Culture Clash
By: Morris Henderson
(© 2009 by the author)
 

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

Chapter 1

My dad was a long-haul trucker and fit the stereotype of a trucker fairly well. He graduated high school and immediately married my mom. I was born six months later. He was solid and muscular except for an oversized belly. He kept himself clean but shaved his face stubble only every three or four days. When he thought I wasn’t around, his language was laced with profanities.

When I was in elementary school, he showed a lot of interest in what I was learning and helped me with my school projects. During my junior and senior high school years, however, and the school work became more advanced, he was less able to help me. In spite of that, he constantly emphasized the importance of my education.

He was gone most of the time but between trips, he would spend a lot of time with me, taking me fishing and camping or just being there for me ... I suppose to make up for the long periods he was on the road. I thoroughly enjoyed the time I spent with dad in “manly” activities but when he was on the road, I preferred to read good books and even experimented with writing short stories.

We were an unlikely pair but I admired and loved him and always looked forward to our time together when he was home.

My mom was a good mother when I was growing up but when I was fourteen, she changed. She would leave the house on Friday and Saturday evening and come home drunk well after midnight. That was okay; I could take care of myself. Before long, she would disappear nearly every night and often would not get home until late the next morning stinking of booze and cigarette smoke.

I would often come home from school to find her passed out on the sofa. I didn’t dare have friends come to the house and see what a mess the house was in and the stupor my mom was in. I learned how to fix my own meals, do the laundry, and keep the house reasonably clean.

When dad was home, I could hear them arguing after I’d gone to bed. He would berate her and insist that she get help with her addiction. She would tell him to fuck off and leave her alone.

I’m sure they stayed married because of me. Dad needed his job to pay the bills and I needed an “adult” to stay with me while he was gone. As though she did anything to take care of me! She no longer gave a damn where I was or what I did.

Dad tried his best to give me a decent life when he was home and not fighting with mom. One Saturday when I was sixteen, we were out in the middle of the lake fishing when he said, “Brian, I know how hard it’s been for you with your mother the way she is. I just want to let you know how much I hate to leave you with her when I’m gone. Thanks for putting up with it.”

I had thought about my mom and my life a lot. I couldn’t do anything about it so I had learned to accept it. “That’s okay,” I said. “I look out for myself. I just ignore her.”

“But she’s become a drunken slob,” my dad objected.

“I don’t blame her for the way she is, dad. She’s a good person but she’s an alcoholic. The booze has got hold of her. I just wish she was like other kids’ moms.”

“I do, too,” he replied. “I think about that a lot. No, I worry about it. I worry about you. She’s not mean to you is she?”

“No. She calls me names sometimes but mostly we ignore each other.”

Several minutes of silence passed before dad said, “You’re not a little boy anymore, Brian, so I have to tell you something. It’s no secret that your mother and I don’t get along. What you may not know is that I hired a private detective who found out what she does when I’m not around. She goes bar-hopping and sometimes meets a man -- different men, really -- and spends the night with them. I guess you know what that means.”

I suspected she was sleeping around but it came as a bit of a shock to hear my dad tell me so calmly. “Yeah,” I said.

“I’ve considered divorce. But that would create a big problem. The court might grant her custody of you. She’s become a drunken slut but the court may still give her custody because I’m out of town so much. With her drinking problem, the court may put you in a foster home. That’s not what you deserve and not what I want.”

He paused but I felt he was not finished. I could see the pain in his face so I interrupted him by saying, “I’m okay, dad. I really am. I can cope when you’re away and life is wonderful when you’re home. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“But I do worry,” he replied. “I just wish I knew what to do.”

We both sat, deep in thought, for a long time. Then I said, “I have a suggestion.”

“I’m listening,” he replied.

“I’ll be eighteen soon. Let’s just coast along until then. I’ll be out of high school and can live on my own. I’ll get a job and go to college part time. Everything will work out if we’re just patient.”

Dad looked at me with the saddest face I had ever seen on him. “Are you sure you can put up with it?” he asked.

“I’ll be honest with you, dad. I don’t like what she’s doing. I don’t like living with her. But, like I said, we ignore each other. And it won’t be long before I can move out. Then you can divorce her if you want and not worry about me. It’ll be okay, dad. Don’t worry about me.”

“You’re amazing, son. I love you more than I can say.”

“As much as I love you?”

