That time my 82-year-old aunt dragged me out of the closet.

Hi Friends,

My Aunt K was born on May 1st and would have turned 104 last week, had she not died fifteen years ago. I wrote the following to be (potentially) included in a book I was working on about my journey through my sexuality. I’m gay! I don’t know if I’ll ever complete that book, so maybe I’ll start sharing some of the stories here.

The following conversation took place in 2003. Pardon the sometimes choppy formatting, with extra spaces between the dialogue. I’m sure there’s a fix for it but I couldn’t figure out what it was.

Before getting into the story, I want to acknowledge that though I believe deeply in the healing power of writing, of art, a part of me is struggling, has been struggling, to find the purpose in sharing anything unrelated to…choose your injustice. On the one hand, little seems important while this country and world continues to be so corrupt, and violent, and genuinely insane. My mind takes me to what’s the point? again and again and again. I feel like I am continuously on the brink of giving up, of retreating from public interaction, of walking away from what has been for years what I have believed to be my greatest gift and purpose: to be a voice for the power of love in our world.

And yet, even in my despair, I rarely question the power of love to create healing here. Sometimes, in my deepest despair, I do question it. Not the power of love as much as our consistent inability to choose it. Instead, we continue to choose our conditioning, and fear, and hypocrisy, and bigotry and…choose your ego manifestation.

I also struggle with adding to the noise. There’s so much noise, so much content, so many ideas and opinions. Lots of helpful ones, to be sure. But still, it’s hard to get quiet, to hear myself, my inner knowing, beyond all the distraction. And I wonder if my writing is just another thing causing distraction, more noise taking us away from being with ourselves. I don’t know.

I don’t have any fucking answers. Really, at this point, no fucking answers. And though there is some liberation in not needing to know, especially what can’t really be known, I wish I could find within me a clear answer to what’s the point? and let that clarity be my guiding force through this heartbreaking, unpredictable time.

For now, I’ll stick with what resonates most deeply within me: just love. This is what I inevitably come back to, so maybe that is the clearest answer, at least for me. At least right now.

Maybe some of you are struggling with similar thoughts? Where are you finding meaning? What is the point for you? What, if anything, do you inevitably come back to?

Anyway, here’s the conversation I had with my Aunt K. I hope it contributes in some good way to your present reality. I hope it makes you smile.

---

I talk to my eighty-two-year-old Aunt K for at least a few minutes every day. Well, almost every day. She has always been like a second mom to me, especially after my parents were killed when I was fourteen. Aunt K has no children, and perhaps because of her closeness to my dad, her baby brother, she’s loved me and my siblings like we were her own kids. Especially me and my brothers. She’s partial to the boys, and tough on the girls in our family. She can be a stubborn pain in the ass, completely unwilling to forgive those who have crossed her, and is easily one of my favorite people on the planet.

I’m on the balcony of my boyfriend Mark’s Manhattan apartment, entranced by the Empire State Building and the dozens of wooden water towers that cap the rooftops of this bewitching skyline. I dial Aunt K.

“Hello hello hello,” she says.
“Hi Aunt K. It’s Scott.”
“Wait a minute, just wait a minute. Hello? Hello?”
“Can you hear me, Aunt K?”
“Hold on. These damn hearing aids. Hold on. Hello? There we go, that’s better. Hello?”
“Hi Aunt K. It’s Scott.”

“I had a feeling it was you. How are you, honey?”

“I’m good. What are you up to?”
“Just finished my walk downstairs.”
“How many laps today?”

“Fifty-five.” Aunt K walks in circles the perimeter of her basement every day. The basement is empty — like completely empty — aside from a chest freezer, and a washer and dryer. Nothing else. She scrub-cleans the space at least once a week, making it more sterile than a hospital ICU. I’m a germaphobe and I’d lick the floor no problem.

“Rode my bike for twenty-five minutes, too,” she says. Her copper-colored stationary bike must be at least thirty years old and looks like something from the first ever Sears Catalog. That the pedals still turn is a miracle.

“You’re something else, Aunt K.”
“You got that right, baby.” She bursts out laughing and I do, too.
“How was the casino this morning?” I ask. She and my uncle Ken drive to Caesars Casino in Windsor, Canada, every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Sometimes on Saturdays, too.

