CHAPTER 1

The Call

It’s true. A single phone call can alter your life. It’s also true that a date can be indelibly printed on your mind—even the minds of the history-challenged. It was the evening of July 15, 2002, when my daughter Cholene called to tell me that she was gay. She was thirty-seven years old at the time.

You are probably thinking that surely I had suspected something by this point. Not a clue—I was stunned.

Cholene is an amazing woman who has accomplished things others only dream of doing. My good friend Edwina and I joke about how we want to be our daughters when we grow up—not only because they are accomplished, intelligent, and lovely, but also because they are kind, caring, and compassionate. When I would tell someone about Cholene attending the Air Force Academy, her years as a U-2 pilot, or her job as a captain for United Airlines, I would invariably get the question,“Is she married?” I would say no, along with my stock answer that she had two long-term relationships that didn’t work out. Then I would laugh and say,“What male ego can survive a woman like this?” I would often get a nod and a smile, but because of rampant stereotypical assumptions, I felt they were thinking,“Oh yeah—she’s gay.” I would want to scream,“Just because a woman can do things better than most men doesn’t mean she’s a lesbian!”

When Cholene was three years old, she decided she wasn’t going to wear dresses anymore and when she was four, she renamed herself“Tom.” Actually, it was“Boss Bat Tom,” because that was during hervampire bat period. She had seen a soap opera at the babysitter’s house that had something to do with vampires. She was convinced that a bat had flown in her bedroom window, bit her on the neck, and now she was a vampire bat too. Her dad and I were divorced and his fiancé made her a black cape with her new name emblazoned on the back in large, white letters. Did I rush her off to a child psychologist? No, I thought she was wonderfully creative. She still is. However, she hardly ever wears the black cape any more.

I didn’t take her refusal to wear dresses nearly as well. I loved dolls when I was a kid, and loved dressing them up. When Cholene was born, I was delighted to have a little girl, and I thought it would be like dressing up a real, live doll of my own. Alas, it was not to be. Her wardrobe consisted of tee shirts, jeans and black, high-top tennis shoes. She also had no interest in dolls whatsoever. As she grew older, her refusal to wear dresses grew stronger. There was a battle before church every Sunday becauseby golly, she was not going to make me look bad by not wearing a dress! What would people think? I didn’t insist that she wear dresses to school, except for one disastrous Valentine’s Day when Cholene was a