Coming Out

CHAPTER 1

Coming Out

I came out to my family today, via e-mail. If I want to start a life, I should start it with the least amount of baggage as possible. I basically came out to my Father, as a way to hurt him. My Father, the absent man in my life. He was a Chief in the Navy, and was gone most of the time. He's retired now. I can honestly say, I have no fond memories of him. Memories I do have consist of name calling, the ever original term of "Sissy". Memories of him choking me, or kicking me down the stairs, or telling my family at the dinner table how he wished I was born a girl, because I sure do act like one.

I was Thirteen, when he made that announcement. I remember feeling humiliated. I remember feeling sweat dripping from my armpits, as I sat at the dinner table contemplating on what I should do, if anything. I ended up leaving the table, and going to my room. He followed, and told me to return to the dinner table. When I wouldn't, he grabbed my neck, forced me into the hallway, and kicked me down the stairs.

Later that night I ran away, not really though, I just walked to the local 7-Eleven. But telling my parents I was taking out the trash, and not returning home, caused my Dad to go on a search for me. I remember hiding when I saw his truck driving by. I did return of course, I was only thirteen, where the hell was I supposed to run away too? Both parents started asking me where I was, and why didn't I come home. My Dad kept yelling at me, and finally I blew up. I told my Dad that I hated him and wished he were dead, and again ran to my room. This time he didn't follow. But my Mom entered and told me my Dad was sorry.

When I went back downstairs, my Father was crying, and both my sisters were consoling him. They were consoling HIM! My family is a little fucked up. That was the year I didn't speak to him. Not one word. At thirteen, what other arsenal do you have to fight back? On my Fourteenth birthday, on the way home from a dental appointment, he took me to the pound. He was attempting to reconcile by buying me a dog. So of course, now I would have to talk to him, because now I needed dog food, and other supplies for this little thing called Blackie.

Years later as I grew into an adult and moved to Los Angeles, our relationship was better. He saw me as a success, the one child who left and made something of himself. Oddly enough though, with all his ranting about how he worked to support us, and how we didn't appreciate him, how we kept secrets from him. It was he who was living a secret life. My Mother (she's Japanese, remember my Father was in the Military) kept getting phone calls from the Philippines, and the person kept asking for my Father. My Mother also noticed mail delivered to my Dad, with no return address.

Near my Dad's birthday last, last, March, he received another letter. This time the return address was from Christine Ajrman. My Mom knows all our relatives, and there is no Christine Ajrman who lives in the Philippines. Of course she opened it, wouldn't you? The letter was from his daughter. Christine Ajrman, the child none of us knew existed. She wrote about her schooling, and how she missed him. She also mentioned how Mom ( not my Mom) doesn't know why my Father hasn't returned from the States. They had assumed he was here visiting his daughter. They know all about us, but they thought my Dad was divorced. At this point in the story is where you realize, that you don't have to be fully white, to be "White Trash".

To be a dysfunctional family is one thing, that's a bit normal. But to have this happen? I imagine us on the next episode of Jerry Springer. It turns out my thirty three year old sister Stacy knew for years. My father in a drunken episode blabbed to Stacy about her long lost sister, and his wife and house in the Philippines. Stacy told my other sister Janice, she's thirty five, days after Janice's wedding. Neither of them told my mother or myself. My Mother finally told me, and I was the chosen one, to confront my Father. I made up a reason for he and I to be in the guest house alone. When I did discuss this with him, he nearly fell back in his chair. I felt so much bigger than him at that moment, and beyond his equal. He was only a person now, not the behemoth of a man I once feared.

We left the guest house together, and I watched him return to the main house. He was very silent. He seemed so old and fragile. I had told him if he did not make things right with our Mother, he would lose his children. Months later he still has not fulfilled his duties. He has made no effort to make amends. He acts like nothing has happened. My Mother plays a part in this scenario too. As the victim. She will not leave him. She is content now. She has the upper hand. She is free to live without guilt from him. Because no matter what she does, he committed the ultimate sin. He fucked another woman.

Now when I visit, they shoot each other dirty looks. For only me to see. They want me to choose sides. They want me to play the game. But I can't. I have my own fucked up life to play. Finally today, I came out. I wrote to my Dad, writing how they are screwed up people. Always complaining about what they don't get. Never moving forward. They are truly happy with where they are at. If they weren't, they would change. Right? On my e-mail, the "p.s." I wrote was, "Your son is a faggot, a faggoty ass faggot. I hope that truly brightens your day" It took forever for me to hit the "send" button. But I did. Tomorrow is so bright and scary. I have no idea what it will bring. This feeling is sort of nice.

God damn I'm fat