“Twice as much!” he exclaimed.

We sat for a long time with no further conversation; none was necessary; we just enjoyed being together.

Finally, dad said, “The fish ain’t biting today. How about we go out for dinner and take in a movie?”

*****************

Dad scheduled his vacation so he could attend my high school graduation and then take me on a week-long camping trip to northern Idaho. We had a marvelous time ... until the last day before returning home. As we sat around the campfire after dinner, our conversation took a direction I hadn’t expected.

“How are you and Cindy getting along?” my dad asked.

“We broke up,” I replied. “She’s going off to college in the east. We decided that a long-distance relationship wouldn’t work.”

“That’s too bad,” he said.

“Not really,” I replied. “She’s a nice girl. We had some good times together. But I’m kinda glad it’s over.”

If I had been thinking, I wouldn’t have said that because dad picked up on it. Looking surprised and puzzled, he asked, “Glad?”

“Yeah,” I replied while hoping that I could tactfully change the subject. I was not ready to tell him the real reason I was thankful that we broke up.

“Oh,” my dad said. “She’s nice but not the one you want to spend you life with. Is that it?”

His question was getting dangerously closer to a secret I didn’t dare reveal. Instead of answering, I put more wood on the fire and sat back down on a log. My delaying tactic did not result in thinking of an answer that would satisfy my dad so I said nothing.

But dad didn’t let go. “I thought Cindy was a sweet young thing. You made a handsome couple. But, of course, I don’t know her as well as you.”

That was true. He had only met Cindy briefly a few times. But there was something he didn’t know about me, which is the real reason I was happy to break up with her.

Dad persisted in trying to get me to talk. “What kind of girl would you be looking for, Brian?”

“Don’t know,” I mumbled as I stared at the fire, afraid to tell the truth.

Dad was thankfully quiet for a few moments. I began to hope that he would change the subject. I was wrong. “Brian, look at me,” he said. I looked up and he continued, “I’ve got a feeling that something’s bothering you. Is there a problem?”

I drew circles in the dirt at my feet with a stick. What could I say to relieve his concern and to avoid further questions? My mind was blank and my tongue was tied.

“There is a problem!” he exclaimed. “Maybe I can help you with it. But I can’t help if I don’t know what the problem is. Talk to me!”

I had given a lot of thought to having just this kind of conversation. But I wanted to choose the time and place. Now, however, I began to think that there is no good time or place. I decided that I might as well get it over with. If it disappointed him or made him angry or destroyed our relationship ... well ... it had to happen sometime.

“You’re right, dad. I don’t want to marry Cindy. I don’t want to marry any girl.”

I paused as I tried to bolster my courage enough to continue but dad interjected, “Don’t judge all women by your mother, son. Don’t let her poison your attitude to all women.”

“That’s not the reason, dad. I know she’s an exception to the rule. It’s just that ... well ... I don’t want to live with ... with a woman ... for the rest of my life.”

Dad wasn’t getting my meaning. I would have to be more specific. “The truth is, dad, I want to find a partner but it will be a man. And before you ask, I’ll come right out and tell you. I’m gay. I’m attracted to men. Women don’t appeal to me at all.”

I waited for dad’s reaction, hoping for the best but fearing the worst. To my surprise and dismay, he just looked at me for an awkward moment and then stared at the camp fire. His non-reaction was more disturbing than if he had gotten angry.

“Shit!” he finally exclaimed. “This is your mother’s fault! The drunken slut has soured your attitude toward women!”

“That’s not it at all, dad! I’ve known I was gay for years -- long before mom took to the bottle. At first, I denied it. I hoped it was a passing phase. I dated Cindy because it was the accepted thing to do. Nobody would guess my secret if I had a girlfriend. I also thought that maybe it would change me. But it didn’t. The feelings just got stronger and stronger. We even had sex but only because Cindy wanted it. I didn’t. She was all hot but I barely got hard enough to put on a condom. You may think this is weird but the only way I got hard, stayed hard, and came was to imagine she was a guy. I’m sorry if you’re disappointed to have a gay son but I am what I am and I have to be honest with you.”

Dad stared at the fire again. Whereas I had earlier wanted him to be quiet or at least talk about something else, his silence now troubled me. I desperately wanted to know his reaction.

“Well,” he said while still staring at the fire. “I certainly didn’t expect that!”

