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>> I'm happy to introduce Eddie Sarfaty, stand-up comedian turned writer, whose new book, "Mental"
-- he'll be reading briefly from and talking about today.
He effortlessly captures the everyday absurdities of life, blending self-deprecation and sarcasm,
which I'm sure, we all will appreciate. His autobiographical essays touch on career
lows, cheapskate exes, the wonder and hell of family psychopathic cats, and so much more.
That just sounds funny, describing it. And so, without further ado, Eddie Sarfaty.
>> [Clapping]
Eddie Sarfaty: Hi. Thanks for coming today on your lunch hour to the Google Author Series.
As he'd said, I am a stand up comic. I've been working as a stand up comic for
the past nine years full-time. And like a lot of stand up comics, I've written
a book. And a lot of people express sort of concern
about that. Like, "What's he doing writing a book?
He's a stand up comic.” And I wanted to talk a little bit today about
how I felt that that prepared me to write a book.
I certainly, you know, I'm educated enough and can write a sentence clearly enough that
I could have attempted to write a book nine years ago.
But I don't think that, without my experience of being a stand up, that it would have been
nearly as good and nearly as funny and or nearly as smart of poignant or anything that
it's turned out to be. And I have to take a little side note and
say it's kind of unusual for me to say nice things about myself, because I'm a stand up
comic and a neurotic Jew who's completely self-deprecating.
So if I'm saying that it's smart and funny and poignant, it's probably smart and funny
and poignant. One of the things that I think really was
helpful about being a stand up comic is that it let the book end up sounding like me.
Several people have e-mailed me, called me, told me in person that, "I read your book
and I could hear you saying it.” And that was a really huge compliment.
Because, you know, if you can't her me saying it, I don't know that you are going to get
it. And I think that's a hard thing to do, because
we're not used to writing to be heard. We're used to writing to be read.
And stand up is all, of course, about writing to be heard.
And especially when writing a book in the first person, nonfiction voice.
I think that's really key. If you're writing a novel or something fictitious
or in an omniscient voice, I guess it's not as important.
But writing from your own point of view, it's got to sound like you.
One of the things I really feel strongly about in writing comedy -- in being a stand up
-- was the idea of being an outsider. Now, as a Jew and gay -- I was a fat kid growing
up, I never felt like I quite fit in, which I think is really kind of important -- necessary
-- when doing comedy. You know, every comic who's successful, who
people relate to, is an outsider in some fundamental way.
You know, there are a million Jewish comics and African-American comics and women comics
and gay comics. There's not a whole lot of heterosexual, white,
Anglo-Saxon, Protestant male comics. And if you're funny looking -- unless they're
funny looking -- or they're had some horrible experience.
So if you're a heterosexual, white, Anglo-Saxon, Protestant male with a full bank account and
wears a 42 regular, you're probably not a laugh riot.
And the thing about being an outsider can happen in a bunch of different ways.
It could happen culturally, you know, which is why Jews are completely over-represented
in the comedy world. I mean, Jews are the ultimate outsiders throughout
history. It can happen -- your family.
You can be from a broken home. You can be -- personally, being a fat kid
was a very horrible at the time but, you know, humor -- my sense of humor developed as a
survival technique. And I think that was very instrumental in
helping me create a comic voice. And I think that, in America -- there's a
guy who wrote a book. His name is Ted Cohen.
And it's another great book called Jokes. He's a professor at the University of Chicago.
And he -- it's a short little book which is filled with great jokes.
But it also talks about the function of jokes in American society.
And how, it's this little moment of intimacy that we can all, you know, use to connect
with each other when we're all so different, from different parts of the world, different
cultures, with different beliefs. You know, it lets everything else flow away
for a minute. There's a very cohesive thing in American
culture. So I think that being an outsider and being
lucky enough to be in the U.S. has been really helpful to me in figuring out how to connect
to people who are very different than me. One of the surprising things about the book
is that, I've gotten e-mails from people completely outside of who -- the audience that I thought
would be interested in it. You know, I had a letter from a housewife
in Virginia who said, "I was at the bookstore in the romance section where I always go,
and my 14-year-old daughter came bounding over with your book and said, 'Let's get this'."
And she said, "What is this?" And the daughter said, "I don't know. It looks
silly.” And she said, "I never in a million years
would have picked it up, but I looked at it and I picked it up.”
And really made her laugh and made her think outside her experience.
And so, that was a really rewarding thing. One of the other things about doing stand
up in preparation for writing a book was that it enabled me to figure out who I was.
