Papa can you hear me?

I got a letter from my mother last week, the latest in a series of correspondences we've been sending to one another since I broke the Big News.

The first was a card she sent me, letting me know that, despite our strained telephone conversations about The Engagement, she was There For Me, and proud of me for my continued efforts to shove my life in my family's face.

I followed this up with a hand-written note to Mom and Dad, thanking them for being so gracious towards and supportive of M. and I over the past few years, and asking them for their continued support and, oh yes, their participation, over the coming months. I thought "participation" was a general enough term to cover everything from attending my wedding to helping me pay for it.

My mother followed this up with the aforementioned letter. Type-written, signaling to me that it contained enough Sensitive Information to warrant the ability to delete, cut and paste as needed. She started off by agreeing with me that, yes, sometimes it was easier to express one's feelings in the written, rather than verbal, form. This was followed by her assurance that, while she didn't feel Puerto Rico was the ideal place for my wedding - why not choose someplace closer, and more easily accessible, and where everyone speaks English? - she would continue to Be There For Me in whatever ways I needed her to be.

Oh, and p.s., your father doesn't know that he can attend your wedding with a clear conscience.

After sobbing, alone, in a curled-up ball on my bed for half an hour, I called my mother. Left a message, returned to my curled-up ball for another half-hour -- during which time I also phoned M., against my better judgment, to interrupt his study group and tell him, through quivering gasps, what had happened, but really I'm okay, don't worry about me, forget I called -- and finally got a call back from Mom.

We talked about how hard this was for me. How hard it was for her. I talked about how unfair it was, how this was supposed to be a happy time. She said she knew that, and it was just going to take everyone some time to get used to. I sobbed about what a good person I am, and how I love my life and who I've become, and how I deserve to be happy. She agreed and told me I was Perfect. I didn't get into the fact that much of my therapy has centered around me dealing with the aftermath of 29 years of being told I was perfect.

We talked about Puerto Rico. How it would be hard for my brothers and sisters to bring their kids. Good point. How it would be a nightmare trying to plan a wedding from so far away. Very true. How Aunt Mary wouldn't be able to go, seeing as she doesn't fly. Aunt Mary?? The last I'd heard, my mother had told Aunt Mary I was gay and Aunt Mary has asked my mother if I'd seen a psychiatrist. I told my mother I hadn't realized she'd want to invite Aunt Mary, let alone any friends. Who else would she invite? Pat Kelley. Mrs. Kelley?? Did she even know I was gay? "Oh, Pat Kelley has more gay friends than you do." And so on and so forth. The Powells. The Dowlings. The Dolans. I had a brief glimpse of the potential road this could all take, where one invitation mandated three others, until 70 invitees turned into 170 invitees, leaving me with something that read more like the Wollaston Golf Club members directory than a guest list.

We talked about my father. And talked about my father. And talked about my father. I'd try to change the conversation, telling my mother I didn't want to Perpetuate Her Tendency to act as my father's intercessor, mediating my contact with him. I told her that the very least I deserved was for him to tell me himself if he wasn't coming. She made some excuses for him. Old dog, new tricks. Set in his ways. Traditional. Following what the Church told him. I told her it was a shame that an institution that was supposed to be built on the Golden Rule, on love, on respect, spent so much time telling its members who they were expected to hate, to spurn, to alienate. It was a shame that my father was being told that homosexuality was a sin, but boycotting your son's wedding was okay. Where are the Church edicts about loving your children, the Papal press releases about compassion and acceptance?

The next morning I had an email in my inbox from him. Telling me how "this matter" I've been discussing with my mother is ruining his marriage and his relationships with his family and friends. How I'm not going to change his mind, just like he's not going to change mine. How he doesn't want to read about it, hear about it or talk about it any more, from this point on. Oh, and p.s., you know I love you, and you and M. should feel welcome in our house, and we'll all go fishing.

The day after that, another phone call from my mother, checking in to make sure I was okay. Telling me that she and my father were going to be in Long Island the first weekend in June, and asking if M. and I might want to come out for brunch. What was bringing them all the way out to Long Island?, I asked, a trip that would require at least six hours of driving and/or ferrying for my father, his bad back and his recently replaced knees.

"Oh, Mr. Zine's son is getting married."