“I’m sorry, dad. I really am. I guess you’re ashamed of me now.”

He didn’t respond for what seemed to me like an eternity of agony. I braced myself for his anger ... condemnation ... I didn’t know what to expect.

“No, son,” he began very calmly. “I’m not ashamed of you. Am I disappointed? Maybe a little. I looked forward to taking you and my grandsons fishing and camping. I guess I won’t have any grandchildren but I still have a son that I love more than anything in the world.”

“You’re not mad at me?” I asked, still not believing what I had heard him say.

“No.”

“You don’t think I’m a filthy fag?”

“No. You were honest with me; I’ll be honest with you. I don’t approve of homosexuals. I don’t like the life you’ve evidently chosen for yourself. But you’re my only son and I still love you.”

I decided not to challenge his assumption that I “chose” to be gay. Instead, I was grateful that I had not lost my dad’s love. The conversation I had been dreading for so long turned out far better than I had dared to hope.

 *******************

By the time we had arrived back home from the camping trip, dad seemed to be more comfortable with having a gay son. Of more immediate relevance, he insisted that I attend college full time rather than part time as I had offered to do. “You can do better than being a trucker,” he said. He would pay my tuition at a state university and pay for all my books and lab fees. My part of the bargain was that I would work part time to pay rent on an apartment near campus and buy my own food.

I continued to be amazed at how he received the news of my homosexuality. Obviously, I had misjudged him. I had mistakenly assumed that a macho long-haul trucker hated all queer fags and would therefore hate me. He was never one to withhold an opinion so I had to believe that, in spite of his disappointment, he loved me. He showed that love by pulling a few strings where he worked and got me a summer job in the warehouse with the understanding that I could work part time at night during school. “Just don’t give them fellas in the warehouse any reason to be mean to you,” he told me. “They hate queers. They don’t know what a fine young man you are.” I understood. He wanted me to keep my sexual interests a secret.

Two weeks after my graduation, he helped me find a small but clean and affordable furnished apartment. When I told mom I was moving out, she didn’t object. In fact, she seemed quite unconcerned about where I would be living and what I would be doing.

Dad promptly filed for a divorce. The court awarded her the house but no alimony, which dad thought was good news.

“Where will you live?” I asked him one evening when he stopped by my apartment for dinner.

“Not with you if that’s what you’re asking,” he replied emphatically.

“In fact, I was hoping you would,” I said. “After all, you’re not in town much. It wouldn’t be any bother at all.”

“Nope!” he declared. “You’re a young man now. You need your own space.”

“What? Are you afraid of shacking up with a queer boy?” I joked.

He laughed and said, “No. But since you mentioned it, I’m kinda hoping that you find that friend you’re looking for. Maybe he’ll move in with you. You don’t need an old man hanging around while you’re ... well, you know what I mean.”

“But I don’t have a boyfriend, dad. It’ll be a long time before I do. Besides, you’re my dad. I love you. WAIT! I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I love you as my father, nothing more.”

“I know what you meant, son,” he laughed. “I love you, too ... AS A SON, that is.”

We had finished our meal but before I cleared the table I said, “So back to my original question. Where will you live?”

“Remember that place we looked at on Fairmont Avenue? Second floor of a white frame house? Overlooking the park?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve put down a deposit and will be moving my clothes and stuff in there after the first of the month.”

“But that’s just one room with kitchenette and bath,” I protested.

“Hell, how much do I need? I won’t be there but a few days a month. I’ll get a sofa bed, a TV, some dishes and stuff. As long as I can shit, shower, and shave, I don’t need much more.”

I knew that he was trying to put a positive spin on having to live in a small apartment but I also knew it was useless to argue with him.

“Okay,” I said. “But I want you to visit ... for as long as you want ... whenever you’re in town. Maybe we can even get in some fishing or a movie or something.”

“Count on it!” he said. “If this meal you just fixed is any sign of your cooking ability, you won’t be able to keep me away. Besides, I want to keep up on how you’re doing in school.” He paused and added, “And I want to meet whoever you choose for a boyfriend.” He paused again and grinned. “Tell me. Does that mean he would be my son-in-law?”

I laughed. Then, realizing the attitude behind what he said, I said, “You’re amazing! I’ve always loved you but I love you more every day. I don’t deserve a dad who is so terrific.”

He screwed up his face as though in deep thought and said, “No, you don’t deserve me. After turning queer and all.”

