Updated: Aug. 3, 2016
Originally Published: June 28, 2015
When the Supreme Court announced its ruling on marriage equality, I couldn’t help but jump for joy. My kids were with me, and naturally, they wanted to know what all the fuss was about. I did my best to explain the significance of the decision and why it was such a big deal. They know and care about many friends who are part of the LGBTQ+ community, and they were puzzled as to why a Supreme Court ruling was necessary to grant equal rights to our friends. Still, they accepted my excitement as a valid response.
But I held back a crucial part of my story.
My father, their grandfather, was gay. He was a well-respected attorney who had even argued cases in front of the Supreme Court. Tragically, he passed away from AIDS when I was just eight years old—one of the first cases in Florida. At the time, no one told me the truth. I was left in the dark about the secrecy surrounding his death and why my classmates suddenly treated me like an outsider. This was back in 1982, when fears about AIDS were rampant; people believed it could be spread through casual contact. No parent wanted their child near a kid whose dad had died from it. Eventually, I had to switch schools.
The next year, we moved away from Florida, but a feeling of confusion lingered. I kept asking questions until, a few years later, I finally confronted my mother. “He had AIDS, didn’t he?” I asked. She confirmed it, and what followed was a piecing together of fragmented memories. By the time the doctors figured out his illness, he was already in a coma, and my mom couldn’t ask him any questions. A close friend of his, Sam, helped fill in some gaps: there had been relationships with men, with one partner in particular who had passed away as well.
What I remember most about my dad is the little things: he always wore perfectly pressed jeans and colorful Izod shirts. He had a passion for vintage cars, especially his beloved white MG. He was a cookie aficionado, and my favorite treats were his “surprise cookies” filled with M&Ms. He loved photography, and one of his photos of my baby sister, who was only a year old when he died, won a prize in a Cheerios contest.
He even took me for a ride in the Goodyear blimp when I was six! But then, he fell ill the following year, spending a lot of time in and out of the hospital. Just after I turned eight, I witnessed him collapse one night, and he never returned home.
I remember the night he passed away; I was too stunned to cry. Why hadn’t anyone prepared me for this? I also recall the memorial service—my first time wearing pantyhose, with a family friend gifting me some fancy shoes. We sang his favorite songs, “Morning Has Broken” and “Amazing Grace.”
Like many kids, I adapted and moved on. I rarely spoke about my dad, as it brought sadness to my mom, who was struggling to raise an eight-year-old and a baby on her own. Over time, I found myself thinking about him less and less.
The next time I really thought about my father was during college, when the movie Philadelphia premiered. The film mirrored elements of his life, and watching Tom Hanks’ character suffer brought back a flood of memories. I sat in the theater long after the credits ended, unable to stop the tears.
These days, I’ve shared my father’s story with more people. As acceptance for the LGBTQ+ community has grown and AIDS has become less of a death sentence, it’s easier to share. Still, it may take some time before I tell my kids the full truth about their grandfather. We’ll likely watch Philadelphia together, and I’ll share the bits I know: that he loved gadgets, books, and Star Wars, and how much he would have cherished them.
Later that same day, after the kids had gone to bed and after I reached out to my closest gay friends to tell them how much they mean to me, I shared a photo of my dad and me on social media with the hashtag #LoveWins. In that moment, I finally allowed myself to cry.
I cried because my father deserved a better world. I cried because he felt he had to hide who he was. I cried because I never truly got to know him. If only he could have lived another 32 years, he would have realized there was never anything shameful about being who he was.
We have come so far. Love does ultimately triumph, although not always in the time we wish it would.
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Summary: The marriage equality ruling brought immense joy to me, but it also stirred up deep emotions connected to my father’s life as a gay man who died of AIDS when I was young. While I’ve shared parts of his story over the years, there’s still more to tell my children. As love triumphs, I can’t help but wish my father could have seen the world as it is today.