You'll see stand up comics often say, "Oh, it took me ten years to find my voice.”
And I think that part of that's getting older. You become more yourself as you get older.
You become more the person you're meant to be.
And a lot of people attempt stand up comedy with an idea of what they're going to be.
People come in saying, "I'm going to be the neurotic Jew.”
Or, "I'm going to be the angry, young man." Or, "I'm going to be the put-upon housewife.”
And all those things are fine, and they may be part of who you are.
But it's kind of like decorating a house and you say, "I'm going to have a house that's
decorated in French country.” And then, you go out and buy all the right
things and you end up with a house that's a beautiful house that looks like every other
house that's decorated that way. Whereas if you just went out and bought the
things that you thought were attractive, interesting, funny, smart, pretty, then at the end of ten
years or whatever, you have a house that says, "You.”
And I think stand up comedy is kind of like that.
You have to not be afraid to just do what you think is funny and not try to be something
else. Because, you know, you'll get people who will
try to be the next Roseanne Barr or try to be the next Joan Rivers or the next Richard
Pryor or Henny Youngman. And I think it doesn't work.
I think it just makes you generic. Because if you try to be everything, you're
nothing. And, you know, you have to be something specific.
Which is something else about stand up comedy that I think helped me write this book, which
is specificity. You know, people get up and do stand up comedy
and just think that they're going to talk. You get a lot of people who do stand up comedy
who are hysterical at the water cooler or the class clown or the life of the cocktail
party and they are. And certainly, if you are that person, that's
great. And I've been that person and loved those
people. But you're operating at -- you have a head
start in those situations, because more often than not, you're saying something funny in
response to something that someone's just said or something that's just happened or
requires -- is based upon you having some shared information.
And when you're a comic, you don't have that. I don't know any of you.
You know, your lives could be so different from mine and then, I have to figure out how
to connect to you quickly and specifically. So that -- the thing is the specificity --
I'm getting a little lost here myself, so please bear with me -- writing a joke is kind
of like writing a poem. You know, people think you just get up and
talk. And it's not. It's very specific.
When you write a poem, if you read a Shakespeare sonnet, every word is chosen specifically
for the sound, for the emotional content, for the number of syllables.
It's all very, very carefully planned. And I believe -- and probably there are people
that disagree with me -- that a joke should be the same way.
I mean, if you can say something effectively in ten words, don't say it in 12.
Pick the words specifically. The trick of stand up is making it seem like
it's effortless, but there's so many machinations that go into the structure of the joke.
I mean, hiding the machinery I think is really the art of joke telling.
So all of those things were really helpful to me in writing the book.
I think a couple of things that were also helpful were, Learning how to tell the story
with immediacy. You know, if you're doing stand up comedy,
you can't be as affected if you tell things in the past tense.
No matter what you say, I always recommend, put it in the present.
Of course, we know that what happened on the subway this afternoon happened six hours ago,
or whatever. But if I start the sentence, "So I'm on the
subway," rather than, "I was on the subway.” Everyone's right with you.
It's right there. It's immediate. And nine out of the ten short stories in the
book are written in the present tense. And also, I think one of the other things
that was helpful was to make it be about me, which sounds kind of narcissistic.
But it's more interesting for me to talk about my point of view rather than try to guess
other people's, because mine can be specific and I don't know what theirs is necessarily.
So in terms of writing, all of the exercises in writing stand up comedy really helped me
write the book, because I learned how to be specific.
I don't think that, without that, I would have taken the care to choose just the right
words in so many places that I did. The other thing is that, in stand up, you
have to know your audience, or at least be able to read them.
You know, being an open-the-gate comic, there's definitely jokes I'm not going to tell if
it's a mixed or straight crowd just, because they wouldn't get it.
It doesn't mean I'm going to closet myself. There's definitely things that I wouldn't
tell an audience where there are no Jews, because they're not going to get it.
Again, it doesn't mean that I pretend not to be Jewish or try to ignore it.
One of the freeing things I found about trying to write the book was, there is no audience
sitting there. And I didn't really have to worry about that.
And it's good, because if I did worry about that, I think it would have hindered me being
me and, you know, worrying about, "Will the book sell?”
Or "Who's going to read it?” Or "Are people going to like it?”
And quite frankly, maybe a big goal of the book was just to have it 'not suck'.
That was the only goal that I could make myself live with.
Otherwise, I would have never -- I would have been freaking out every day trying to write
it. The other thing is, you know, we've all heard
"Brevity is the soul of wit." And that's very true.
