To some on an extreme end of the spectrum, to be closeted is to be antithetical to progress it implies there is shame in an identity we are supposed to boast about. I know that to declare you’re a sexual or gender minority means stacking the odds against yourself-and so coming out is also a political statement. I’ve studied the history, the milestones-the Stonewall riots, the inaugural 1971 protest for gay rights on Parliament Hill, and the marches that inspired our annual celebrations of sexuality and gender at Pride. I know those before me fought for my right to declare who I am without fear. It’s a point of bonding-everyone’s been through it, or so the traditional narrative goes. In this age of social media and oversharing, coming out is documented in videos on YouTube and posts on Facebook in popular culture, the coming-out story is central to the evolution of most queer characters. To have a coming-out story is part of the queer or trans experience. And it’s often treated as a rite of passage, moments marked by anxiety, liberation, and relief. Historically the closet has been viewed, as gender and sexuality researcher Mary Lou Rasmussen puts it, as “a zone of shame and exclusion.” To come out is, by extension, to enter a place of inclusivity and pride. This predicament has changed the meaning of the closet for me. Any other choice would drive a wedge in the family, forcing them to take a side in a conflict that should never exist. We vow to stay quiet so that she can live her final years in peace, to maintain the false understanding of her granddaughter that she has built up over the years. I have accepted that honesty can’t be the best policy when it comes to a homophobic elderly grandparent. But I know that this is the best course of action. Surrounded by couples-my parents, grandparents, and brother and his girlfriend-sitting lovingly around the dining-room table, I hate to suppress my own adoration for my partner because Nonna thinks we’re two gal pals. At my family’s annual Christmas lunch, Arielle and I slowly chew our chicken and potatoes, speaking up only to ask my brother’s girlfriend to pass the salad, please.
Even now, in a long-term, committed relationship with the woman I intend to marry, I opt for silence when pride would be a more natural response. I hoped, perhaps morbidly, that she’d die before she could ever attend my wedding.Ī decade later, I’ve kept quiet. Grappling with my own sexuality, I made the choice at fourteen: while I’d eventually come out to my parents, brother, friends, and extended family, I would never come out to Nonna.
Her mother disowned her, and Nonna applauded the decision-any other reaction would have been sinful. I learned, as a young teenager, of a family friend whose daughter came out she was in love, tired of hiding. Queerness doesn’t exist in her world, and when it tries to break in, it doesn’t goes over well.
Born and raised in the rolling hills of Calabria, Italy, she has lived a life of tradition, of fulfilling expectations. There’s nothing gay to see here.įor years, I have kept my sexuality a secret from Nonna, my father’s mother. We stand a metre apart, creating the unconscious distance the seventy-nine-year-old matriarch of my family has pushed on us.
Arielle giggles, fake and airy, and I sense her discomfort immediately I watch her back straighten, teeth wired shut. I choke back my biting words- we look nothing alike-and clench my jaw. How could we? Just one look at her tiny shoulders and her round, chocolate-brown eyes, sends guilt simmering into my stomach. In the moment, neither Arielle nor I betray these feelings to Nonna.