07-10-2025, 12:44 PM
For Sören
Yes, parents, it may come as a surprise to you, but I live with both of my parents under the same roof. In this day and age of life partners and blended families, the gentle reader may consider this a luxury, but I personally consider it a violation of the Geneva Conventions, at least in my case.
Oh, don't get me wrong, I like my parents, I probably love them too, but I'm not always so sure about that. They raised me and provided me with everything I needed to live. They gave me a sense of security and were there for me when I needed them.
But there is one topic on which we cannot agree: my homosexuality.
In mathematics, one would look for the least common multiple, but this search is not so easy with my parents. It's like looking for a needle in a haystack – only the haystack is about the size of the island of Greenland.
The problem started with my coming out.
Strengthened by the good results of my best friend Christ - Christ not Chris! - with his coming out to his Buddhist New Age parents, I thought to myself: you will do the same.
So one fine evening I went down to the living room to see my parents.
“Mom, Dad, I need to talk to you.”
“Just a minute, honey, Lindenstraße is almost over.”
So, now I was standing in the living room, brand “oak rustic”, as ordered and not picked up. My heart was beating up to my throat and I felt sick. To make matters worse, I had massive flatulence and I tried not to remodel the living room brand “oak rustic” into “forecourt to hell”.
On TV, the concerns and needs of the residents of a well-known street in Germany were discussed. Georg Uecker, alias Dr. Carsten Flöter, just kissed his TV partner Käthe, then: the final melody. My parents show no reaction. Neither a positive nor a negative one. A good sign, I think to myself secretly.
The melody fades away. Dad turns off the TV. I take a deep breath.
“Mom, Dad, I'm gay.”
A moment of silence.
“But honey, you can't just tell us like that.”
I was stunned. I can't just tell them that?
“You don't know that yet. You're just disappointed because you haven't found a girl yet. But that's not why you become gay.”
I took a deep breath. I was shocked. So, please, I don't know whether I'm gay or not? I... But there was more:
“Or did Christian touch you? With his parents and that terrible cult they're part of, it's no wonder.”
I was speechless.
“First of all, it's Christ, not Christian, I've told you that a thousand times, and secondly, their parents aren't in some kind of cult, they're Buddhists.”
My mother looked at me sympathetically.
I felt that I would not be able to control myself for much longer.
“I'm leaving.”
My mother nodded in her inimitable way, twisting the corner of her mouth so that she looked particularly compassionate.
“Yes, darling, do that. And think again. It can't be like that, you're not gay.”
I fled the room. Otherwise, I would probably have been in all the newspapers the next morning: “Homosexual son strangles parents with bare hands.”
I tried to talk to my parents about it several more times, but always with the same result:
“It's just a phase.”
“Wait until you meet a girl.”
“Have you ever been with a man? No? So, you can't know.”
When they realized that these arguments were not falling on fertile ground with me, they brought up the big guns:
“What did we do wrong?”
“You don't want us to have grandchildren?”
“What did we do to deserve this?”
One Friday evening, things came to a head:
My mother had served dinner. Fish, of course, because in a proper Catholic family you only eat fish on Fridays. If you were to apply the meaning of this custom to the present day, there would have to be chips majo currywurst, but of course there is no lively dialogue with faith in the Catholic Church. Where would that get us? Sodom and Gomorrah!
So, we had fish.
We sat silently at the kitchen table and “enjoyed” our meal. The same as every Friday since I was born. My mother had probably eaten this dish every Friday since she was a child. They probably call it “conservative value”.
“Mom, I'm going to a party with Christ tonight.”
My mother looked at me.
“To a gay party?”
Actually, I wanted to go with Christ to a mutual friend's birthday party, but this “gay party” was already giving me the creeps.
“If you must know, yes.”
I looked at her defiantly. At least I tried to look defiant.
“Child, why do you always go to such parties? They put drugs in your drink and then you get AIDS and all that.”
Aids and stuff? That was pure ignorance talking.
“They're not putting drugs in my drink, Mom. That's an 'urban legend'.”
My mother looked at me, her gaze had something sheep-like about it.
“Speak German to me, darling.”
“Urban legend, Mama.”
She waved it off.
“And what if someone sees you? Imagine if your friends found out about it.”
“Imagine, Mama, most of my friends know I'm gay.”
Horrified, she covered her mouth with her hands. I have to admit that at that moment I felt something like triumph.
