Common Sense	Common Sense Archive

My family has been much on my mind lately. Where to begin? The thing about having a family is that it really is always there, no matter where you roam. I tried to get away from mine once, but what I did was put physical distance between them and me. I know few who have completely broken from immediate family. It turns on what kind of people you're dealing with.

A friend was by yesterday. We talked of parents. His father had been a Calvinist minister, a man mean to his children. We agreed: the damage done to a child by a parent lasts, for most, a lifetime. I recently asked my brother and sister-in-law-- he has married thrice, she six times, the first at age 14 (I inquired about it: "Well, I was 14 and he was 38"-- this was in Appalachian Ohio-- "and we got married in June and two months later he died." "What did you do?" "In September, I went back to junior high school.") who did the disciplining. My brother looked absent: "She does."

View our poll archive

Last time I saw my mother, at her 80th birthday bash, we had an intimate talk as I drove her home. She said: "I think my most important work in life has been that you and your brothers get along. That's not always the case in families." I hadn't given this much thought before. Not long thereafter, I ran into a gent I've known for years, who is now 82. We went for coffee. I am his "gay" expert. After his wife died, he'd always sought my advice about locating a travel service, which can book him on an ocean cruise full of bisexual men. Alas, I hadn't a clue. Anyway, he told me his two children were suing him; the two of them weren't speaking to each other, only the lawyers phoned. Just a mess, but perhaps all too typical. Why does this happen? Some men and women should never marry-- they make terrible spouses and even worse parents.

My mother and father each had one sibling. Mother was the elder; Dad the younger. Both of my grandfathers went bankrupt, I think, in the early days of the Depression. Family stories sometimes never get told or, when told, get distorted over time. Edmund White once told me, when talking about the publication of his autobiographical novel A Boy's Own Story, that he thought he had got all the details just right. But, he said, when his sister read it, she phoned him and said: "You got it all wrong."

My parents met while students at the University of Cincinnati. It was 1940. Everyone knew the US would eventually get in the war. To avoid the draft, a man had to be married. Dad married. Then it changed-- a man had to have children to stay out. Mother quickly got pregnant. Then Pearl Harbor and none of that mattered. Dad loved his experiences in the War. In time, my other brother and I got born, I in 1948. The parents divorced in 1958: both remarried quickly. Mother's second marriage lasted seven years. My first step-father, a nice guy, was not the type to be married. He was a heavy smoker who later died of lung cancer. Mom's third husband was a feisty tough guy; he died in 1992. My step-mother died in October 2000. Both my parents have outlived their subsequent spouses.

A Brazilian college classmate of my brother, having heard the story of my family, told my brother and me: "Your family sounds very unusual." He said that back in 1966. My family seemed to me completely ordinary. After years of estrangement from my Mother, we get along famously now. But I dread that phone call, which will come. My friend Kitty, after returning to Boston after his mother's funeral, said: "You know, Mitzel, the thing is, for a gay man, it's usually the case that your Mother will be the only woman in your life." Mother is 81, in reasonably good health, having lived longer than most women in her family line. Dad is 83 and, as I write this, undergoing triple bypass heart surgery. My dear aunt, 85, is demented from an advanced case of Alzheimer's disease; that and ovarian cancer are killing her.

I recall a picture that my parents kept in a frame in their bedroom back in the 50s. It was a black and white portrait, taken, probably, in 1940. Dad was handsome in a snappy suit, with his wavy hair. Mother had on an attractive dress, white and black, white shoes and a hat. They were both beautiful to look at, nicely turned out, handsomely photographed. As a small child, I would listen to Cole Porter records and look at this photo. It seemed like it was from another world-- just 16 years earlier. When they divorced, Mom tore Dad's image out of the picture and kept the half that showed her. Oh well. The best part is, that with any of the family members, no matter how long the absence, when the conversation starts up again, it's as though it was never interrupted. For few others is this true.

One last story. My paternal grandfather, once back in business, sponsored a charity for orphans. There was a summer camp in Michigan he underwrote for these children. Both my brothers attended this camp. I once asked the younger of my two brothers what this camp was like. "I hated it!" "Why?" "The kids there would regularly beat me up." I was shocked to hear this; my brother is easy-going and likeable. "Why did they beat you up?" I asked. "I asked them. Several of them said: 'Because you have a family and we don't.'"

Author Profile:  Mitzel
	Mitzel was a founding member of the Fag Rag collective, and has been a Guide columnist since 1986. He manages Calamus Books near Boston's South Station.
	Email:	mitzel@calamusbooks.com
	Website:	calamusbooks.com