Originally printed on Mon, Dec. 16, 2002
Illustration by Jon Krause

Coming out
at Christmas

A long letter to Dad spurs pain, strengthens family
bonds -- and gives the holidays a greater meaning

By Todd Camp
Star-Telegram Staff Writer
It just didn't seem like a good, old-fashioned family Christmas unless someone's alcoholism was announced over eggnog, a divorce came up while caroling or a cousin began saying grace before dinner, only to get sidetracked into a lengthy dissertation on how she's dropping out of school, getting a tattoo and spending a few months hitchhiking around the country in an earnest attempt to "find herself."

So after years of witnessing sibling rivalry, the occasional barb launched at "mom's side of the family" or the whispered verbal shearing of a familial black sheep, it was finally my turn to join the pantheon of dysfunction.

It was a month before the Christmas of 1993, and I had just spent two grueling weeks writing what I can honestly say is the most difficult assemblage of words I have ever put to paper. College entrance essays, phone book-sized term reports, even editor-driven newspaper features in which every word was challenged, manipulated or mocked, seemed like bathroom-wall free verse compared to the scrutiny I gave this single-spaced, two-page missive home.

Which is funny now, because almost 10 years later, what with my finely honed editing skills and 20/20 hindsight, I could easily pare all the emotional verbosity to one simple sentence: "Dad, I'm gay."

None of the overwrought histrionics or the meant-to-be-supportive pyschobabble culled from a half-dozen "How to Come Out to Your Parents Without Inducing Heart Failure" self-help books I'd pored through over the summer. Just a succinct, Ellen-esque, "Yep, I'm gay."

And while I was pretty much comfortable in my gay skin -- having told all my friends, co-workers, and most of the state of Texas through a weekly comic strip in the gay press -- I still waited until the Thanksgiving leftovers had cooled in the fridge before I worked up enough courage to drop that letter in the mail.

Letters, plural, I should say, because I sent one to Mom as well. But who am I kidding? She saw the random signs: A dog-eared copy of Boy's Life with Greg Louganis on the cover, the nearly threadbare soundtrack to Grease, not to mention all those long weekend nights worrying when I had snuck out to drive into town and see the Rocky Horror Picture Show. Her letter was just confirmation of the inevitable.

But Dad only saw the poster of the red swimsuit-clad Farrah Fawcett on the wall and assumed all was right with the world. For him, the letter was a complete and utter shock.

Looking back, I can't imagine why. An only child, I had no interest in sports -- my short-lived stint with little league was disastrous and we won't even talk about the rodeo days. Dad's desperate attempts to share his passions for fishing and hunting always ended in frustration, and while both my parents always encouraged my interest in art and culture, I can't help but think he was a little embarrassed by my lack of interest in the "manlier things."

But we were always close, which is why I almost hate to admit that the catalyst for my decision to tell him came not from some deep-seated urge to set the record straight or even the idea that I owed my parents the truth. Nope, as is often the case with my decisions, my motivations were purely selfish. I had met someone, and the thought of spending Christmas away from him seemed more inconceivable than the thought of spending it away from the others I loved.

The decision not to go home was mine. I figured it was one thing letting my dad know that his only son liked other guys. But bringing home a date to stir up visuals would probably be too much to handle.

I was also aware that I hadn't missed a Christmas with my family in 26 years. Each Christmas Eve, the Camp clan would gather around the tree of whichever household lost the coin toss and we would open presents, one at a time, until the living room was buried beneath drifts of crumpled wads of colorful wrapping paper and curly-cue strands of hand-spiraled ribbon.

Some of my friends' families did the Christmas morning thing, or tore through their packages willy-nilly so that no one saw the loot until the debris settled -- something I'm still getting used to with my partner's side of the family . . . But this was our tradition.

Christmas Eve. One at a time. The whole family.

Except me.

I got a response in the mail five days before Christmas. I opened it not with the fervor I would a giant, well-wrapped, heavily Scotch-taped present, but more like a report card after a particularly slacked-off semester.

My new boyfriend, Doug, sat with me as I read over phrases like "the greatest nightmare a father could have," "totally abhorrent to me" and "never accept nor condone."

It hurts as much to read it today as it did 10 years ago, and I know how it all came out. Ironically, his last sentence read, "... hopefully there will be more Christmases that will be happier than this one," and, sure enough, there were.

Doug and I did go home the following Christmas, and apart from a few awkward, paper-cut painful conversations, Dad never spontaneously combusted, so the experience was written off as a success.

I watched over the years as cursory nods became handshakes and handshakes became hugs. Dad took a genuine interest in Doug's dance career and never fails to ask about him when I call. I don't think he was prepared to actually like my partner, and as I've watched their relationship develop over the years, I've begun to wonder if they have more in common than Dad and I do.

I know they both seem to get a big kick out of joking about my complete lack of knowledge when it comes to cars.

It got easier every year, and now it's hard to imagine when Doug wasn't a member of the family.

I've survived almost a decade's worth of gay-related grief since then. I've lost friends. I've ridden an emotional, national news-inspired roller coaster through Contracts With America, Don't Ask Don't Tell and the murder of Matthew Shepard. I lived through a terrifying time when zealots threatened my career. Yet it astounds me that those old typewritten sheets still maintain their power to hurt, like an unhealed bruise reawakened after whacking it on the edge of the coffee table. But the experience made me stronger, my family closer and, oddly enough, the holidays more meaningful.

Besides, that was nothing compared to the time I had to tell my folks I was a Democrat. But that's another story