Dad

Sometimes I wish you'd ask. Just come right out and ask.

I know it wouldn't help anything; it would just make things harder, make it worse. But in some ways I think it might be easier. It would feel good, anyway.

I know you won't.

You came close once. It was at the height of my Rent fandom's visibility; I'd just bought the movie soundtrack, DVD, and movie poster all in one day, and rented and watched Brokeback Mountain the night before, and you asked me something close, like what was up with me watching all this "gay stuff" lately? What was the fascination? Something along those lines.

It was close. You almost wanted to ask. You skated right across the edge of the topic, so close. But not close enough. You left room, and I skated around it. I said I liked Rent for the music (which isn't untrue, but not the whole picture either) and I wanted to see Brokeback Mountain because it was so popular, I wanted to see if it was any good as a movie (also not a lie, exactly).

If you asked me, straight out, am I or aren't I, then I'd tell you the truth. I'm not going to lie. But you won't ask that. You're afraid to. You don't want to know, really. And I'm not going to tell you what you don't want to know.

You've got this, I guess it's a philosophy, almost. "I may not always love what you do, but I'll always love you." It has a few variations, but that's the basic concept. Which sounds all well and good, but it's not just about what you do, it's about who you are. It's like the Christian "love the sinner, hate the sin" idea, which I abhor. It's not acceptance, it's tolerance. Which is all well and good for perfect strangers, but for family? You shouldn't have to tolerate people you love.