“Child, you can't just tell people that. What will people think of us now?”
I was starting to get really annoyed.
“I don't really care what they think of me.”
“Honey, you want to be something decent, don't you? Think about what you're throwing away if you keep being one of those homos.”
“Mom, as a gay man you can become anything these days. There are gay bakers, carpenters, farmers, police officers and even politicians.”
She looked at me sympathetically again.
“But honey, that's only on TV. Just look at your Uncle Heinrich, nobody wants anything to do with him anymore.”
Yes, the tiresome topic of Uncle Heinrich. At every family celebration, Uncle Heinrich was torn apart for hours and with growing enthusiasm.
Uncle Heinrich was not married and lived in a bachelor flat share. That was enough to label him gay. But I'm pretty sure he's not gay. Unless he works as a gay cleaning lady in a brothel at the train station.
“You don't want to have anything to do with him anymore. Most people see it differently.”
Again that compassionate dog look.
“Honey, you can't believe that, that's what they try to make you believe at those gay cult parties with their brainwashing methods.”
Now gays were a cult with brainwashing methods.
“Are you still okay?”
“Honey, in twenty years, gays will perhaps be accepted, but today it's still damn hard. I just want you to know what you're getting into when you join in.”
“Mom, I'm not saying it's all fun and games. I didn't choose to be gay - I just am and I'm going to live my life and not hide.”
Rational attempts at explanation.
“If you only knew; the world can be so cruel.”
If I only knew? Slowly but surely, I am convinced that I understand more about the world than she does.
“You're behind the times, Mom. In my generation, most people don't have a problem with gays.”
“Don't insult me, Stefan. I still have more life experience than you and I always will.”
Now my father also spoke up, for the first time since my coming out:
“Exactly, don't insult your mother, she doesn't deserve it.”
Right then, I knew there was no point in talking to my parents about it. They had their own world view and wouldn't budge an inch from it.
Since then, we have had a kind of truce. They have realized that no matter how good their arguments may be, they cannot dissuade me from being gay, and I have realized that I cannot expect a more liberal attitude.
Isn't it wonderful when parents don't want to accept a fundamental part of who you are?
I could rant on for hours, but I'm sure you don't want to hear that.
Yes, parents, it may come as a surprise to you, but I live with both of my parents under the same roof. In this day and age of life partners and blended families, the gentle reader may consider this a luxury, but I personally consider it a violation of the Geneva Conventions, at least in my case.
Oh, don't get me wrong, I like my parents, I probably love them too, but I'm not always so sure about that. They raised me and provided me with everything I needed to live. They gave me a sense of security and were there for me when I needed them.
But there is one topic on which we cannot agree: my homosexuality.
In mathematics, one would look for the least common multiple, but this search is not so easy with my parents. It's like looking for a needle in a haystack – only the haystack is about the size of the island of Greenland.
The problem started with my coming out.
Strengthened by the good results of my best friend Christ - Christ not Chris! - with his coming out to his Buddhist New Age parents, I thought to myself: you will do the same.
So one fine evening I went down to the living room to see my parents.
“Mom, Dad, I need to talk to you.”
“Just a minute, honey, Lindenstraße is almost over.”
So, now I was standing in the living room, brand “oak rustic”, as ordered and not picked up. My heart was beating up to my throat and I felt sick. To make matters worse, I had massive flatulence and I tried not to remodel the living room brand “oak rustic” into “forecourt to hell”.
On TV, the concerns and needs of the residents of a well-known street in Germany were discussed. Georg Uecker, alias Dr. Carsten Flöter, just kissed his TV partner Käthe, then: the final melody. My parents show no reaction. Neither a positive nor a negative one. A good sign, I think to myself secretly.
The melody fades away. Dad turns off the TV. I take a deep breath.
“Mom, Dad, I'm gay.”
A moment of silence.
“But honey, you can't just tell us like that.”
I was stunned. I can't just tell them that?
“You don't know that yet. You're just disappointed because you haven't found a girl yet. But that's not why you become gay.”
I took a deep breath. I was shocked. So, please, I don't know whether I'm gay or not? I... But there was more:
“Or did Christian touch you? With his parents and that terrible cult they're part of, it's no wonder.”
I was speechless.
“First of all, it's Christ, not Christian, I've told you that a thousand times, and secondly, their parents aren't in some kind of cult, they're Buddhists.”
