The floorboards shake beneath my feet as Jim trades another of his outrageous stories for the family’s attention. That’s always how these impromptu reunions go; Dad and his brothers constantly searching for opportunities to measure cocks and outdo each other. Born so close together, it makes sense that those four would hold some primordial need to compete. It’s mostly harmless, and everyone gets a good laugh out of it. Usually.
Honestly, I’m thankful that Jim happened to be in town this week. It makes it easier to avoid the spotlight cast by Oma and Mom.
Contrasting the loud, boisterous men populating our family tree, the women are comparatively reserved: happy to entertain and join the festivities, but equally likely to corner you with an interrogation on your way back from the restroom. They don’t mean any harm, and genuinely think they’re just taking an interest in the family. But they don’t have to sit with the bitter aftertaste of their probing, the implication of every involuntary inflection.
Shaking my cup, I search for any whiskey that might still be hiding in the ice. Time for another round.
As I walk past their revelry, another chorus of laughter erupts. Nobody notices as I make my way into the kitchen and away from it all.
Pouring a double Jack, I get lost watching cola bubbles wiggle out from under the ice. Just a few more days. After the Fourth I’ll have done my time and can make my way back to the apartment, free from the family trying to understand me.
It’s not their fault, really. There just aren’t a lot of openly gay men out here in the Thumb. Sure, they see them on TV, but I wonder if my family has ever knowingly met a queer person. So, when pictures from that party back in May made their way onto my cousin’s Facebook page, I think everyone was a bit shocked to see me in the background with some guy’s tongue down my throat.
When I got to my parents last week, Oma was in the kitchen talking to Mom. Nobody said anything, but I could tell from their lingering gazes that I was being reassessed. Were there signs they missed? Was it my hair? Are those really the arms of a faggo-er, gay man?
Aside from the once-overs and double takes I get around town, nothing. No comments, no questions, not even a light-hearted joke. Just normal, polite conversations about work and how the big city’s treating me.
It’s better this way. They don’t ask, I don’t tell, and we can all mull in the heady bliss of ignorance. I’ll text Uncle Dave my NFL pick ‘ems every Saturday this fall, just like I have since getting my first allowance. I’ll go to my sister’s wedding in April, forsaking my plus one and letting all the aunties pinch my cheeks and tell me that “my person is out there”.
Another chorus of laughter and jeers breaks out. I hear glassware clinking together in the cabinet. Jim’s story must’ve reached its climax. Or maybe Dad butt in to correct the record.
I mean, listen to them out there! They don’t want things to change. We’re still coming to Oma’s for cook-outs and holidays despite Grandpa passing a few years back and the family outgrowing the small ranch home a generation ago. We’re a people of tradition, of knowing our place. I know they love me, they just don’t know how to deal with me. This “new” me.
I tilt my head back, downing half my drink in a single pull. Leaving the kitchen, I shoulder my way through the commotion. I wait for my opportunity—calling out both my father and uncle for being full of horseshit, I tell the crowd how the story REALLY went.
Another round of laughter, strong and bright.
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This was really good. You put me right there in the reunion with you!