They lived in Bend, which was three hours away, but we only saw them a few times a year: birthdays and, for some weird reason, Easter. (Like Dad, Grandma and Oma were secular humanists, but Easter brunch was still a favorite meal for them.)
I couldn’t remember a time where I didn’t know my grandmothers were queer. Even before I figured that out about myself, they were just part of the fabric of my life.
Well, maybe they were the trim on the fabric of my life: forever on the edges, an embellishment you might notice if you’re looking for it.
I thought, when I told them I was gay, it might bring us closer.
That we could share this thing that set us apart from everyone else.
That they would talk about when Oma came out.
That they would tell me about the history I was too young to witness going on around me: Prop 8, and Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, and the fight for marriage equality.
But all Grandma said was “I thought you might be,” and all Oma said was “We love you just the same,” and then we drank our tea in silence like always.
I didn’t know what I’d done to make my grandmas so disinterested in me.
And it wasn’t like they were any more interested in Laleh, which was strange, because everyone liked Laleh.
Even Babou adored Laleh at first sight, and he didn’t like anyone until he’d warmed up to them.
In fact, the only thing my grandmothers and I had in common were tea and soccer.
They were almost excited when I told them I had made Chapel Hill High School’s varsity men’s soccer team.
Almost.
“We’ll have to come see a game,” Grandma had said.
“If you make it to the championships, for sure,” Oma had added.
I didn’t know how to feel about that: their excitement being conditional on us winning.
I was on the team because it was fun, because I liked my teammates, and I liked Coach Bentley.
I didn’t know if I had it in me to be a winner.
“It’ll be nice to see them, huh?” Dad said.
His fingers kept drumming against me, like I was a console on the bridge of a starship, and he was trying to plot a course through some kind of unstable stellar phenomenon.
To be honest, I never got the feeling Grandma and Oma actually liked Dad either.
I don’t know why I thought that.
It was an awful thing to think.
So I said, “Yeah.”
They were coming to help us out. To help Mom be less tired.
To give Dad a chance to breathe.
“Yeah,” I said again.
And I tried to mean it.
JUST HYPERBOLE