My mother looked at me sympathetically.
I felt that I would not be able to control myself for much longer.
“I'm leaving.”
My mother nodded in her inimitable way, twisting the corner of her mouth so that she looked particularly compassionate.
“Yes, darling, do that. And think again. It can't be like that, you're not gay.”
I fled the room. Otherwise, I would probably have been in all the newspapers the next morning: “Homosexual son strangles parents with bare hands.”
I tried to talk to my parents about it several more times, but always with the same result:
“It's just a phase.”
“Wait until you meet a girl.”
“Have you ever been with a man? No? So, you can't know.”
When they realized that these arguments were not falling on fertile ground with me, they brought up the big guns:
“What did we do wrong?”
“You don't want us to have grandchildren?”
“What did we do to deserve this?”
One Friday evening, things came to a head:
My mother had served dinner. Fish, of course, because in a proper Catholic family you only eat fish on Fridays. If you were to apply the meaning of this custom to the present day, there would have to be chips majo currywurst, but of course there is no lively dialogue with faith in the Catholic Church. Where would that get us? Sodom and Gomorrah!
So, we had fish.
We sat silently at the kitchen table and “enjoyed” our meal. The same as every Friday since I was born. My mother had probably eaten this dish every Friday since she was a child. They probably call it “conservative value”.
“Mom, I'm going to a party with Christ tonight.”
My mother looked at me.
“To a gay party?”
Actually, I wanted to go with Christ to a mutual friend's birthday party, but this “gay party” was already giving me the creeps.
“If you must know, yes.”
I looked at her defiantly. At least I tried to look defiant.
“Child, why do you always go to such parties? They put drugs in your drink and then you get AIDS and all that.”
Aids and stuff? That was pure ignorance talking.
“They're not putting drugs in my drink, Mom. That's an 'urban legend'.”
My mother looked at me, her gaze had something sheep-like about it.
“Speak German to me, darling.”
“Urban legend, Mama.”
She waved it off.
“And what if someone sees you? Imagine if your friends found out about it.”
“Imagine, Mama, most of my friends know I'm gay.”
Horrified, she covered her mouth with her hands. I have to admit that at that moment I felt something like triumph.
“Child, you can't just tell people that. What will people think of us now?”
I was starting to get really annoyed.
“I don't really care what they think of me.”
“Honey, you want to be something decent, don't you? Think about what you're throwing away if you keep being one of those homos.”
“Mom, as a gay man you can become anything these days. There are gay bakers, carpenters, farmers, police officers and even politicians.”
She looked at me sympathetically again.
“But honey, that's only on TV. Just look at your Uncle Heinrich, nobody wants anything to do with him anymore.”
Yes, the tiresome topic of Uncle Heinrich. At every family celebration, Uncle Heinrich was torn apart for hours and with growing enthusiasm.
Uncle Heinrich was not married and lived in a bachelor flat share. That was enough to label him gay. But I'm pretty sure he's not gay. Unless he works as a gay cleaning lady in a brothel at the train station.
“You don't want to have anything to do with him anymore. Most people see it differently.”
Again that compassionate dog look.
“Honey, you can't believe that, that's what they try to make you believe at those gay cult parties with their brainwashing methods.”
Now gays were a cult with brainwashing methods.
“Are you still okay?”
“Honey, in twenty years, gays will perhaps be accepted, but today it's still damn hard. I just want you to know what you're getting into when you join in.”
“Mom, I'm not saying it's all fun and games. I didn't choose to be gay - I just am and I'm going to live my life and not hide.”
Rational attempts at explanation.
“If you only knew; the world can be so cruel.”
If I only knew? Slowly but surely, I am convinced that I understand more about the world than she does.
“You're behind the times, Mom. In my generation, most people don't have a problem with gays.”
“Don't insult me, Stefan. I still have more life experience than you and I always will.”
Now my father also spoke up, for the first time since my coming out:
“Exactly, don't insult your mother, she doesn't deserve it.”
Right then, I knew there was no point in talking to my parents about it. They had their own world view and wouldn't budge an inch from it.
Since then, we have had a kind of truce. They have realized that no matter how good their arguments may be, they cannot dissuade me from being gay, and I have realized that I cannot expect a more liberal attitude.
Isn't it wonderful when parents don't want to accept a fundamental part of who you are?
I could rant on for hours, but I'm sure you don't want to hear that.