mom hasn't called, but The Whitney is open

In 2018 I came out to my mother inside The Whitney museum in New York. 

I wanted to be somewhere public when I told her—so she couldn’t yell, or cry—and somewhere beautiful, so I could remember the day as such, regardless of how she responded.

As expected, she did not approve of my “decision” to find men attractive. But to my surprise, she was surprised. I remember thinking, I was thirteen when my classmates identified me as gay. How could children see that in me, but not my mother?

As a faithful and resolute Christian woman, my mother has always seen homosexuality as sinful. Her interpretation of scripture leaves little room for empathizing with those who love differently from her, even those she loves the most.

In her religion, shunning is a common practice leveraged to inspire repentance in a wrongdoer. That day at the Whitney, enveloped in light from Mary Corse’s brilliant installation, I became a wrongdoer, and she remained exactly the same: faithful and resolute. 

She told me two months later that she would no longer be speaking with me. I could contact her if there was an emergency—someone was ill, I couldn’t reach my brother, or I wanted a Bible study. 

So much has happened in the two years (to the day, almost) since our last real conversation. I’ve cried harder than I knew was possible, I’ve healed through therapy and friends, and I’ve learned to talk about my loss. To write about my loss. 

This project is an acknowledgement of losing one of the most important people in my life. And a celebration of the moments that remind me I am whole. I’m challenging myself to share a story or two a month, and would appreciate your help by simply being an audience. 

mom hasn’t called, but—