Fridae

Coming out can be daunting. More so when we are coming out to people whom we love, people from whom rejection would be like being pulverised by a meteor, leaving a crater within us so deep it can feel impossible to mend.The people we consider our family, the people who have seen us from our birth all through our growth; our parents, who have postponed their dreams so they could raise us, or else we are those very dreams. They have seen us break out into baby giggles when they tickled our chubby bodies, they have crouched over guiding us through our first steps, they have seen us through the first time we blurted out those magic words, "mama" and "papa," all to their raucous applause. They have watched us struggle with speech, seen the world with wonder once again through our young eyes, reprimanded us for our vulgarities, taught us the importance of filial piety. And for those among us so lucky, they have raised us under roofs that were watertight and that never crumbled under the weight of the world.

Throughout all this, our parents have loved us, and in their love, some have fantasised about our worldly successes, the children we would bear them, those grandchildren they would get to bounce on their knees. They have planned our weddings in advance, they have foreseen our happiness in tuxedoes and wedding dresses with a partner whose name would no doubt sound with the other gender's lilt. For so many parents, when we come out, these fantasies come apart at the seams. Dreams may dissipate like clouds, but can feel like entire worlds have come crashing down.

We become their meteor.

"Mama, I'm gay."

My father had walked in on me while I was reading a book about being young and gay, which I had secretly smuggled into Singapore from overseas when we had come back from visiting family. I was 17 years old. It was nighttime in my bedroom, just before sleep. My father had walked out of the room calmly and without comment, but had sent in my mother like a sentinel to get some answers.

I was unprepared for this moment. It was her I told first, as she sat down next to me on my bed. "Mama, I'm gay."

A confused silence.

She asked me if I was sure. I told her I was. She suggested, gently, "You should try and make as many friends as possible, both boys and girls, you do not have to decide now." Perhaps she subconsciously feared that my being a homosexual was a rejection of her, that it was a fear or hatred of women, but perhaps neither of us to this day can ever be certain that this had ever been a motivation.

We talked for awhile, about where to go from here, about what this meant. She advised me to see if I could doubt this truth, if I could give it space to settle, space to decide if it were real, or only a figment of her imagination. Space to let the melancholy subside. When she kissed me goodnight, I knew that it was only because she loved me still.

She was about to leave my room when I told her, "Please don't tell papa. I will tell him myself." She nodded her assent.

"Papa, I'm gay."

It was around 9pm, again in my bedroom the next night, humid, air-conditioned. I had spent the whole of that day preparing to come out to my father. This next night, I had written a list of things I wanted to tell him. That I was gay. That I still loved him and hoped to death that he would still love me and treat me as his son. That I could not change though I had tried. That I had hated myself for years in hiding and could no longer stand my own lies.

He came in to kiss me goodnight, just as he had done the previous night before sending my mother in. Tonight, however, I asked him to stay for a minute so I could deliver my burden, meticulously prepared like a monologue. I had spent all day on the Internet searching for resources to help me in this process. I had chatted online seeking support from gay friends as they expressed their mix of respect and vicarious terror at my decision. I had typed in "gay coming out" in multiple search engines so I could find the best advice on how to do this. Almost all the websites informed me that I was wise to come out to him in person, that I could not be responsible for his reactions, only my own, that I should only come out when I was ready and not because anybody was pressuring me to do so. Yes! I was ready. This was not my opportunity to convince him of anything, but my own conviction in this truth.

I spoke, "Papa, I'm gay" and the words got stuck in my throat like a fishbone; Would my father ever touch me again? Hold me? Hug me? Would we share food again? Would I have a roof under my head in another hour? All these thoughts haunted me in that split second after this declaration. For a moment, I choked back my tears, and then gave in entirely. They streamed down my cheeks, wetting my face with these very fears. I was a little boy again, not a man like I had hoped my preparation would enable him to see. I wanted to run away.

"Of course I still love you," he responded, sternly, but I feared that this was by rote, as if to assure himself that it were still true. "You will always be my son," he said, but I wondered what regrets were in him, what buried disappointments yet to make themselves known. Whether he would chill at the prospect that he would never have grandchildren. Whether he might wish he had done something differently. Whether he might blame my mother.

"Did your brother influence you?" he asked directly. My older brother is gay too, and had come out to my father several years prior. Contrary to what people think, this had made my coming out incrementally more difficult, I felt as if I were their only hope, the only possible heterosexual child they could have left. That I would have to shoulder this very question of having been corrupted by my brother's perverse influences.

"I don't know," I responded, truthfully, though I added, "did your brothers influence you to be straight?"

My father laughed, perhaps a little sadly. It was going to take some time before everything would be alright. We talked for awhile too, about evolution, about how we thought people became gay. A strange, terse, but tame conversation. He tucked me in that night, and he parted from my room amidst a thick cloud of ambivalence and uncertainty. Our relationship had changed, but neither of us knew exactly how. We would need space apart and time to think. Time not to think. The first step had been made.

I fell asleep with my tears making a wet patch on my pillow.

Today, and Everyday from Now

It has been eight years since I came out to my parents, and eight years later, I am still surprised by the tremor in my voice when I first spoke those words, that tremor� That tremor in my voice was coming from the unknown, from not knowing the previously unknowable possibilities that could come from committing myself to revealing such a banal, but so explosive truth. "I am gay!"

My father and I have fought over the particularities of sexuality, but our relationship is now more than just cordial; Indeed, he sees me as more than just my sexuality, though also deeply intertwined with it, and has slowly come to respect this as true. My mother has moved from uncertainty to a righteous defense and embrace of my life, and has openly voiced her support for both her gay sons in the book SQ21: Singapore Queers in the 21st Century, published in 2006 by Oogachaga, based on interviews done by author Ng Yi-Sheng in Singapore.

Today, both my parents know, and both of them support my brother and me, and have demonstrated their growing understanding in ways I could never have predicted before I came out. I do not question their love; I have faith in the power of truth. I lavish in the warm glow of knowing that coming out to my parents has easily been the most committed I have been to my own love and respect for them. My being gay could never have been an insult.

Most conflicts between people are disproportionately internal, in our own heads. We turn each other into meteors even before we have had the opportunity to speak; we fear pulverizing craters into each other's ideas of who we wanted the other to be. But truly, few of us are meteors. We are all just grains of sand, huddling close together to make a shore.

Malaysia-born and Singapore-bred Shinen Wong is currently getting settled in Sydney, Australia after moving from the United States, having attended college in Hanover, New Hampshire, and working in San Francisco for a year after. In his fortnightly "Been Queer. Done That" column, Wong will explore gender, sexuality, and queer cultures based on personal anecdotes, sweeping generalisations and his incomprehensible libido.