Date: Sat, 11 Apr 2009 15:30:15 -0500
From: Morris Henderson <bigmoh@post.com>
Subject: culture_clash_chapter_1

CULTURE CLASH

CHAPTER ONE

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.