“Your uncle won a little but I lost again. I’m a loser, baby. I was up some on roulette but threw it away on those damn poker slots.”

“That stinks.”
“You’re telling me. Stinks like poo-poo.”
“There’s always next time.”
“We’ll see. I spoke to your brother Jimmy earlier,” she says.
“How’s he doing?”
“He’s good. Working a lot. He calls me all the time, would you believe it? Your brother Russell does, too. They are the nicest men. They are just so nice. You know they lived with us for a couple years when they were boys.” She tells me this at least once a week.

“I know. Lucky them.”
“They really are just so nice.”
“They are.”
“You are, too, when you’re not a brat. All three of you boys. Your brother Ricky, too, God rest his soul, but he struggled. I’ll never forget the time he fell asleep on the couch when he was supposed to be babysitting you. You were just three years old, for God’s sake. Good thing I stopped by when I did. I shook him so hard, ‘Ricky, where’s Scotty?’ but he had no idea. Son of a bitch, I was so angry. It took us an hour to find you, you little shit, at the Jewish neighbors down the street.”

“The Newmans. They always gave me cookies,” I say.

“I’ll give you cookies, you brat. I was so scared. Your uncle knew your brother was on drugs, even before your parents, God rest their souls. Such a waste.”

“Ricky was a sensitive soul. The sweetest man, though.”
“He sure was, God rest his soul.”
“God rest his soul.”
“I want you to know honey, you can tell me anything and I’m still gonna love you. I mean anything.”
“I know that. Wait, you don’t think I’m on drugs, do you? I’m not on drugs, Aunt K.” I’ve done plenty of drugs, and I still smoke pot, but she doesn’t need to know that.

“I know you’re not on drugs, dummy. I’d beat your ass if I found out you were on drugs. I just want you to be happy. That’s all I want. Whatever and whoever makes you happy is okay by me.” Whoever? Is she saying what I think she’s saying? No. Not possible.

Do you understand me?” she asks.
“Yeah.” Maybe?
“I mean it. Whatever, and whoever.”

Oh my God, does she know I’m gay? “Okay, I hear you.”
“Whoever. I just want you to be happy.” I think she knows.
“I know, Aunt K.”
“Good. So what are you up to this weekend?”
“Not much. I’m going to dinner with some friends on Saturday night.” My sisters wouldn’t have told her. How does she know? Does Uncle Ken know, too?

“That’s cool, baby.”

“Some Spanish restaurant that’s supposed to be really good.” Should I tell her?

“Your uncle loved Spain. I couldn’t believe how much he loved Spain. Would you believe he liked it more than Italy?”

“They’re both pretty great.” My stomach starts to spin. I hadn’t ever planned to tell Aunt K I was gay, but I think I might do it. I think she knows.

“I liked Spain, too, but not more than Italy. My mother, God rest her soul, used to tell me stories about growing up in Sicily. She didn’t want to leave, but my father, God rest his soul, wanted to come to America, so they came. I’m glad they did. Italy is beautiful but I wouldn’t want to live there. Too dirty.”

Just do it, Scott.

“Ya know, Aunt K...”
“What is it, honey?”
Deep breaths. “There is something I want to tell you.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, everything’s good. It’s just, well, I’ve been hanging out with someone for a bit now. I mean, I’m kind of in a relationship now.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, with, with a guy.”
“That’s okay, honey. What’s his name?”
“His name’s Mark.”
“That’s a nice name. How old is Mark?”
“He’s forty-two.”
“That’s a good age. Ten years older than you and forty years younger than me! You know I didn’t get married until I was thirty-nine. An old maid. Does he have a job?” “He’s a business consultant. He’s pretty successful.”

“Good. Is he nice to you? Tell me the truth.”

“He’s very nice to me. We’ve actually been together for a year now. He’s a good guy.”

“As long as he’s nice to you, that’s all I care about. You tell Mark if he ever treats you bad your Aunt K is gonna give him hell. I’m not too old to serve him up a knuckle sandwich.”

“I’ll let him know, Aunt K. He already knows all about you.”

“What, that I’m a pain in your ass?”
“Well, that too.”
“You are a bad boy. Brat.” We laugh.

“I hope you’ll get to meet him someday.”

“I’d like that, honey. I’m sure your uncle would like that, too. What’s Mark’s last name?”