You know, I teach a comedy workshop. And people come in with the joke.
It's a great idea, but it's 50 words before it gets to the punch line and basically, one
of the keys to humor is that, the impact of the punch line is inversely proportional to
the length of the set up. You know, if it takes you 50 words to get
to the punch line, you probably lost your audience and it's hard to get them back.
Or you better have a really great punch line if it's 50 words to get there.
The other thing that I think people don't talk about a lot in comedy is an emotional
component. You know, you can be smart.
I think you have to be somewhat smart to be a decent comic.
And I'm not necessarily saying educated or book smart, but you have to have some kind
of intuitive sense of people and an awareness of the absurdity of things in general and
hopefully of yourself. But if you're not -- if there's no emotional
component in what you're talking about -- you're clever at best.
You can't really be funny. You can't really connect with people in that
intimate way, which I think is really important. And you can, you know, I'm fine with 'clever'.
I love clever. I love bad puns. I love silliness. But, at the end of the day, a 300-page book
of just that is kind of a snore. And that also requires you being able to be
willing to mock yourself and to expose things that maybe aren't so pretty.
And I think that that's really the gift of humor is that it lets you get through things
that are difficult and horrible. I mean, you know, I've had hard times in my
life. I talk about them in the book.
The book covers, you know, my troubles with depression, bad relationships, you know, my
father's illness, just money problems and drug use and all these other things and, quite
frankly, if I hadn't had a sense of humor, I don't know that I could have gotten through
any of that. You know, if there's anything that's so completely
horrible that I can't find something to laugh about it, I rather don't want to know what
that is. And this book was really -- has been really
well-received I think, because I was willing to do that.
And that brings me to sort of the idea of fearlessness.
One of the things about learning to be funny. People say, "Can you learn to be funny?”
And as I said, some people are funny at the office or in the classroom, but -- and you
know people say, "Can you learn to be funny?" "Can you learn to do stand up comedy?
Can you learn to be funny?” And you can learn to put things in the right
form for it. I think it's hard to be funny if you're not
funny. But learning to be funny in a way that connects
to people requires a kind of fearlessness. I mean stand up comedy is hard.
You know, they say in all the polls that public speaking is the worst fear that people have
-- it's worse than snakes or drowning or plane crashes or anything.
And stand up comedy is public speaking made a hundred times more terrifying.
And so, you have to go up there with the willingness to be completely disliked and to make a complete
fool of yourself. And that's, you know, a little bit of bravery
that a lot of people can't seem to muster. Although, I do have to say, it's one of the
things -- like most things that people are afraid of that's more terrifying in theory.
You know, because the big fear is you'll get up there, you'll tell a joke, and people won't
laugh. And it will be horrible.
And the worst thing that ever really happens is that you get up there, you tell a joke,
no one laughs, and it's horrible. And then, okay.
It's horrible, it's over, you're still alive, you're in one piece, and it's not as bad as
you thought it was going to be. And I think one of the things about stand
up is that you really have to be willing to know that 95 percent of everything you do
is going to suck. And I think that's particularly true of comedy.
I think it's true of all creative endeavors. I mean, people make bad paintings, people
write bad books, people make bad movies. You know, all kinds of stuff.
But once you get past the fact that 95 percent of everything you do is going to suck, you're
okay. Because then when it sucks, it's to be expected.
In college, I was very fortunate to take an acting class with a woman named Nancy Marchand,
who was a wonderful actress on Broadway who also played the grandmother in the Sopranos.
And she said something one time about how, as an actor, you can't expect the audience
to suspend their disbelief unless you can suspend your shame.
Meaning, just that. And I think that's true of any art form.
You can't worry. You can't hold back. You can't be afraid and expect people to connect
to you. And, you know, I think that's been so important
with comedy and so important with the writing. Is this a really serious lecture for a comedy
book; isn't it? But the point is, comedy is a serious business.
You know, the torture and the agony and the self-doubt and everything that goes into every
joke, you know, is there. It's just hiding the machinery and having
the joke come out and people think it's effortless. That's really the art.
Now, one of the things about stand up vs. the book which I liked -- or I liked more
about the book was that -- stand up you know you fail immediately.
You tell a joke, it bombs, and you have to address it.
Everyone in the room is uncomfortable, you know.
Hopefully, it's one joke and not the entire set, because that's the worst.
And with the book, it was kind of nice not to have to worry about that.
"I think this is funny. Oh yeah, it looks funny.
