Cousins: May, 2010

My cousin AJ’s voice was urgent, emotional: “I need to talk to you,” he said. “In person. Tonight.” He wouldn’t tell me what was wrong. We figured out which bus would take him from his college building in Boulder to the station in Denver, and I promised I’d be there waiting for him.

“Are you okay?” I asked. The phone crackled for a moment, and he gave a vague answer.

Genetically speaking, AJ and I are half-brothers; our moms are identical twins, which means AJ and I were graced with half of our genes from the same set. Even though I’m several years older than he is, we’ve always been close. When we were younger, and the families would gather, he and I would head off on our own adventures. I was more of a big brother and friend to him than a cousin separated by thousands of miles. 

When I was in college, his father, my Uncle Stan, died of cancer. I was too cash poor and too far away to attend the funeral, but I called him and we spoke for a little while. I didn’t really know what to say, but AJ didn’t care—he was just happy that I’d called. We named Simone after his father. And Uncle Stan is in my young adult novel.

I remember when AJ came to visit me in Santa Cruz, sleeping on the couch of our beach-front house, my roommates happily offering my high school-aged cousin beer and conversation. He’d do his own thing while I went to class, and then we’d spend the rest of the time goofing around my lovable little beach town. 

But one of my happiest memories from that time was when AJ and I took a road trip to the Great Sand Dunes in southern Colorado in my ancient Jeep Renegade. We camped on one side of the creek, the dunes looming over us on the other. AJ drank his first whole bottle of beer that first evening, while we sat up above our campsite on the side of a dune, bare feet dug deep into the soft sand, watching the stars slowly emerge in the darkening sky. We spoke of theories and philosophies. We hoped for a UFO sighting. We scarfed down hot messes of canned corned beef hash and scrambled eggs for breakfast, and ate fire-broiled steaks with our hands for dinner. We climbed sand dunes, took the Jeep four-wheeling through the creek (scaring the crap out of ourselves in fear of getting stuck, or worse), and we talked. We talked and talked and talked. That night on the dune, AJ filled his beer bottle with sand. He managed to hang on to it for years—a memento of our one and only “manly” weekend together.

When it was time to choose a college, AJ opted to go to CU Boulder, and I couldn’t wait for him to move out to Colorado. 

So I found a place to park outside the bus station, and AJ saw me immediately as he came out the big glass doors. His shirt was clammy when we embraced. But he didn’t say anything. As we were driving back to my apartment, I looked over at him; we made eye contact, and he started crying.

“What the hell?” I asked. He just shook his head, wiped at his nose, rested his forehead on the window. I couldn’t imagine what had happened. I drove.

During his freshman year, AJ would visit fairly often, taking the bus down from Boulder. Or I’d hang with him at his dorm. That was the time of the lists—we’d have to keep post-its of things we wanted to talk about, because our conversations would so rapidly branch into epic digressions, one on top of the other, until we’d lost the original thread of our conversation. Our lists were the only way we could finish the stories we were telling and remember to talk about all of the other thoughts that would otherwise distract us from finishing one conversation before moving on to the next. 

Sometimes he’d stop by the restaurant where I was cooking, and listen in on the banter and bad language of the cooks. We both learned the epithet “handbag,” from the guys in the restaurant. The word was used in fun, and even the gay prep cooks bandied it about with laughter, so AJ and I would jokingly use it, too.

At last, we pulled into my building’s parking lot, the sun just setting behind the inky silhouette of the mountains, and stepped into the elevator.  I put my arm around him as we rode up, and he smiled crookedly at me. The hum of the machinery around us was oppressive. All I wanted was to get into the apartment and find out what was the matter.

We sat on the floor—the couch and chairs seeming too remote from each other—and he took a deep breath. I braced myself for the worst. 

Then AJ said, “I’m a handbag.” And he started crying again.

My sense of guilt was immediate and crippling. I’d been using the word in jest, but I couldn’t help thinking I’d wounded my cousin, my brother, every time I’d said it. 

