I was ten watching the Super Bowl with my dad and his roommate.
Sitting in the living room of his Hollywood flat as a bunch of beefy men beat each other up.
Actually, one team was doing the beating. Which meant the other team was receiving the beating.
Which prompted me to say that team was "so gay."
My dad and his roommate looked at each other. "What do you mean they're 'so gay'?" my dad asked.
"They're bad. They suck. They're, you know, gay!" I said, a tone of "duh" exuding from my lips, as I rolled my eyes back toward the screen.
I don't remember what my dad or his roommate said after that.
I do remember my dad telling me he was gay four years later. And I remember crying because I was confused and ashamed.
And how it suddenly made sense that his roommate was more than his roommate. And how it made sense that he questioned why I said the losing team was so gay.
But it took me several more years to accept that I had a gay dad. I wasn't ready to have a gay dad, so I didn't tell anyone I had a gay dad, so no one knew I had a gay dad.
Except me. I kept my secret all locked up inside. Afraid to share my whole self with the world. Afraid of my full humanity. Depriving people of all I had to offer. Telling a story that just wasn't true.
Like so many others still do today.