by Mark Segal
Even though my partner and friends Randy and Jan were giving me support by getting me to the hospital, staying with me, or just talking, I continued to drift and feel alone. I’d spend the nights chatting with Grandmom. I’d talk and she’d just smile, but there was always hope that something I said would get her to speak again. I even told her about “Tits and Ass,” at which she smiled a little wider, but still made no sound. The two most important women in my life were in trouble and there was nothing I could do.
Dad was a complete wreck, but he wasn’t on my radar at all, nor anyone else’s. Poor Dad. His whole life was my mother and nobody recognized what this was doing to him. Growing up in our house there was one indisputable fact that you knew: my parents adored each other. In a sense it’s a true love story. They saved each other. Mom was from an upper-middle-class family and she had been a sickly child who was not, as we discovered later, expected to live into adulthood. Grandmom took her out of school in the tenth grade so that she could help with the family’s grocery store. But this proved to be counterproductive; since she was already not expected to amount to much, being taken out of school only deepened her feelings of failure. When she survived and married she was advised against having children.
Dad grew up in a home where his father had abandoned his mother, which was rare in a Jewish family of those days. My other grandmother couldn’t afford to feed her kids so Dad was put into a Jewish home for children, sort of like an orphanage. He stayed there until the Second World War, when he enlisted in the Army and became a tail gunner over the Pacific. When he came home from the war, his dreams of going to college slammed head-on into reality. He needed to help feed his mother and siblings. So he put his own interests aside, only occasionally having a night to himself. During one of those Saturday nights, at a dance, he met Mom. According to both of them, it was love at first sight. Dad made Mom feel like she had a future and could have that family she so wanted, and Dad married up and into a loving, stable family. We might have been poor in my early days, but emotionally we were very rich. My parents set my ideal of a successful marriage. Neither of them began to truly live until they met each other; Mom was Dad’s life and vice versa.
Their wedding picture tells it all. Dad looks dapper and Mom is a beautiful bride in a long, flowing gown. The smiles on their faces are incredible. They carried that unconditional love to their children; seeing it between them impacted me in ways I didn’t even recognize until many decades later. As it stood, if ever that unconditional love was put to the test, it was by me. Even as a child, my independence was evident. At nine years old I hopped a train to New York to see my first Broadway show and called my mother from Manhattan to express how thrilled I was with myself, unaware that I’d given her the fright of her life. When I did it again at age thirteen, she was no longer surprised. This time she asked what show I saw, and I replied, “UTBU with Tony Randall.” From her voice I could tell she was happy for me, and somehow I instinctively knew that my happiness more than anything was what she wanted from life. If her son wanted adventure, she’d be happy when he had adventure.
Other kids ran away from home; I went on trips. For me it felt like I had broken away from the projects for the day. Times Square in all its awe was no match for my excitement. Passersby on the streets were in such a rush they hardly paid attention to me, a nine-year-old kid strolling by himself. In that big city, this little boy could be just like anybody else, not the poor Jewish kid from the projects. I can still recall going to the stage door and asking to meet Tony Randall. He actually came to the door in a white bathrobe and asked how I picked his show, and I replied, “It was the only one which had a name I knew.” He smiled and patted me on the head. I felt special; I’d met a movie star. If ever I thought I was different, this moment solidified it for me. I was different from my schoolmates and relatives, not because I met a movie star, but because I was there, taking a trip on my own. It was the moment I knew that one day I’d create my own destiny. I had no idea what that would be, but on that day I began thinking about my future.
My parents of course knew that I was a slightly different breed of child. One night, my father decided to punish me for something bad I’d done, and told me to go upstairs and miss my favorite TV show, something about a big-top circus. I hesitated and Dad gave me a wallop on the ass. I screamed and yelled as he again suggested I head upstairs. I kept the crying act up as I climbed the steps in dramatic pain. Dad wasn’t going to get the best of seven-year-old me. At the top of the stairs and just out of sight I let out another yell for good measure. Then, as if in a trance, I found myself in my parents’ room and saw the makeup on my mother’s dresser. Soon I was like a chemist pouring one liquid into another until I found the perfect blend and color. I took off my trousers and my underwear and started to apply the liquid to the underwear. It was a nice deep red, and resembled blood. I quietly went to the stairs and laid them out with the fake blood showing. Then I started to howl. My father came running to scold me, but upon seeing the underwear he thought he had actually hurt me and rushed to my bedside. I just looked at him, and slowly started to smile. At first he didn’t know what to say, then finally called out, “Shirley, you won’t believe what Mark did.” And he was laughing. We were a very forgiving family.
Once, Mom was working to make ends meet in a local department store. She was the manager of the pet department which gave us an excuse for having every kind of pet, from goldfish to piranha, from dog and cat to snake. (Ours got lost in the closet one day and wound up in the coat pocket of the housing project manager. We never figured out if this is why our rent was raised.) We had an alligator named Moishe that Grandmom brought back on a leash from Miami, the fruits of her annual winter pilgrimage. She took to walking the alligator until it died of fright from the bark of our German shepherd.
