While cleaning out the desk drawer, Ray came upon a love letter from me that was supposed to be opened by him on the occasion of my death. It was written in 1981, when I was 33, and it has been read twice by him despite my good physical health.
Color me jealous when I hear another gay man talk about his close friendship with his father. That wasn’t in the cards for me. I have always blamed my father for our lack of closeness, because he clearly didn’t want to be friends with his children. His generation believed “Father Knows Best.” He was the father, and you obeyed.