hat and suit or because the writers decided to make it so? Perhaps it was because people only see what they want to see. I empathized with her divided psyche and the failure of others to notice.

Since then, I have realized that it takes time, knowledge, and a willingness to learn and share before you discover the person within the person.

I still remember the day I told my mother. A coming-out story I'd found in the Glad Day Bookstore, Are You Still My Mother? was beside my bed. As she walked into my apartment, I thought how awful I was to, in one split second, turn her world upside down. I stumbled over the words and when I finally spit them out as if they burned my tongue, I watched her turn into a rubber band in my arms. It seemed as if I'd transferred all the pain of my childhood onto her with one single sentence. She cried for hours and the tissues I kept by the couch disappeared in minutes.

She took the book with her, and I expected the worst. But the next day, she returned with a list of more than twenty questions for me to answer. And so began my mother's education and the shifting of a relationship that has flourished to new levels.

My mother does not belong to PFLAG, nor does she march in gay pride parades with signs declaring her feelings towards me. Instead, when she visits, she sits with every one of my friends and calls them her sons (or at times, her daughters, depending on the time of the year and the outfits they've chosen)  When I joined the ranks of drag queens and began performing in small clubs, she was the loudest in the crowd. My music would start and I would become Celine Dion or Sheena Easton. Then, I'd look up and see my mother jumping to her feet and cheering. It is a memory that is forever etched into my mind.

"Are you his mother?" someone asked her one night during a show.

"Yes, I am," she replied.

Giving her a bear hug, the man kissed her and said, "You look so proud. Good for you."

The baby books could never have prepared my mother for all of the ways she has seen me grow. And I, in turn, have watched a different kind of hero, one who does not need to rescue me every time I'm in danger, but only has to be who she has always been: My mother. Without her, I would have been lost - perhaps a runaway, a junkie or a kid escaping childhood by escaping life. If I hadn't felt confident during my  youth that she would be there to catch and lift me up, I would not be here today.

And when I return home, as I climb the stairs to my old house, she is still there. Quietly sipping her coffee and reading her paper. With one silent smile, she conveys every ounce of pride she feels. And I know, that if she wants to, she can make a hell of a lot of noise.