October 21st, 2020
During my high school years, at least once a week, my mom asked me if I’m gay.
Spoiler alert: I’m not. But she would make sure that I was sure. And when I would reaffirm that I was not gay, despite being an absolute nerd who loved theater and musicals and dressing up and just had a lot of friends who were girls, she would remind me that she would love me no matter what I was or who I loved.
It seems like a silly story to share, but it’s always what comes to my mind when someone asks me what kind of person my mom was.
That’s who she was. She loved me so much that she would imagine situations in which I might believe she wouldn’t love me, and she assured me that she would love me. There were times I wished I was gay, or that one of my gay friends had my mom as their mom, just so she had that chance to prove her love.
Not that she ever had to prove it. Everyone felt it. The entire world was her gay-not-gay son. She defied conventional boundaries and social expectations to deliver the most pure love, a kind that exceeded imagination.
I cry a lot. I’m crying right now, in fact, writing these words. I get that from her. I inherited those intense feelings she forged, and I spent a lot of time trying to ghost them. She knew better, and I eventually learned her lesson.
Love people in a way that they could never believe you wouldn’t.
It’s easier said than done.