One day when my brother was working on some chemistry experiments, he let our parrot out of its cage to fly around the room. It had been imprisoned too long, he said. My brother was boiling his specimen and the bird decided to land on his shoulder, but somehow miscalculated and flew directly over the Bunsen burner. His wings caught fire. My mother, who was preparing to go out that evening with my father to a cousins club function, was lavishly dressed, awaiting my father’s return from work, when she heard a yell from my brother, something about fire. It seems the parrot with its burning wings landed on the curtains; they caught fire, which then spread to the bed. My mother, seeing the problem the minute she entered the room as only a mother can, shouted, “Everything stay exactly where it is!” I was scared and I know that my brother was scared, maybe even the bird was scared, but that fire didn’t give a damn. Mom, thinking fast, opened the window and threw the curtains and bedspread out. Then, once all was quiet, she noticed herself in the mirror. Her dress was full of ash, her hair was fried, her makeup smeared. She was not going to the cousins club that night. Seeing the look on her face, somehow I wished she had tossed us out that window. Her only response, with a half-smile on her face, was, “At least I’ll get to spend the night with my favorite people in the world.” That was Mom. She didn’t even scold us, not one word about the fire.
My brother and I never truly bonded. We never had what might be called a brotherly relationship. To me it seemed he resented me from the time my parents brought me home from the hospital. We seldom talked. Once, in anger at something he had done that I’ve since long forgotten, I stormed over to my parents and said, “I’ll never forgive you for giving me him as a brother.” Even though he was three years older than me, I always felt more mature. I was the one taking care of things, especially our parents. But I do recall, at the hospital following my mother’s kidney operation, him trying to comfort our father.
While she was still in isolation, Mom’s numbers began to go south. And then we were told that septicemia had entered her bloodstream. The doctors used lines like, “We’re trying to do everything we can.” And finally one night while we all sat in the waiting room taking our turns to
visit with Mom, one of the younger doctors whom I had become friendly with called me over and told me the truth: “It doesn’t look good.” It was left to me to tell Dad. I suggested that he and everyone else go home and I’d stay the night.
There was no one but me in the waiting room this time. My partner and my friends Jen and Randy all wanted to stay with me but I asked them not to. For whatever reason, I had to be there alone, and when I think of it now I believe that I didn’t want anyone to see me so vulnerable. I spent that night in the tiny waiting room pacing back and forth. Every so often the doctor would come out and say nothing, just stand there. And what could he say? He was just trying to comfort me; it was one of his first cases, and he took it personally. When he’d leave I’d curl myself into a ball on the floor and cry with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I felt as though I was the loneliest person in the world. In an uncharacteristic move, I had a personal chat with God. It was a one-sided conversation.
At about six a.m. the doctor came out and said, “You might want to talk to your mother.” By the sound of his voice I knew he meant a final conversation. As I went into her room, all I saw were her arms flailing around in pain. It was the most frightening sight I’ve ever witnessed. The doctors were holding her down, trying to stop her from hurting herself. There was no conversation possible. It was a scene out of hell.
Going back to that tiny waiting room, I sat on the floor and wondered why there was nothing I could do to solve this. Then the doctor suggested that I call my father. At that point I turned into a machine, no longer human, no longer feeling, just doing whatever had to be done, whatever was asked of me. Dad arrived just in time. Fifteen minutes later Mom passed away, and when she did, Dad screamed and cried in pain and kept saying, “Let me die, please take me.” Then he fainted on the spot. They needed a wheelchair for him.
A nurse gave him a Valium. He was so out of it that he just popped it into his mouth without question. Another nurse came over to check his blood pressure and gave him another Valium, and then the doctor who was attending my mom saw him and gave him another. We wheeled Dad to the car and he slept until the following day, which was a blessing. It was February 27, 1978. I was twenty-seven years old.
The next day, with Dad out of it and me still in machine mode, I made the funeral arrangements. My brother just agreed to whatever plans we worked out or were suggested by the undertaker. Word had gotten out that my mom had died and the Daily News wanted to run an obituary. It was from that obituary that I learned about what my parents had been through with some of my relatives. In the obituary I’m quoted as saying, “My mom was a gay activist.” On the day of the funeral, my Uncle Ralph asked me if I had really said that, and I said of course. He said, “Then maybe it’s good she’s gone.” Can you ever forgive someone for saying something like that? I couldn’t.
There is only one part of the funeral itself that I clearly recall. It was the part where they ask the family to review the deceased. All I can remember is Grandmom looking at Mom. She was smiling and I wondered if she understood what was happening. We were ushered into a side room as the lid of the coffin was closed. My mind and body remained on autopilot, doing whatever needed to be done.
My father remained a wreck for some time, so I began to make household decisions to keep things moving as best as possible. My mother and father’s best friends were Dot and Gouch who lived up the street. Most nights, Mom and Dad would go up to their house and either play cards or just sit around and talk. Now, every night they came down to sit with my Dad, to sit with their Marty. They were his best medicine. And they were funny. Dot spoke like a truck driver, and I could see why the couples were friends. Like my parents, Dot and Gouch adored each other. It might have taken months, but they nursed Dad back to living.
