Truth Revealed

Mrs. Cortez settles herself uncomfortably in the chair across from me, fidgeting nervously with her fingers. “I never expected to be in a therapist’s office,” she says. “Especially not for this.”

I smile at her. “Take your time. I can see you’re anxious,” I say reassuringly.

She sighs deeply. “My husband and I came from Mexico a long time ago. We wanted to have children in a place where they’d have more opportunity. We’ve done well. I’m the office manager of a large cardiologists’ office, my husband drives for FedEx. My daughter graduated from college. My son’s in college now.” She looks down at her hands. “It’s about my son,” she says, barely audible. “He…he told me he was gay.”

She glances up at me.

“It was after the Orlando killings, in the… the nightclub. He said he couldn’t stay silent. He couldn’t keep hiding who he was. He cried like a baby. I was shocked. I held him, told him I loved him, that I loved him whoever he was. But it’s so confusing to me. It’s against my religion. It’s against my culture. I know Pope Francis said who are we to judge and I’m trying not to, but it feels so unnatural to me. And he’s afraid to tell my husband, which I understand. But now I have this secret from my husband and I don’t like that either.”

“I can see how much pain you’re in, Mrs. Cortez.”

“Please call me Daniella. I just told you the biggest secret of my life, Mrs. Cortez is much too formal.”

“Of course, Daniella,” I respond. I like this woman. Although we come from vastly different backgrounds with vastly different values, I appreciate both her pain and her conflict. From a place of love, she’s struggling to take in a new reality, to expand her view of what’s acceptable, to integrate her new information about her son – her gay son – with who she always understood him to be.

“I know it’s hard,” I say, “But your son isn’t a different person from who he was before he told you he was gay.”

“It feels like he is. I look at him and I wonder…” Pause. “I imagine… I wonder who he’s been with and how. It kind of makes me sick. My son? How could my son kiss another man? Could he put another man’s… No, I can’t say it. I can’t even think it.” Pause. “I haven’t been to church since he told me.”

“Because?”

“I have all these impure thoughts, all these images. If I go to confession, what will I say? I don’t want to tell the priest.”

“I thought you said Pope Francis said who are we to judge.”

“That’s Pope Francis. Not all priests are like that.”

“So you’re afraid the priest will condemn your son, just like you’re afraid your husband will.”

“Yes. If I’m having all these problems, my husband is so much more traditional. And he’s a man. I know what men say about gays. All those jokes. And that’s something else. I worry about my son. He’ll have such a harder life. And Mexicans aren’t having such an easy time in this country right now. Then you add being gay. I’m scared for him.”

“Daniella, this may seem like an odd question, but can you say what you are hoping to get from therapy?

“I needed to tell somebody. It’s been such a burden.” Pause. “And I guess I want you to help me accept my son.” She cries silently. “He’s a good boy. I love him. I keep wishing this was a dream. That it will go away. But I know it won’t. I know I won’t change him. I want to accept him. And I want to figure out how to tell my husband.”

“Do you feel ashamed that your son is gay, Daniella?” I ask.

She nods. “I know you’re supposed to be born that way. But I keep wondering if it was something I did, something my husband did. Did I keep him too close, was my husband too strict?”

“There are no answers to those questions. But I wonder if we can understand how shame came to play such an important role in your life.”

She looks down. “I’ve always felt ashamed. Ashamed of my background, my poverty, my alcoholic father. Ashamed of being different, of not being born in this country. I always wanted to fit in. And now there’s my son. Another difference – for him and for me.”

“So hopefully as we talk about these issues and you find more peace, you’ll also be able to be more accepting of your son.”     

Mix and Match

“I’m so glad to be back here, back at college, back where I don’t feel like such a freak,” Adam says relaxing into the chair. “I knew the summer would be rough, but I had no idea how rough. In Boca Raton I might get stared at for being black and yes sometimes I have to laugh to myself when I walk along the street and see these little old white ladies make sure their car doors are locked, but being gay in Savannah, Georgia, now that’s tough! And add Alex into the mix and then my family and it’s pure hell.”  

“Alex was with you?” I ask confused.

“Yeah, I know, that wasn’t part of the plan. But we got lonely for each other. Figured he could find some kind of work as easy in Savannah as Baltimore.”

“But I thought you weren’t out to your parents.”

“I wasn’t. Past tense. Didn’t plan to come out when Alex came down either. But after a while my Mom started wondering how come I was so close to this white dude that he’d come for a visit and then sort of move in. Besides, I’m sure we were giving off these vibes. Hard for us to keep our hands off each other. Not that we were having sex in my parent’s house. I wouldn’t be that stupid.

“Anyway, she flipped out. Said she didn’t care if it was legal in the courts. She knew God didn’t consider it right. And of course she told my Pop and then all hell broke loose. By brother freaked too. I think he’s afraid it’s contagious. Pop pretty much didn’t talk to me the whole summer. And Alex had to move out. A friend of mine let him stay at his house for next to no money, so that worked out okay.” 

“You know, Adam, I wonder if you didn’t want to come out to your parents.”

“You mean because I had Alex come down?”

“Yeah. As you said. He’s white, you could hardly keep your hands off each other and you couldn’t help giving off sexual vibes.”

Adam frowns and stares at me. “It wasn’t only sexual vibes. Loving vibes too.”

“I’m sure that’s true.”

“Are you sure?”

“You’re asking if I made the usual assumption about gay men, that it’s all about sex.”

“Yeah. Were you?” 