I reached over to punch him on the shoulder but he dodged. I lost my balance and fell off my chair onto the floor. We both laughed for several minutes. Much later, when he had gone, I realized that his joke about my “turning queer” was actually firm evidence that he genuinely accepted the fact that I was gay. His previous expression of acceptance and love might have been diplomatic and hidden a latent resentment. But I knew my dad; his joking about it revealed his true feelings.

***************

When the second semester of my freshman year in college began, I was dreading the required chemistry class. I had always done well in history, literature, and sociology but math and science had never been my strength. I was sure that I would struggle to pass the course. In the first class meeting, the instructor formed the students into pairs. Each pair would be expected to work together in the lab and was encouraged to study together as well. I hoped that would be my salvation ... provided I was assigned to work with someone who would be willing to help me.

“In the world of work,” the instructor said, “you don’t have the luxury of choosing who you work with. You’ll have to learn how to work cooperatively with all kinds of people. So it will be in this class. I have drawn up a list, randomly assigning pairs.” He distributed a hand-out with the assignments. I scanned it quickly and found my name next to another, Zhung Jie. It didn’t take long to see who I would be working with; there was only one oriental student in the class, a diminutive guy who looked like he ought to be a freshman in high school, not college.

The instructor gave us ten minutes at the end of class to exchange contact information and schedules with our partner.

How much can one learn about another person in ten minutes when that person is shy and speaks with a thick accent? Not much. But we agreed to meet later to get to know each other better. He was hesitant at first but accepted my invitation to have dinner that evening in my apartment near campus. Over dinner, I found out he was of Chinese ancestry but lived in Bangkok where there is a sizable population of Chinese. His father, an engineer, had transferred to the U.S. about a year ago. He had a younger sister, twelve, and a younger brother, fifteen. He solved my struggle with his name by saying, “Just call me Jay. That is not the exact same in English but it is close.”

The more we talked, the more his shyness faded away and the more I admired his intelligence. After dinner, we sat and talked more -- just casual conversation to get to know each other before we discussed the chemistry assignments. At one point, I asked if he had a girlfriend here in the U.S. or back home in Thailand.

He hesitated. “No,” he said as he squirmed slightly and looked at the floor. I should have been more perceptive but I was puzzled by his reaction. Then his shyness returned. It took ten more minutes of conversation before he became talkative again.

Before he left for home, we agreed to get together every Monday evening to work on the chemistry assignments.

As I laid in bed that night, my thoughts centered on Jay. He was undeniably intelligent. He struggled to express himself in English but seemed to have no trouble understanding what I said. Once he became comfortable and his shyness disappeared, he had an engaging personality and showed occasional flashes of humor. And then there was his appearance. He was at least six inches shorter than me, thin but not skinny, and had the most captivating eyes and smile. I surprised myself by imagining him naked. Throughout the evening, he was interesting, friendly, and very likable but I had not given any thought to what lay beneath his clothes. As I laid in bed in the darkened room, I found myself picturing him in my mind’s eye standing before me nude. It was extraordinarily arousing. Never one who let a good hard-on go unanswered, I jerked off. With the image of a naked Jay in my mind, the orgasm was especially satisfying.

Just before I nodded off to sleep, I recalled his reaction when I asked him whether he had a girlfriend. Oh my God! I thought. Could he be gay?

**************

For the next three Monday evenings, Jay came to my apartment for dinner and to work on our chemistry assignments. He protested my fixing dinner but I pointed out that it was the only way I could return the favor of his help. He was more than competent in the subject and was both patient and willing to help me understand chemistry. I even began to hope that, with his help, I could pass the course. More significantly, however, I found myself looking forward to our study sessions because he was such delightful company. He had become my best friend.

For our fifth meeting, we had arranged to get an early start and hopefully finish the chemistry assignment before dinner. Jay arrived in mid-afternoon. We studied for almost an hour before getting to the last assignment. It required accessing the internet. Fortunately, dad had bought me a laptop computer and paid for internet access. I suggested to Jay that he find the web site and take notes on the information we needed. “While you do that,” I said, “I’ll finish fixing dinner.”

He readily agreed and I busied myself in the kitchen. About fifteen minutes later, dinner was ready but Jay was still on the computer. I walked over to see what he had found and was stunned to see what was on the screen.

To be continued...

Posted:04/17/09