As a kid, I had never heard my father being supportive of the gay lifestyle. To be absolutely fair, I had never heard him be unsupportive. But because of the nonexistence of subject in our lives, I didn’t know how he was going to react to the news I had finally decided to give.
It was three days before Christmas, and I was nineteen years old, the day I sat at the edge of my father’s bed and, without looking at him, told him I was gay. It took everything I had to say those words. Everything I knew at that moment was up in the air.
Since I was a little kid we were a self proclaimed “team,” just me and him. We would sit on Sundays and listen to music and he would ask me how it made me feel. We would watch movies and talk about them afterward, dissecting story and character. He would read every word from every draft of every story I wrote. He would see every show I was performing in, multiple times. Support, amazing support, is what my Dad had always been. I wasn’t at risk of just losing a father by this news, I was at risk of losing my best friend.
It is to be considered, when cutting or placing a gem, the unique qualities of the gem itself. How shall it be cut so that it will reflect in the light? What shape will bring out the most sparkle? What will make this stone stand out among the rest? How shall it truly shine? Such are the questions that I imagine goes into the creation of a piece of art.
I remember when I was a kid; I went on a road trip with you from Miami to Iowa. Before leaving I was playing by a large window, and you were talking to me.
“Once I looked outside the window and saw a waterspout.” You said.
“What’s a waterspout, Grandpa?” I said.
“A waterspout is a like a tornado at sea.”
“What happens if a tornado hits something?” I asked.
“It rips it apart.”
“Then what happens if a waterspout hit something?”
“Markie, think about what you are asking.”
Writer/Actor/Storyteller. Theatre Maker. Husband. Bad Hombre. Cat Taunter.