“That’s hard for me to answer, Adam. I’d say that consciously, no, I wasn’t making that assumption, but unconsciously, it’s impossible for me to know. I also wonder if I would have made the same assumption about a heterosexual couple who was twenty years old.”

“I’m sorry. I know you’re not homophobic. I guess I’m just hypersensitive given all I’ve been through this summer.”

“Nothing to apologize for. There’s plenty of gay prejudice out there, just like there’s plenty of racial prejudice. I couldn’t swear I’m free of all of it. For that matter, we don’t know if you’re free of all of it. Hard not to take in society’s attitudes and end up feeling less yourself.”  

“You know, maybe that’s another reason I wanted Alex to come down. Even though I wasn’t out to my parents, I could see how people looked at me, my “brothers.” I could feel the contempt. Maybe I started feeling less than. Maybe I wanted someone who I knew loved me to be with me.”

“That’s a really good point, Adam. And maybe that’s another reason you wanted to come out to your parents. Maybe you hoped they’d love you enough to accept you even if you’re gay.”

“It’s not that I think they don’t love me. Or at least I know my Mom does. I don’t know about my Dad. But I don’t know if I expected them to accept my gayness. It’s a lot to ask of black Christian folks from the south.”

“You know, Adam, I have very mixed feelings about what you just said. On the one hand, it’s very adult and reasonable for you to be able to step back and accept your parent’s prejudice given who they are as people and where they come from. But there’s another side. If you were born blind, or with one leg, or with a low IQ, would you feel it was all right if your parents couldn’t accept that about you or is your willingness to “understand” their rejecting your gayness, another example of how a part of you still rejects your gayness yourself?”

“Wow! That’s heavy! I’ll have to think about that.” Adam smiles. “I love being here, doc. You always get me to think about things in different ways. As I said, I’m real glad to be back.”

When Values Clash

“I had another big fight with my wife,” Bob says throwing himself into the chair. “I don’t get it. I don’t understand how she could even argue with me about this one. It’s a no-brainer. Why would she want to expose the twins - seven year old girls I might add - to those two lezzie perverts living next door? I don’t care if they have kids my daughters’ age. I don’t want my girls exposed to that garbage. As far as I’m concerned women with women and men with men are just sick!”

I try to keep my expression neutral while inside my stomach churns. Dealing with a patient whose values drastically conflict with my own is difficult, especially as I struggle with the question of where the therapeutic ends and the political begins. Earlier experiences with patients flash through my mind. While still a graduate student, one of my first patients extolled the virtues of Hitler, while I sat frozen, unable to respond. Another patient, shortly after 9/11 suggested incarcerating all Arabs in this country. I thought my face was neutral, but obviously not. “You don’t agree” she said. Impulsively I responded, “I’d rather be dead.” Although certainly not a therapeutic response, it did give us much to talk about. Or the patient who was convinced he knew my political leanings and baited me with statements he was sure I’d disagree with. The latter was less of a problem since I was able to address the reasons behind the patient’s wish to provoke me.          

But so far Bob is only stating his opinion. So despite my strongly held beliefs to the contrary, I need to address this as any of the many arguments between my patient and his wife, remembering that my focus needs to remain on the patient. Right? Except it doesn’t feel right. Would I remain neutral if Bob told me he was beating his wife? Obviously not. But that’s an action, not a belief. Yet this man’s belief can also do harm. Here’s the question of whether the therapeutic and the political can or should be separated. 

“So what do you think, am I right?” Bob continues, asking me the dreaded question. 

I avoid answering. “You seem so certain of your position, why do you want my opinion?”

“I don’t know. Seems kind of normal to want to know the opinion of the person sitting across from you.”

“I suppose. Or does it speak to some uncertainty on your part or some desire to have me – perhaps an authority figure in your eyes – confirm your opinion?”

Bob shakes his head. “You can agree with me or not. It’s not going to change my mind.”

“I gather your wife didn’t agree with you and that didn’t change your mind either.”

“Damn right!”

“Clearly you and your wife have different ideas about this childrearing issue, how are you going to resolve the difference?”

“My kids are not going over to that house!” Bob says, his voice rising.

“And your wife feels how about that?”

“I don’t care how she feels!”

“What are you afraid of Bob? What do you imagine might happen if your kids go over to their house?”

Crossing his arms in front of his chest and scowling at me, Bob says, “They could put their hands on my little girls. They could play with them down there.”

“Do you worry that some of your friends, the heterosexual fathers of your children’s friends will abuse them?”

“Of course not!”

“And what’s your sense of the difference?”

“They’re lezzies, that’s the difference!” Bob says shouting. “You’re obviously one of those gay lovers too. I suppose you believe they should be allowed to marry!”

This hasn’t gone at all well. I suddenly realize that ever since I mentioned being an authority figure, Bob has been both defensive and provocative and I have engaged with him in a debate, rather than trying to understand what was going on between us. Time to change direction. 

 “Do you like to argue, Bob?”

 “I guess,” he says, “I can hold my own.”

“Are you saying arguing makes you feel powerful?”

“I suppose you could say that.”

“How do you usually feel when you’re in this room with me? Do you feel powerful?”

Bob squirms in his chair. “No,” he says shaking his head. “You’re a lot smarter than me. You have a lot more answers. Lots of times I don’t even know the questions.”

“So you’re saying that you feel ‘less than’ me. But when you argue, when you ‘hold your own,’ you feel better about yourself.”

“I guess,” he says sheepishly. 

“I wonder if you don’t often feel ‘less than.’ We’ll need to figure out why that is.”

“That won’t change my mind about those lezzies.”

“I hear you.” 

I say nothing else. Bob needs to have the last word.