As for me, it might seem strange but my feelings were mostly guilt. Was there more that could have been done? Why did I not have more knowledge on the subject and should I have asked the doctors more questions? There was no WebMD then, and at that time patients relied, for the most part, on whatever the doctor said. It would take an epidemic less than five years later to explain to me the value of patient involvement and self-advocacy for one’s own treatment.
My tears only came when I was alone, and they were slight and silent. I wanted to have a big cry, to break down completely, but somehow it did not happen. To me, this was private. For weeks I was in a zombie state, going through the motions and moving forward but without feelings. A friend finally thought it might be good to get me out of the city and took me to Key West. One night while walking on the beach alone and looking up at the stars, I sunk to the sand and cried. I don’t remember how long I cried but I do remember thinking, Let me get it all out now. I can tell you that even after more than thirty years, you can never get it all out. What you can hope for is that the pain transitions into the fondness of memories and the good that a person brought into your life. My mother’s gift to me, the gift of love and support, was immeasurable.
The pages of Philadelphia Gay News did not see my byline again for several months, but the editorial responsibilities were in the good hands of Jack Veasey. Jack was a talented writer with a sharp wit. My favorite line from him was when he was doing a review of a cabaret singer whose voice he just could not tolerate. In describing this Jack wrote, “His voice was so flat that you could land a 747 on it without spilling one cocktail.”
In April I finally wrote an editorial. It was titled “Up with Parents”:
The old adage that says you don’t appreciate something until it’s gone is never more true than it is with gays and their relationships with their parents. In most ethnic and minority communities, children who are feeling depressed or somewhat different from other segments of society could always look to their parents for needed support in dealing with their problems. Unfortunately, gays do not, for the most part, go to their parents for support. In fact, many shudder at the thought of outing themselves and asking for help seems insurmountable.
Parents can help ease the suffering of guilt, anxiety, and pressure that many of us go through, but most of all, they can normalize a life torn between different worlds. In a time when we feel so unloved, the attentive love of parents can bring us home to reality and ease the hurts that we all come across on the path of life.
We are not all able to express to our parents the realities of our lives; some might not understand, others might misunderstand. In some cases we are not strong enough to burden them with something that may take them the rest of our lives to digest.
This is a very personal editorial because its meaning brings home the memory of my mother, who recently passed away. She not only knew and accepted me as I am, but became an important part of my work. I have no doubt that were it not for my parents, I could not have achieved what I have thus far.
I remember the first time I tried to tell my mother that I was gay. I called her on the phone, dropped the line very shakily, and listened for her reply. She asked, “What are you going to do when you’re old, who do you have to keep you company?” I answered, “I would have my friends and family, and you.” I was wrong, but the short period I did have my mother proved to be the most productive and rewarding time in my life. She not only accepted and supported my work but she was proud of that work, so much so that she wanted to be a part of it.
My mother’s enthusiasm kept me going when times were difficult, and at times she seemed to be more liberated than I. When her cousin was planning a wedding, my mother was outraged when an invitation was not extended to my lover and balked at attending until my father persuaded her otherwise. She’s spoken at gay pride rallies even though illness should have kept her indoors, and when speaking on the Phil Donahue Show, she said in reference to my lover Phillip, “He is also my son.” She’d planned to reorganize a local “Parents of Gays” group to aid parents in understanding and accepting their gay children, but illness kept her from completing that goal.
I know that the warmth, love, and enco
uragement that I received from my mother have resulted in numerous successes, and the existence of this newspaper is one direct result.
I still have my father, who I know will continue to be supportive and loving as he has always been. I am particularly grateful for that when I realize that even only one supportive open parent is more than many gays will ever have.
I’d like to encourage readers, who haven’t already, to seriously consider sharing your gayness with your parents. You may be underestimating the power of their love. Closeness with the moral support from parents can be an invaluable source of strength to cope with the day-to-day oppression we all have to face.
Chapter 8
Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome
There’s more to a problem than just finding a solution. There’s the creativity used to find that solution. Like most boys of my age in 1969, which happened to be during the height of the Vietnam War, the single biggest personal concern was being drafted into the US military and ending up in that hell. Like all eighteen-year-olds, I was required to register for the draft. Then I awaited the dreaded call to go in, to be questioned, and to be examined, hoping that my birth date was low on the list and I’d escape the draft. Many of us looked for ways out. It would have been simple just to say I was gay and I’d be immediately denied entry and receive what they called a 4-F. The problem would be that a 4-F remained on your record permanently and could affect future employment. So most gay men never used that option. The closet was safer.
I had read somewhere that anything you sent to your draft board was required by law to be kept on file, in a permanent capsule of sorts. Given that, it seemed to me that they would try to figure out what was of interest to an individual, and therefore know whether or not they were a suitable candidate for the draft. Each Sunday, I religiously bought my New York Times, and every Monday, after faithfully reading it, I’d package it up and send it to my draft board. I wonder if there is a file somewhere out there with my name on it with over a year and a half worth of the Sunday New York Times taking up valuable governmental office space.