No treacherous cavern of metal gates and greasy, morning commuters would dare steal my enchanted state. I was lost in a moment of open air, of the day's first rays of sunshine, of white cherry blossoms and a long forgotten memory of my two gay “dads”, Easter 1995, and being arrested at the White House.
During this time, Easter 1995, I was being raised as a kept “boy” by a Maryland couple, Ernesto and Chance. Ernesto was a swarthy, Mediterranean muscle man. He was 41 and had been partnered with Chance, 34, for three years. I had responded to their online ad seeking to adopt an adult “son”. Well being twenty one and a struggling Haiku student, I thought the world was full of possibility. I'd hop a bus to Maryland. Get to know these guys, move in and begin classes at the Maya Angelou Poet's Academy, recently opened following her moving words during Clinton's innaguration.
I hopped on a bus to Maryland. Met them at a lovely lesbian, organic coffee shop in Takoma Park, The Nut Grinder. We chatted for fifteen minutes, and they adopted me right there. I moved in with them the same day.
The situation was awkward from the very beginning. Chance, who enjoyed the role of good “dad”, wanted to spoil me, lavish me with clothing, cd’s and fitness magazines. Ernesto (strict “dad”) would have nothing of the sort. I was to wear a little white t-shirt and rugby shorts and cut cigars for him. Ernesto also demanded I say "please, sir" following any request. He was a partner at his lobbying firm and was accustomed to having his requests met, always. So annoying.
Sleeping in my race car bed, I’d pull my stuffed dinosaurs around my head to block the piteous sobbing of poor Chance as my two “fathers” argued regarding the proper way to raise me.
“You spoil him!” Ernesto would bellow, his thickly accented voice echoing through the walls of their (our?) suburban townhouse.
“But he’s my son too!” Chance would cry and cry. He was kind of a pussy, I guess. I journaled my feelings that night. My hairy feet hung over the front bumper of that tiny racing car bed while my emotions poured into my worn diary:
One father’s Ernest painWell, after our third day as fathers and son, I began to seriously reconsider this whole “moving 600 miles away to be the "son" of two emotionally unbalanced leather daddies” thing. This epiphany arrived as Chance was making chocolate chip, banana pancakes with whipped cream and chocolate sauce and Ernesto said I only be allowed to have cream of fucking wheat; not even with cinnamon!
Took a Chance on springtime sighs
Shadows stab my heart!
I furiously pouted as I clipped Ernesto another cigar.
Mind you, dear readers, I understood the situation into which I had willingly placed myself. Also, I absolutely was not some sort of sex slave. Such base behavior was never expected, or asked, of me. I had my bus ticket home, and planned on using it should the bizarre familial situation grow any more hostile.
Haiku was my muse. My obligations were to her, not the paternal affections of two middle-aged sissies. I ate the cruel cream of wheat and asked to be dismissed to my room. Please, sir.
An hour later Ernesto and Chance came to my room. I looked up from my Magic the Gathering trading cards. Chance’s puffy green eyes indicated he’d been crying, again. Ernesto held a single, foil wrapped, chocolate egg.
“My son, tomorrow we are treating you to a very special day.” Ernesto handed me the peace offering.
“Can you guess what we’re doing, little guy?” Chance, the ever eager parent, dropped to one knee so we were at eye level. I imagined shoving that chocolate orb into his ridiculous, smiling face. But I couldn't bear to hear him cry anymore.
“I don’t know. Can I just, like, read? ... Please, sir.” I cut my eyes up at Ernesto.
Ernesto gruffly admonished me, “Don’t talk to your father that way!”
This sucked. “I don’t know. Going to the zoo? See a movie? It’s Easter, what’s going to be open?”
Chance began crying tears of joy. “We’re going to the White House Easter Egg Roll. And we’re doing it as a gay family!”
To be continued…