I've reworked it. I can move on.” And then, it grew actually to reverse where,
you know, a joke bombs, it's over. The audience in the room didn't like the joke;
maybe the next audience will. The world doesn't think you suck.
Whereas, you know, you write a bad book, it's kind of permanent, it's out there.
You know, my big fear was that I would walk down the street and people would be like,
"Oh, there's that guy Eddie; he wrote that horrible book.”
You know? Or, you see it in the clearance bin in every
store I passed. And so, I really.
I was glad I had the fearlessness or the erratic fearlessness -- I must admit there are times
when I am terrified -- but the erratic fearlessness of stand up when writing the book.
Because otherwise it would have been completely overwhelming.
I guess one of the other things I wanted to talk about is, writing comedy is sort of luck.
Sort of, you know, you want to be aware of who's in your audience, but you can't really
change who you are completely. And you have to just sort of hope that someone's
going to connect to you. You know, I don't think you can be a good
comic and be dishonest. You know, I can't pretend to be some straight
WASPy guy who doesn't have depression, who didn't go through what he went through.
And, you know, with writing the book, I just had to hope people would find it, you know,
that it would click with someone. And luckily it has, but I was sort of prepared
for it not to be -- not to happen. And so, it's been a really good prep for writing
the book, I have to say. And the book -- tell you a little bit about
the book -- the book is ten short stories, autobiographical, humorous, yet also smart
and funny. Ranging from everything -- adopting the world's
worst shelter cat. My quest for unconditional love from an animal.
Having the biggest cheapskate in the world as a boyfriend.
I took my parents on a trip to London and Paris for their anniversary when my father
was diagnosed with Alzheimer's, which is really my favorite story in the book.
And I think quite poignant because a lot of people deal with that.
It was very accessible to everyone. I talk about having my heartbroken going online
dating. Going online screwing, actually, for a period
of months -- to try and drown my sorrows and the craziness that happens there.
Luckily my mother was online dating at the same time, you know, which was kind of a trip.
And other stories include, I worked at a -- I had the good fortune in retrospect --
the misfortune I thought, at the time -- to work at an upscale gentleman's bar on
the Upper East Side, which was filled with men in their sixties who were bitter, drunk,
old, nasty queens. And I thought, "Oh, you know" -- and as a
20-something gay guy -- I was like, "Oh, is this the future? I'm out of here.” You know?
And it really made me be able to see everyone's struggling, everyone's trying, everyone's
got something, you know, fantastic about them. Everyone has a story that would break your
heart. Everyone has a reason for who they are, and
it's fascinating. And it made me, I think, be more aware of
my own level of sympathy, my own level of judgmentalness.
So those are some of the things that I cover in the book.
It's -- Oh, I talk about -- I was talking about my depression, about -- I was also unfortunate
enough to be the company manager for an ill-fated Portuguese production of Phantom of the Opera,
which was by far, the worst experience of my adult life.
And ended calamitously in an emergency room. But, you know, comedy is born of pain, and
it made me stronger. And I think that that's covers a little bit
about what the book is about. And what's inspired me to write it and what
prepared me to write it. And I guess you guys have some questions about
it? We can talk about that.
Thanks for participating. That's really helpful. All right.
Q I was interested to hear you talk about stand up in terms of writing jokes, because
I've actually heard other stand up comics say very specifically, they don't write jokes.
They don't tell jokes.
Eddie Sarfaty: What do they do?
Q I think their point was that what they're doing is more, you know, situational stories
that are funny rather than jokes as such. I wonder if that distinction.
I kind of wondered if you were getting at that with your comment about "hiding the machinery.”
I'd like to know a little bit more what you mean by that.
Eddie Sarfaty: Well, I think that as I said, I really do believe that the impact of the
punch line is inversely proportional to the length of the set up.
And that if you have a joke and you're taking a paragraph to get to the punch line, the
punch line is dilluted. Unless, of course, your paragraph is peppered
with other jokes. You know, then it's a series of jokes, it's
not. I think storytelling is a great thing.
I wish that the American tradition of storytelling was more widespread than it is, because there
are wonderful places like The Moth, here in New York and Speakeasy in D.C., where people
tell wonderful stories. Some of them are comedic.
Some of them are certainly not. People have a different definition of what
they term a joke. You know A priest, a minister, and a rabbi
go into a bar. People think that's a joke.
Or a knock knock joke, people think that's a joke.
People think that jokes aren't serious. That they're not, you know, that there's no
depth to them. And I dispute that.
I think a real joke has to have an emotional component.
