The holidays are always an awkward time for me. I enjoy that time of year, with all the time spent with my family and an upcoming break from school, but there are some unhappy memories associated with the late winter as well. When I was twelve years old, my uncle fell into a coma in mid-December and died on the twenty first. They put hepatitis on the death certificate but my aunt, a nurse, would tell you that his death was really from complications of HIV. I didn’t really know my uncle that well, but it would have been nice to have an older person in my family to talk to about being gay. My parents and grandparents are supportive of me but it’s obvious that it bothers them when I talk about anything sex-related, especially relationships. I was only twelve when my uncle died so didn’t realize what I was missing out on until years later. My uncle had never told anyone in his family that he had HIV. We didn’t find out until it was all over.
A little less than a year after my uncle died, just a few days before Thanksgiving, my twenty-one year old cousin was killed in a car accident. There was no preceding prolonged sickness or coma so the news was much more of a shock than the death of my uncle. I remember how drugged-up and zoned-out his mother was at the funeral, realizing, later on, how ridiculous it is for observers or police to suspect someone of murder because they “didn’t react to the death the right way.” It is beyond me how such critics could have so much hubris as to decide how someone should or should not be acting after a close family member has been suddenly wrenched from this person’s life. Some people don’t mourn in front of others, and some people don’t mourn on the surface at all. It doesn’t mean they aren’t mourning. My aunt lay on the floor and didn’t walk or eat for three days after my cousin was killed, left utterly unable to function as before. Because of my aunt’s need to always appear strong and composed in front of others, that’s not what everybody saw.
I’m always finding some new relationship interest around Thanksgiving and Christmas time. The cozy evenings of my extended family’s get-togethers are so often marked by a strong desire to get home and get to bed so I can call some guy as soon as possible the next day. Last year it was a closeted Abercrombie & Fitch enthusiast who was paranoid about anyone finding out about his bisexuality but still eager to invite me over so we could cuddle on the couch. Out of fear of being caught he abruptly ended the relationship right after Thanksgiving, but I had my hopes set on a new guy I met at the club by the time Christmas came around. Despite my present romantic drought that has lasted from February until now, I’ve come to expect something to start developing over the next few weeks, and would be reluctant to say that the stars aren’t already alligning themselves to soon give my social life a much needed kick in the pants.
It was over Winter Break that I had finally accepted myself as a social deviant, during my sophomore year of high school. I emailed a guy from New York over the internet, and for the first time ever I typed the words “I am gay,” which still required far too much effort for me to be able to say it out loud. With the chilly weather outside and the gentile fluffy snow clinging to the window glass, the scorching fires of Hell seemed more remote than ever and the thought of being punished by God for my sexuality was out of my mind. Early winter was a time marked by lust and love, hope, aspirations, and a celebration of what was possible.
Over Christmas time one year my interest in New York City became a mad love affair. New York represented freedom, energy, un-repressed sexuality, and a powerful youthful spirit that captivated my thoughts and dreams for the future. I would stare for hours at pictures of the Manhattan skyline, and taped countless images of the city on my books and bedroom walls. As I often describe my interest to my friends, I looked at pictures of New York City as wantingly and as desperately as fourteen year old boys look at porn.
These many vivid memories come to mind often whenever I catch a glimpse of a Christmas wreath or the smell of anise oil from the pizzelles my parents made the night before. My mind flashes from the cozy warmth of family and a tree ornaments to the image of two boys having sex without guilt in a forty story high-rise apartment, the icy crowded streets far below lit by strings of electric Christmas lights. With the right attitude, the thoughts of death and mourning almost completely fade away.
On One Hand 