By Jay Stracke
It was our spot—a small table for two, nestled right against the partition dividing the bar from the rest of the restaurant’s clientele. The order was always the same: two chicken Cobb salads, and an order of cheese fries with bacon to start. The waiters knew our names, and always asked us how we were doing with sincerity.
It was our spot.
It wasn’t grand and it held nothing of particular note, but this go-to dinner spot was special to me and my dad. It represented our bond as parent and child, father and son. It was where I asked him advice, told him my worries, and joked about the next time my mother would inevitably say, “It’s time to get moving” on what would, and should, be a lazy Saturday in.
My father was born and raised in a small township of 2,000 residents, just outside of Michigan City, Indiana. His childhood home, this midwestern suburbia, was nestled along Lake Michigan. His father had a good and decent job, and his mother was a school teacher. Summers were spent on the white sandy beaches of the Great Lakes, and the town and its people embodied the midwestern middle class of 1960s America.
The existence of LGBTQ identities was never discussed in his insular childhood. Thus, as my understanding of my own queer identity grew, so did my anxiety around coming out to my father. What would happen to our usual dinner spot? What would happen to our relationship?
Fast forward to 2015. Night’s veil had already fallen as I gripped my game controller tightly. The only light emanating within the room came from the fluorescent screen depicting a world in which I sought temporary release. Only yesterday, I worked up the courage to speak to my mother about my queer identity. Still unsure of how to tell my father, and still processing the emotions that came with the experience, I hid away.
We hear stories of unconditional love, how parents claim that there’s no greater joy than looking into the eyes of their children, and how love is limitless. So then why did I hesitate? Why did I believe that this was how our story ended? That I’ll never sit at our small table for two again?
Then, I heard a knock on the door. My father’s face appeared from around the corner.
“So, mom tells me you’re gay.”
My heart dropped.
I wasn’t prepared to have a discussion. After all, I knew that these kinds of conversations didn’t exist along the shores of the Great Lakes 50–some–odd years ago.
But a discussion, we had.
My father, now recalling the conversation, recites what was going through his mind: “I was moderately surprised—somewhat surprised, but not blindsided. I just had to process it all of a sudden, and it didn’t take long to process it because I came up and talked to you almost immediately.”
“It was a change,” he continues. “It was different. How is this going to affect Jay and how is this going to affect everybody around him?”
My father didn’t have his first exposure to LGBTQ identities until early in his college career, when one of his childhood friends came out as gay.
His friend traveled to San Francisco, where, at the time, my father believed a better and more welcoming community awaited him—a community that could offer more than their town on the lake. “I think I was also worried for you because I don’t know the climate in Houston for being gay,” my father says. “I told you that you might want to think about places like San Francisco, because it seemed to me that it would be much nicer living in a community of acceptance.”
But his fears weren’t just about my southern locale; he worried about the origins of my identity as well. “I think it’s a natural human tendency, when you don’t know much about it, to think that it was a choice,” my father recalls. “What helped me the most is, I think it was the very first time we had a talk, you said, ‘Dad, I didn’t choose this. This wasn’t a choice. It is just who I am.’”
“And I think that helps a lot,” he says.
Now, my father sees that Texas has embraced me with open arms. I’ve found life-long friends, mentors, and an environment where I feel that I can truly be myself. He sees queerness as an identity, not a choice, and always supports me in all that I do.
So Happy Father’s Day, Dad. I just wanted to say thank you. Thank you for being open, and being willing to listen. Next time, dinner is on me.
I’ll meet you at the usual spot.
