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   Dear Mama,

    I'm sorry it has taken so long to write, but every time I try, I realize I'm not saying the things that are in my heart. And that'd be okay if I loved you less than I do. But you are still my parents and I am still your child. I guess I wouldn't have written if you hadn't told me about your involvement in the Save Our Children campaign. That, more than anything, made it clear that my responsability was to tell you the truth. That your own child is a homosexual. That I never needed saving from anything, except the cruel and ignorant piety of people like Anita Bryant. No, Mama, I was not 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're not crazy or sick or evil - and you can love and be loved without hating yourself for it." No one ever said that to me, Mama. 

   I know what you must be thinking right now. You're asking yourself, "What did we do wrong? Which one of us made him that way?" All I can say is this. If you and Papa are responsible for the way I am, then I thank you with all my heart. It's the light, the joy of my life. Being gay has shown me the limitless possibilities of living. It's given me people whose passion and kindness and sensitivity have provided a constant source of strength. It's brought me into the family of man, Mama, and I like it here. I like it. 

   Please don't feel you have to answer this right away. It is enough for me to know that I no longer have to lie to the people who taught me to value the truth. Everything is fine at 28 Barbary Lane.

 
   Your loving son,
   Michael.


More Tales of the City (1998)

Thank you, Armistead Maupin.
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