You know, and I love a joke that draws you in because of the emotion and then twists
at the end. You know, a joke I tell is about my boyfriend,
you know, he was from this Christian right family in Idaho.
And his parents couldn't deal with the gay issue; they couldn't deal with sex issues
at all. You know, when he was 12 years old, his mother
caught him ***. And she was so stressed about it that she
smacked him so hard that she knocked him out of their pew.
Now, that's a joke that has emotional content to it, because people understand that.
The stress of dealing with a child sexuality. It's something no one's comfortable with
-- acknowledging that children are *** beings.
And then, it twists at the end. So it gets people to think about the subject,
but also makes it safe, because it's absurd. So I like jokes.
I think jokes are, as I said, a wonderful American vehicle to connect with people and
relieve stress. And in our multicultural world, there's a
lot of stress. Anybody else? Please.
Q Something I have often wondered about when I listen to a stand up comic is, How much
of the persona they're presenting is character and how much of it is them?
Eddie Sarfaty: Well, as I said, there are some people, you know, there's a range of
what's considered stand up comedy and I certainly embrace the range, because I think people
have different strengths in bringing different things to the stage.
Some people are definite characters. Some people are great mimics.
I have a friend who can go from being Joan Rivers to being Robert Muir to being a Hoover
Upright in ten minutes, and it's brilliant. I can't do that.
There are some people who've created a persona. You know, like when Roseanne Barr first began
doing that whole Domestic goddess thing she did was a persona, but it's based on her.
You know, there's got to be some truth in what you're doing.
You don't want to see somebody be -- I mean, you go see a play if you want to see somebody
be somebody different. The thing that fascinates me is that, people
as diverse as Richard Pryor and Henny Youngman and Roseanne Barr can all touch the same audience
and connect to the same group of people. If they were all on the same bill, it would
be a fantastic night. They're all completely different.
And their stories are so different. But they're touching people.
For me, the big pleasure about stand up comedy is that I get to be me.
I was a theater major in college. I thought I wanted to be an actor since I
was a little kid. And I discovered that it was much more fun
to get up and say what I wanted to say, the way I wanted to say it, rather than trying
to figure out what the author's intent was, and take into consideration the director's
point of view and all this stuff. I think that.
Yeah, I guess that's about it on that. Go further.
But I hope you have another question, because no one else is talking.
Q [inaudible]
Eddie Sarfaty: I'd be happy to read. Something short.
I'll read the first piece in the book. It's only four pages.
And this was a story about when I, at 21, told my grandmother that I was gay.
And the book -- although I'm reading the gay section -- is not only gay.
There's a lot of stuff for everybody. And people worry about, "It's a gay book.
I can't read it.” [reading now] I make my grandmother cry.
I come out to her, and her fists close and her eyes fill up.
And she's silent for the longest moment. And then, speaking through the tears, she
astonishes me, "It's that gym where you go. That's where they all are.”
Her assertion makes me laugh. How could she possibly know that?
She's never been to my gym. How could my frail, little grandma, a sheltered
girl from an orthodox family, a woman who has barely left the house for the past 30
years, have any kind of insight on the subject? The conversation continues with her becoming
progressively more and more upset. She's perched on the upholstered, green rocker
from J.C. Penney, a half-finished afghan in her lap, and I'm sitting Indian-style on the
wall-to-wall carpet facing her. I'm peripherally aware of my mom and dad listening
helplessly to the whole exchange as they pretend to wash dishes in the next room.
Though I came out to my parents at college, as a rule, I manage to find a million nonsexual
things to talk about when visiting them, a relief since when I was with my friends, sex
was the only thing we ever seemed to talk about.
But this time, Granny brings up the issue and continues pressing it, until I have no
choice but to come clean. She also confesses to having purposely avoided
the subject of my sexuality until now, but has finally decided to take the leap.
"Well, I thought that you were. And I made up my mind I was going to ask you.”
"Well, how do you feel?” "It's a shock.”
She sheds more tears, and my soothing accelerates to match her distress.
I hand her a Kleenex, and I hold her hand. My mother, accustomed to taking charge in
a crisis, takes advantage of my grandmother's poor hearing, tiptoes behind her rocker, shakes
her head, and mouths to me, "You shouldn't have told her.
You shouldn't have told her.” That's a big help.
With an evil stare, I sent her back to the sink and continued my comforting.
Two seconds later, the phone rings. I hear my mother pick it up and I can tell
from her voice, it's my brother Jack, who's in grad school in Chicago.