“Cohen.”
“Cohen? Is he Jewish?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s good. I worked with a couple Jewish women when I was the secretary to the general and I swear they were the nicest ladies. They dressed beautifully, both of them, like movie stars, and kept their desks so clean. You wouldn’t believe how clean they kept their desks. They couldn’t type as fast as I could, though. The general couldn’t believe how fast I typed. ‘Cathy,’ he used to say, ‘You’re a miracle.’ I really was something.”

“You still are something.”

“You got that right, baby.” She pulls me into her laughter again. “I better get going, honey. It’s time for your uncle’s lunch.”

“What are you making?”
“A sardine sandwich for him. Some graham crackers and coffee for me.”

“You need to eat, Aunt K.”
“I know but I’m not hungry.”
“You’re never hungry. You need to put some meat on those bones.”
“I will.”
“No you won’t.”
“You’re probably right, I won’t.” She giggles. “I love you, honey. You tell Mark hello from me, and tell him your Aunt K says he better be nice to you or else.”
“I’ll let him know. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about him sooner. I wasn’t sure how you’d react.”
“What do I always tell you?”
“Do what’s best for Scott.”
“Exactly. You do what’s best for Scott. As long as you’re happy, I’m happy.”

“I am happy. Really happy.”
“Then so am I.”
“I love you, Aunt K. Give my love to Uncle.”
“I will, honey. Ciao baby.”
We hang up and the tears hit immediately. I had decided years ago never to come out to Aunt K and Uncle Ken. They’re old, and conservative, and I thought my truth would break Aunt K’s heart. Telling them I’m gay had always felt more cruel than freeing. Unnecessary to my happiness.

Yet here we are.
She already knew. And didn’t care.
She invited me to come out, and then she just loved me when I did.

Aunt K and Uncle Ken did eventually meet Mark. I’m not sure why, but they didn’t like him. She didn’t tell me that, but it was obvious — in their tone, in their stares, in their clipped responses. Neither of them was skilled at hiding their disapproval, and she rarely asked about Mark when we talked.

Uncle Ken died from lung cancer in 2005. He was eighty-two when he died and had chained smoked 2+ packs a day since he was a teenager. It was a miracle his lungs had held out that long. I loved my uncle, my Godfather. He was good to my aunt and kind to me, but he could be very mean-spirited and bigoted and spent too much time barking racial slurs about anyone not white. A few days before he passed, he cough-whispered his last words to me: “You be good, Scotty.”

Aunt K never recovered from his death. Her mind deteriorated much more quickly than it might have had she had sardine sandwiches to prepare for her love each day. She stopped scrubbing her home, no longer lapped her basement or rode her bike, and struggled to find any meaning in life.

After Uncle Ken died, Aunt K and I continued to speak on the phone every day, often twice a day, usually for just a handful of minutes. The conversations repeated themselves from one day to the next. I urged her to eat more, or at least drink her Ensures. We talked about my siblings and my work, and she always asked me when I’d be coming home for a visit. “Soon,” I’d say. “Soon.” I assured her I’d call her the next day, and we hung up with I love you.

Aunt K died in 2010, in an assisted living center, at eighty-nine years old, but she had stopped living well before then. I visited her each day in that final week, and sat with her in her room, sometimes in a chair beside her bed, and sometimes in her bed right up next to her. I remember a moment after she had stopped speaking, when her eyes widened as a smile crept across her mouth and she reached her arms up toward the ceiling as though she were waiting for a hug. I felt certain she was seeing Uncle Ken, connecting with his spirit, ready to be with him again.

I don’t remember what her last words were to me, or when she said them. I like to imagine I was sitting on her bed, her hand in mine, when she smiled at me and whispered, “Do what’s best for Scott,” or “I love you, honey,” or simply, “Ciao, baby.”

---

It’s such a wonderful feeling to be surprised by someone in a good way. I’m deeply grateful to have had this conversation with Aunt K, and to have been shown, yet again, that my assumptions about people are often false. That the only way to know what’s going on in someone’s mind is to ask them.

May you find yourself surprised, in a good way, by someone in your life. May you be shown acceptance you didn’t know was there, and no matter what, choose to accept yourself, regardless of how others feel.

You are worthy, and lovable, and enough, just as you are. For real. For really real.

Big Big Love,

xoxo…Scott