A Zonian/Panagringo Coming Out Story

This week, I received a DM from a friend sharing this pic. That’s me getting a haircut, when four of us gay men shared an apartment close to Florida State University campus in late 1980s Tallahassee, Florida.

Jeff, in the picture, worked as a hairdresser. So we all received the family discount (i.e., free) on trims.

When I first met Jeff, he was in drag – a statuesque creature who would perform at Club Park Avenue as Lady Gabriela. I thought he was the most beautiful “woman” I’d ever met in person. Until he opened his mouth and a male voice with a West Virginia drawl came out to ruin the illusion! 🤣

That household was my chosen family during a vulnerable time for me, having been kicked out of home for being a homo.

“Home” was in the Republic of Panamá, with my USA dad and Panamanian mom. Given the historical connection between my two countries, my multicultural heritage was common enough to come with a couple different nicknames: Zonian (associated with the Panamá Canal Zone) and Pana-gringo (referring to the dual nationality).

I don’t remember ever sharing the details of this coming out story before. Here it goes.

Deep breath…

I was 19 or 20 when Mom found out about me. Don’t ask me how. I hadn’t planned to disclose anything until after college and she never revealed her sources.

I was home for the summer, after my first year at FSU in Tallahassee. FSU has a branch in Panamá and I had a full load of classes for the summer semester. Classes were in a building at Albrook Air Force Station.

In my free time, I ran around with a boyfriend (Alex) I’d met that summer in Panamá. Perhaps Mom overheard us chatting on the phone? Or a trusted friend was involved in the disclosure?

I was at home studying when Alex called to warn me that my parents were on their way home after having confronted him at his workplace to tell him to stay away from me.

Alex owned a beauty salon on Via Argentina. He was mid-thirties, so I understand the concern with the 10+ years age difference between us. Perhaps Mom thought I was being unduly influenced? “Recruited”? Trafficked?

If she had asked me, I would have shared how much effort I put into finding a gay bar in the underground queer life of Panamá City.

How I danced on a floor with gay US servicemen who risked their careers to escape for a few hours of freedom and safety under the disco lights at David’s club, an establishment hidden behind an auto shop in the city,

I would have told her that, far from being “groomed”, I had proactively sought out others like me. I was in the driver’s seat of my own experiences. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have declined a date invitation from the Mexican ambassador to Panamá (I had no interest in married men and certainly not excited by the possibility of being caught up in a scandal with international repercussions).

I would have shared that Alex gave me hope for a future that could be happy. Or at least not miserable.

Alex was the happiest person I’d ever met in my life at that point. Certainly happier than my parents. He was a joy to be around and his friends said this was simply his way of being. Like his default state was happy.

Alex was from Chile. His mother, a prostitute. He had no idea who his father was. He was barely a teen when one of his mother’s Johns raped him. He ran away from home. To Buenos Aires, where he lived and worked on the streets as a hustler (male prostitute). One day he spotted a “help wanted” sign for a hair stylist. He played the part and managed to convince the shop owner to give him a chance. And learned as much as he could about the trade.

He built his skills and saved money and made plans to move to Mexico City. While in the air on the flight to his new life, a horrific earthquake devastated Mexico City (magnitude 8, in 1985). The plane diverted to Panama City. Alex made his home in Panamá instead.

He had worked as an official hairdresser for the Miss Universe pageant in Panamá and soon launched his own beauty salon. When he took me to visit his salon, it was clear how much affection his five employees had for him. On a wall in the salon was a framed picture of Alex with an arm around Boy George (in full makeup and Karma Chameleon regalia) in a club in London.

To think about where Alex came from, what he overcame, what he created, the life he had – just inspired me.

But I never had a chance to share any of this with my sweet loving mother who, up to that point, had been my ally and supporter.

Instead, Mom consulted a priest who advised her that gay folks were evil people. That’s what she told me when she handed me the one-way ticket to Tally.

I had been reclassified from “beloved son” to “evil person”. That’s the message I received. She never asked questions. There was no discussion. Only her delivering her thoughts and the plane ticket to me. She executed her carefully designed plan with military precision.

My foundations (parents, religion, culture) felt ripped out from under me. I felt betrayed.

Some of what Mom said to me that day is still seared in my brain.

I was 19 or 20.

Life can occur at point-blank range. With no opportunity to prepare.

I had no idea where I would stay in Tallahassee. I called my friend, Mirenlur, who I knew from FSU branch in Panamá. She had told me I could stay with her in her apartment if I ever needed a place in Tally. I called in the favor. She said she’d pick me up at the airport.

At least I wouldn’t have to sleep on a park bench.

Before leaving Panamá, I made arrangements with my FSU professors (branch in Panamá) to take final exams several weeks early so I wouldn’t lose the credit. I did all coursework and studied all weekend, took finals on a Tuesday. And flew to Tallahassee on a Wednesday with a pocket-full of cash I had managed to save up from student assistant jobs in high school.

During my first night on Mirenlur’s couch, I had a panic attack. I didn’t know what a panic attack was. I thought I was dying. I remember thinking death would be fine with me. A relief, really.