I turn my attention back to Granny as my mother calls from the kitchen, "Ed, Ed, pick up the
phone.” Annoyed, I yell back, "Not now, for God's
sake.” And then, I hear my mother announcing, as
if into a public address system, "He can't come to the phone.
He's telling Grandma that he's gay.” And so, I'm outed to my brother, and I think,
"Okay, one less call to make.” I spend the next hour or so quietly seated
on the floor, and then leave my grandmother to catch the train back to New York and the
apartment that I share with three other 20-somethings -- all gay, and in various stages of self-loathing.
The incident is constantly on my mind the entire week.
It's still on her mind too when I call two days later, "Hi, Granny, how are you?”
"How do you think I am?” A pin drops. "What are you doing? Watching TV?”
"No, I'm just thinking.” Crickets.
"Well, what are you thinking about?” "WHAT DO YOU THINK I'M THINKING ABOUT?"
Similar stressful exchanges occur on days three, four, and five.
Now, being the youngest, the favorite, and the only one who still lives close enough
to visit regularly, I feel a special devotion to my grandmother.
Our relationship is one of the most wonderful things in my life.
She lived with us while I was growing up, my maturation coinciding with her decline.
At the age of 95 -- although she'll only admit to being 92 -- her mind is sharp, but her
body is brittle. As time passes, I find myself more and more
in the role of the adult, keeping her informed, preparing her meals, and helping her into
bed. The possibility that the bond between us could
be permanently damaged is crippling to me. After almost two weeks of tense, awkward phone
calls, I again go home for a visit. There's no reference to my revelation.
The day passes far more easily than I expect. And it isn't until late at night when it even
comes up. I'm tucking Granny in, gently, rotating her
fragile legs on to the bed while I cradle her back and slowly lower her on to the mattress.
As I smooth out the corner, she brings up the subject that we've managed to avoid the
entire day. "So, you don't like a girl to get married.”
My body tenses. "No.” "You prefer a boy.”
I breathe deeply, "Yes.” She pauses and then says resolutely, "Well,
then that'll be your life and you will be happy that way.” "Yes.”
My tension melts away but returns when she says, "But it's not like making love with
a girl. What can you do?" I see where this is leading, and I try to
head it off. "Well, Grandma, it's not about sex.
It's about who you love and who you care for.” But she will not be deterred, "Yes, yes. I
know that, but it's not like with a girl. What can you do?”
I dodge the question, she presses, I parry, she asks again.
I change the subject. She changes it back.
And finally after the fifth, "But what can you do?”
I blurt out, "Well, I have two hands.” "So, what are you -- just jerp each other
off?" I'm stunned, horrified, and amused all at the same time.
"Grandma!" She laughs to break the tension. But then continues, "You know, I hear that
some of the boys use the behind.” I laugh to break the tension.
I toyed with a couple of comebacks. "Wow, Grandma, what a great idea.”
Or "Yeah, some of them do." But settled for planting a simple kiss on
her forehead and saying, "Goodnight.” Thereafter that, our relationship is almost
back to normal. She's totally accepting, but it isn't clear
how much she understands the specifics of the situation.
She knows I'm gay, but appears hopeful whenever I even mention a woman by name.
She repeatedly asks my brother, "What made him that way?”
And confides to my mother her worries that I'm destined to become a *** -- proposition
that, given my precarious finances, occasionally worries me too.
My mother, who joined PFLAG -- the parents and friends of lesbians and gays -- immediately
after I came out suggests giving my grandmother a copy of, "Now that you know" -- a book that
the group recommends, and that I cynically refer to as, "Everything you always wanted
to know about homosexuality, but were afraid to hear.”
I pick up a copy for my grandmother. Two weeks later, I'm home for a visit and
to do some laundry. I see the book lying on the night stand.
The wrinkled spine and folded corners tell me it's been read.
I turn to Granny, who's busily working on yet another afghan,
"Hey, Granny, did you read that book?” The crochet hook stops.
She looks up, and says point-blank, "Yes, and it's disgusting."
My heart sinks and my guard goes up. "Disgusting?"
"Yes. It's disgusting. It says that some of the parents don't love
their children anymore.” And she makes me cry.
>> [Clapping]
>> Thanks. That's a little taste. That's the first story in the book.
As I tell you it goes onto other things at other points in my life ranging -- that's
the story that takes place in 1986 and goes all the way up to 2006.
And I guess we're done here. And thank you so much for taking your lunch
hour to spend time with me. I appreciate it. And enjoy the book.
>> [Clapping]