“I’m so sorry I used that word,” I told him, and pulled him into a hug. 

But AJ wasn’t crying because he was feeling hurt or wronged. He was crying (I think) because he didn’t know how I’d respond, or how this knowledge would change our relationship. That evening, he told his story—how coming out had put him in congruence with who he really was. All I could think about was how bad I felt for using the word “handbag” around him (and, yes, I recognize, all these years later, that my first thought was about me, not him). 

As a teenager, I’d been moderately uncomfortable with the concept of homosexuality. Though I’d loved my two gay cousins, I wasn’t really sure how to act around them.

If my relationship with AJ changed that night, it wasn’t in a way that either of us might have imagined. For me, I found a whole new reason to respect and love him; that he was brave enough to tell me—his eating-steak-with-our-hands cousin, his confidant, his pal. And I felt so honored to be important enough in his life to be brought into the discussion. It didn’t strain my love for him. It only strengthened it.

It also changed my relationship with homosexuality. Sure, I’d known some gay people in college, and working in restaurants. But experiencing AJ’s journey—challenges, struggles, enlightenment—forced me out of the abstract and into reality, forced me to see the gay people in my life as people. Just people. My relationships with gay women and men, from the opera company I sang with, to my friends in grad school and beyond, became real, and honest, and true. My love for AJ somehow wiped away any sense of discomfort I had around gay men. 

Then it got even better. 

Well, not at first. AJ spent his senior year of college in the UK, and never moved back to the States. I missed him to a ridiculous degree. We didn’t have a good term of endearment for each other. “Cousin” seemed too formal. “Cous” seemed marginally obscene. And “coz” kind of worked, but wasn’t quite right. After AJ spent some time living in France, he came up with mon frére, which means “my brother,” and it stuck. 

AJ and I drifted in and out of communication, though we were never very far from each other’s hearts, even if we didn’t talk as much. We both went through tumultuous times of change, and just couldn’t see each other very well. During that time, he met Will, and they fell in love. 

The details are hazy for me now: they moved in together in London at some point, they came stateside for visits. I stayed with them a few times in their flat. 

I can’t remember when I met Will. All I know is this: I love him like family. If getting used to AJ’s sexual identity took away my discomfort, getting to know Will taught me how to love the people in my life without reservation. 

And, so, after 15 years together, AJ and Will are getting married in June. And Simone and I will be there to help them celebrate. We’re beside ourselves with excitement—for the trip, for the adventure, and, most of all, to be there when our cousins tie the knot. 

One night, when Simone and I were watching Project Runway, one of the contestants called home to talk to his husband. Simone grinned and said, “That’s like my uncles!” I smiled and squeezed her. She is so excited to spend some time with these two lovable members of our family.

And I am so happy for AJ and Will. They are an amazingly dedicated, intelligent (and repulsively funny) pair. And I’m thankful to them for helping me to be more loving than I already was. They have taught me so much. My heart is full.

Congratulations, cousins. We’ll see you soon.

Comments

[Michelle Bar-Evan]

Loved this month's 'Dating Dad'. Kudos to you!

[Molly Block (@mollyblock)]

What a poignant story, Eric.

Mazel tov to your cousins!

You and Simone will no doubt truly enjoy your upcoming trip. I'm sure there are many of us who look forward to hearing about your London adventures and experiences.

[Prima Donna]

Have a fantastic trip to London!

[Sarah]

I remember his 'coming out' to me, too, and treasure the trust in that conversation. I also remember meeting Will for the first time, at Aunt Leslie's in Wilmington during one of her full-house, full-family brunches.

What I remember most vividly, though, was when they came stateside for our wedding in 1997 and how much fun it was to have everyone together. I wish I could be in London with all of you!

[Aimee Greeblemonkey]

Eric, I loved this, from beginning to end.

[Chandi]

Hi,
I admire you. My ex wouldn't even see Brokeback Mountain which is such a brilliant film. Your piece shows a lovely ability to be vulnerable and to open your heart.

Cheers!
Chandi

PS: I found your site via Yvette...