I didn’t want to kill myself – my Catholic upbringing did a good job of creating a firewall in my brain against those thoughts. I just didn’t care if I lived or died.

I dropped out of school. Got a temp data-entry job on campus and started figuring things out.

I decided real quick that when I got back in school, whatever I got my degree in had to be something I could derive an income from immediately upon graduating (i.e., software development). I had zero interest in going into the military as an option (where LGBTQ+ citizens were targeted at the time).

I didn’t think I’d ever go back to visit Panamá again. I didn’t want to look back. Only forward. “Echa pa’ lante” (push forward) like my Panamanian grandmother used to say.

I reconnected with Ned, who had been a roommate during my 1st year in Tally. We got a three bedroom apartment for four of us and we all moved in together. A queer family, cobbled together.

I experienced gay liberation and a sense of freedom. And fun. And the love and kindness from a community of people with similar experiences and who placed no conditions on their acceptance of me, exactly as I am and as I’m not.

I deconstructed my Catholic religious upbringing, freeing my spirituality and untethering my soul.

The trauma of my coming out story still impacts me, I think, to some extent. I hate asking for help. Or being dependent on anyone for anything (because the support can be yanked or used to control me). I don’t like feeling indebted to anyone. It’s not logical. I recognize this way of being doesn’t serve me in many contexts. But it exists, nonetheless.

My mother still holds the same views as she did 35+ years ago. She’s 92 now. Mostly, I’m present to love and gratitude when I think about Mom and when I’m with her. Mostly.

Every so often, Mom makes a remark during one of my visits that rubs me the wrong way. My old wounds activate like an emotional flashback to when I was 19 or 20.

I beat myself up for still being triggered, at 55, by the ramblings of an elderly woman. So what if she wishes that I’d meet the right woman and get married? So what if she dismisses my “I’m already married” reply? Those comments have zero impact on my life. Shouldn’t that friggin trigger be gone by now? I get frustrated with myself.

I discovered it’s much better for me (psychologically and logistically) to stay in a hotel when I visit.

I practice modeling for Mom the unconditional love I wish I’d received. Knowing full well that she’s not likely to change. And that’s ok. Just something to accept. Joyfully, if possible.

An interesting thing is that I feel closer to Mom’s live-in caretaker than to Mom. Señora Eli has been with us ten years now. She’s 70 years old, and an ally. She has a gay nephew she talks with weekly. She takes great care of Mom and running the house in Panamá. We’re blessed to have her help.

Mothers and Fathers come in all forms. And a biological connection is not a prerequisite for that level of intimacy and support.

I had a different experience with Dad. He was career military, drafted as a teenager in the Korean War era. He was also a veteran of the Vietnam war. For most of his adult life, he lived overseas.

On one of my visits to Panamá, he told me he wanted to die on US soil and asked me to bring him back with me. He felt that his time was running out.

“You realize that I live with a man, right?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“And you don’t have a problem with that?”

“No.”

Age has a way of putting things in perspective and highlighting what’s really important. Especially when faced with end of life.

Another possibility is that Dad never had an issue with my sexuality and it was all Mom’s reaction. Perhaps she simply used Dad as a convenient scapegoat for her stance.

I brought Dad back with me to Texas and became his guardian as he declined in health — an Alzheimer’s diagnosis.

We had miraculous conversations in those last two years of his life. The past didn’t seem relevant to me given that Dad’s memories of us were gone.

He sometimes didn’t know who I was. But when he did, he called me “Pablo”, the nickname i grew up with. He always recognized me as someone he trusted, which was a great help when I needed his cooperation with doctor appointments, working with the assisted living home, the VA, etc.

Dad told me all sorts of stories about his life. About growing up in a neighborhood of St. Louis tenements packed with European immigrants — Germans, Poles, Irish, Eastern Europeans during the WWII era. About dropping out of high school to bag groceries to help support his single mother and family of five when his dad took off. About completing basic training in Texas when he was drafted into the military. About what it was like to be stationed in Thailand (his favorite military post). About the commendation he received after responding to a dangerous situation when a jet landed with its fuselage shot up and pouring fuel onto the tarmac after a mission over Vietnam (he worked on jets as an airplane mechanic). Etcetera.

I was able to relate to him, not as my father, but as a fellow human being who was showing up in the present moment, unconstrained by the past. I learned that I liked him as a person. He was somebody that I could’ve been friends with had we not been burdened with father/son expectations and dynamics.

He apologized for any of his failings as a father. He even told me once that I was lucky to have my husband — a miracle, from my perspective.

Now, when I think of Dad, there’s no resentment. Just gratitude and love. And what a blessing this is! 🙏🏻

This photo not only triggered a flood of memories, but perhaps highlighted areas for my continued self-work and reflection. For the next time I’m working with a therapist or doing men’s mythopoetic work. Or writing. 😉

One thing is certain: I was lucky to have had Marc, Ned, and Jeff as family during those initial years of separation from family of origin. They were my guardian angels. For all I know, I’m alive now because of them.

And for that, I’m glad. ❤️