Convolution Wrote the Gay Straight Man

I’ve always been a bit of a strange bird. Strange in that I’ve not really been able to pin myself down in terms of description—nor have I had much inclination to. And I like that. I appreciate that elusive quality about myself, primarily because it is a sincere quirk and not an affectation (as is often the case with folks).

I have definitive opinions on just about everything but rarely share them unless pressed—and even then I have to be in the mood. When I do elect to share, it is not with the intent of winning one over to my side of things. I may not agree with you, but in all honesty I could not care less whether you think as I do. Generally speaking, I am interested in other’s views if for nothing else the opportunity to learn something new. That is a rare and fine thing and I like it. Above all (most) else though, I am a live and let live kind of guy. As long as you don’t fuck with me or mine, it is not likely that I will fuck with you. It is as simple a motto, slogan, caption, mantra, bumper sticker, what have you as I can imagine. I’ve always had a little difficulty grasping that there are not more folks who adhere to a similar belief. Don’t think for a moment that I don’t recognize the sheer arrogance and hint of hypocrisy in that admission, for I do. But while I may have trouble grasping that more people don’t follow similar paths, I would never presume to tell someone that they should. So in that sense, I am comfortable that I am being consistent. My belief system works for me and that, really, is my only concern with it at the moment. It seems to parallel the oft quoted and clichéd Golden Rule that so many others profess to follow but rarely do.

All of that nonsense to get to this: I’ve been troubled lately by a thing that I would ordinarily find hilarious, re-tell to close friends for the sake of story, then rid from my overcrowded bean forever. See, I credit myself with a rare personality glitch that prevents me from insult or offense. Rather, I cannot be insulted or offended. Perhaps it harkens back to an arrogance of which I am unaware; but instead of simply saying it, I truly do not care what people think of me; and I am so inherently vile that (seemingly) nothing offends me. And herein lies the problem. I think I am mostly bothered by the fact that I am bothered. I learned recently that extended family of the Boy’s mother relayed as fact—not opinion—to other extended family members that I am gay and my Boy is being raised in an unhealthy environment. Apparently, it is my homosexuality that broke up my marriage. Yeah, Baby! The closet door has been pried open and Word’s out—I like the dick.

Nine out of ten times I would laugh at this like there was no tomorrow. I am as secure in my masculinity as I need to be; and I am in no way threatened, or bothered by homosexuality. The reason being? Because I live and let live. I simply do not care! So it is certainly not the stigma of homosexuality—implied or otherwise—that hurts me here. And “hurt” is not appropriate for what I feel. For there is another unfortunate quirk of my personality that would permit me to dismiss these particular people from my thoughts altogether. In the big scheme, they are of no significant import to me. I like them, have welcomed them into my home, and have gone far out of my way to ensure their comfort. It has been important to me that they have a role in Emerson’s life. Despite my cynical facade, I respect family and tradition. Many of my efforts thus far reflect that. So I am not hurt that they have dubbed me gay. If this story is true, they have underestimated my personal security and open-mindedness. But having borne witness—albeit peripherally— to my role in Em’s upbringing these past four years, that they would dare suggest the Boy is somehow in harm’s way by being in my custody infuriates me. My reaction is as convoluted as you might expect.



I understand divorce has long-reaching affects. From family to circles of friends to casual acquaintances, folks are affected and reactive. I am no one to fuck with human nature. I get it, I do. But no one has been more hurt by this than my son, his mother, and me. We’ve got our own shit to deal with. So when someone so far removed from the immediate situation reverts to seventh grade name-calling and rumor-spreading, I take exception. And my uncharacteristically itchy trigger finger encourages me to slap the living shit out of two old people. And that pisses me off in ways I cannot voice. Because that is not my nature. I am pissed that during such a difficult time, I have allowed myself to become saddled with this ridiculousness. I am pissed that I have allowed this to occupy anything more than a millisecond of my very limited time. I am pissed that I have circumvented my own freakish need for privacy and shared any of this. I am pissed…

It is a trial to maintain a level head under the best of circumstances, eh?

I know little, but I do know this: I love my Boy more than life and there is nothing I wouldn’t do for him or to ensure his well being. For me, a vastly important part of his well-being is family interaction—paternal and maternal. He is a deeply loved Boy and, in turn, he loves deeply. I have made and endured several compromises to ensure that Em receives and returns this interaction. For now, I will continue. But, for good or for bad, the Boy will take his lead, direction, and instruction from me. I will have done him no favors by granting him an audience with people who denigrate his father. This is where it becomes particularly complicated. I am quite capable of dealing with insults and slurs. Truly, I am not that sensitive. I will certainly manage to give the Boy enough reasons to doubt me on my own as he lumbers into manhood. These missteps will be entirely earned and thus on my conscience. I will have earned them. And I will own them. But should a four-year-old child be subjected to such hatefulness directed at his father? What kind of respect would/should he have for a father who knowingly sanctions such hatefulness? Or is there a grander lesson of turning the other cheek in this?

But rhetorical is rhetorical and life is rarely defined.

Experience tells me that third person accounts of anything are rarely accurate. This one, though, stinks of truth. Soon I will approach the offending parties and graciously give them an “out” or a stage on which they can present their “Ryan likes cock and is a horrible father” PowerPoint. Either way, my response is not likely to be pretty and I already regret that. I hope to be the bigger man here and retain a relationship that gives my son the gift of people with experience and love and goodness. I hope. I hope I am that big.

For the record, my issue here is not with childish name calling. Nor do I have the energy to debate whether homosexual parents are less capable than heterosexual parents. These are non-issues for me. My issues are with betrayal, maliciousness, and overt indecency—and, ultimately, how I choose to deal with them.