Facing the Music

Credit: ImipolexG

“I don’t understand,” my sister says. “Can’t you just have an affair with a goyta?”

And then I realize she would never understand, the one sibling out of twelve, in whom, until several years ago, I always confided, was now also lost to me.

Earlier this morning I decided to finally expose the dark side of the brother she loved and thought she knew, and to tell her of my plans for the future. I thought of how I would break it to her, and as I usually do when I try to organize my thoughts, I sat at my laptop and began to write:

I feel like a CIA operative who lives with a loved one, and can never seem to find the right moment to let him/her into their secret life. The more time passes the harder it gets to open up. One can never know what the reaction will be. Yet, there comes a time when you feel that you can no longer hide and that no matter what the outcome might be, you need to finally tell the truth.

Am I ready to deal with the consequences of revealing my true identity? One thing I know for certain, I will break her heart today. But will she be sympathetic to the tumultuous hidden life that I chose to live? Or will she be angry, upset, call me selfish and uncaring for the people in my life that I love? Will she ever be able to accept and love me for who I really am? Will she feel the need to discuss it with others whom I do not trust and do not want them to know? Or will she embrace me, tell me she understands, that it’s my life to live and the only one I have? I hope against hope that it will be the latter, and it will have been worth the anguish.

What will she say when she finds out that I ate at a traif café on the morning of Yom Kippur? Or that I’ve tasted all kinds of traif foods, including pork, shrimp, lobster and that I have eaten a McDonald’s cheeseburger on Passover?

Will she slap me in the face, spit on me in disgust, despise and condemn me? Or she will have compassion and try to understand me. Will she break down and cry? Will she pity me for how far I have gone off?

I cannot imagine what to expect. I do know one thing though, that I can no longer hide my true face from underneath this sweaty mask that clings to and scratches against my skin. I feel the need to reveal my authentic self, whatever the consequences may be. I am tired of living a lie. Hiding from her makes me only drift farther and farther away from her.

I don’t know if it’s fair or not, but I do know that I am out of options. I must do it in order to keep the one genuine connection that I still have with my family. At the very least, I need to be able to tell myself that I gave it all I’ve got.

It’s time to face the music and I am ready for whatever the outcome might be. Even the chance that I may lose the only sibling that I love, forever. For a chance to not live in confinement any longer. I will be as gentle as possible and hope for the best.

And now she sits on a chair in her dining room as I sit on her brown leather sofa, her blue eyes large and pleading, her turban pulled back slightly, exposing the shaven edges of her hair above her forehead.

“I don’t understand,” she says again. “Why must you leave it all behind? For freedom? You can have your freedom, but why can’t you do it quietly? Like so many other guys!”

And that’s when I know that she’s right. She doesn’t understand, and she probably never will. But still, I try.

“This isn’t about sex, or eating traif, or having fun. It’s about escaping the torment of a double life. Of living a lie.”

Her eyes stare back at me vacantly. “But why would you want to shame the family?” she cries. “Think about what this will do for all of us? The shidduchim that will now be jeopardized, and how many other problems this will cause. The heartache of our parents. The scandal this will bring about.”

We talk and talk. She asks more questions, and I try to explain, until, after a long while, I begin to think that maybe she gets it. She nods at the right places, and there are moments when we laugh at the absurdities of the things we live with. It’s been more than two hours now, maybe three, and we both have places to go and chores to tend to. We agree to continue the conversation, and I feel warm, my arms tingling, the way we feel when a heavy emotional burden has been lifted. Maybe we didn’t lose each other after all.

We fall silent, and I give her my most reassuring smile, to let her know that this isn’t a tragedy. Yes, there is sadness, there will be tears, there will be confusion. But it’ll all turn out OK in the end.

And now she looks back at me, unsmiling, as if confused by my comportment, as if there’s something in my smile that suggests we somehow misunderstood each other, and says, “I still don’t understand. Really. Why can’t you just go have an affair with a goyta?”