Tales of the City 02 - More Tales of the City

Indian blouses and hippie clothes, so I guess it’s possible that the lesbians have recruited her. It’s mighty hard to believe, though. She was always so pretty.
    Etta Norris had a Save Our Children get-together at her house last Saturday night. It was real nice. Lolly Newton even bought a Red Devil’s Food Cake she made using Mrs. Oral Roberts’ recipe from Anita Bryant’s cookbook. That gave us the idea of making lots of food from the cookbook and selling it at the VFW bazaar to raise money for Save Our Children.
    We are all praying that the referendum in Miami will pass. If the homosexuals are allowed to teach in Miami, then it might happen in Orlando. Reverend Harker says that things have gotten so bad in Miami that the homosexuals are kissing each other in public. Your Papa doesn’t believe that, but I say that the devil is a lot more powerful than we think he is.
    Mikey, we had to put Blackie to sleep. I hate to tell you that, but he was mighty old. I know the Lord will look after him, like he does with all His creatures.
    Bubba says hi.
    Love,
M AMA
    Mary Ann moved to Michael’s bedside, addressing him directly without using the mirror. “Mouse … I’m really sorry.”
    “Forget it. I think it’s a riot.”
    “No. It’s awful. She doesn’t know what she’s saying, Mouse.”
    Michael smiled. “Yes she does. She’s a capital-C Christian. They always know what they’re saying.”
    “But she wouldn’t say that, Mouse. Not if she knew. Not her own son.”
    “She’d say it about somebody else’s son. What the hell’s the difference?”
    Mary Ann looked back at Jon and Burke, tears streaming down her face. Then she reached out and touched the immobile figure in the bed.
    “Mouse … if I could change your life for you, so help me I’d—”
    “You can, Babycakes.”
    “What? How?”
    “Got your Bic handy?”
    “Sure.”
    “Then take a letter, Miss Singleton.”

Letter to Mama
    D EAR MAMA,
    I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to write. Every time I try to write to you and Papa I realize I’m not saying the things that are in my heart. That would be O.K., if I loved you any less than I do, but you are still my parents and I am still your child.
    I have friends who think I’m foolish to write this letter. I hope they’re wrong. I hope their doubts are based on parents who loved and trusted them less than mine do. I hope especially that you’ll see this as an act of love on my part, a sign of my continuing need to share my life with you.
    I wouldn’t have written, I guess, if you hadn’t told me about your involvement in the Save Our Children campaign. That, more than anything, made it clear that my responsibility was to tell you the truth, that your own child is homosexual, and that I never needed saving from anything except the cruel and ignorant piety of people like Anita Bryant.
    I’m sorry, Mama. Not for what I am, but for how you must feel at this moment. I know what that feeling is, for I felt it for most of my life. Revulsion, shame, disbelief—rejection through fear of something I knew, even as a child, was as basic to my nature as the color of my eyes.
    No, Mama, I wasn’t “recruited.” No seasoned homosexual ever served as my mentor. But you know what? I wish someone had. I wish someone older than me and wiser than the people in Orlando had taken me aside and said, “You’re all right, kid. You can grow up to be a doctor or a teacher just like anyone else. You’re not crazy or sick or evil. You can succeed and be happy and find peace with friends—all kinds of friends—who don’t give a damn who you go to bed with. Most of all, though, you can love and be loved, without hating yourself for it.”
    But no one ever said that to me, Mama. I had to find it out on my own, with the help of the city that has become my home. I know this may be hard for you to believe, but San Francisco is full of men and women, both straight and gay, who don’t consider sexuality in measuring the worth of another human being.
    These aren’t radicals or weirdos, Mama. They are shop clerks and bankers and little old ladies and people who nod and smile to you when you meet them on the bus. Their attitude is neither patronizing nor pitying. And their message is so simple: Yes, you are a person. Yes, I like you. Yes, it’s all right for you to like me too.
    I know what you must be thinking now. You’re asking yourself: What did we do wrong? How did we let this happen? Which one of us