Everything I really need to know I learned from "The Globe""

For most of my 35 years I have enjoyed the grocery store. As a child, I couldn’t wait for Tuesday to roll around. I knew that meant a shopping trip. Like most kids, I especially loved the cereal aisle. As I grew older my love of the market never really faded. In college it became a sort of social activity. Three or four of us would pile in one or two vehicles and head to the store.

In the early years of our marriage, Misty and I often went grocery shopping together. As the years passed, and especially when we became parents, we went together less and less. In the years since we’ve sort of taken turns doing the grocery shopping. Misty’s turn came up much more often than mine.

Recently shopping duties have fallen solely to me. A few weeks ago I became the designated grocery shopper. Even more recently, I have taken over meal planning, shopping, and cooking duties to help lighten the load on Misty while she’s in school. I have to admit, I love it.

A trip to the supermarket can be an enlightening experience. I learn something every time I grocery shop. Many lessons lurk in the aisles waiting for an instant of vulnerability. Then they pounce and teach you something.

The lessons vary in value, depth, and aptness. I’ve learned simple things, such as: “Not everyone values personal hygiene as much as I do.” “If you wear dirty, torn, mismatched, or otherwise inappropriate clothing, you will see no less than 3 people you know.” Some are a little more profound. “My kids’ behavior is not as bad as I think it is.”

The truly weighty lessons always seem to teach me something about myself. Almost without fail, I discover something about my true self on a trip to the grocery store.

My daughter and I finished filling our shopping cart. It was time to pay and go. This particular trip was atypically uneventful. Most likely because only one of the kids accompanied me. For a moment, I thought I might get out without learning anything.

We walked the front of our local Wal-Mart Supercenter looking for a sufficiently short checkout line. It only took a moment. We slid in line behind a middle-aged woman with a cart half-filled with yogurt, Lean Cuisine, fat-free milk, and the like. She was second in line, and waited for the conveyor to empty enough to begin unloading her items.

I leaned on the handle of our shopping cart. I watched as Ms. Lean Cuisine began stacking her booty of low calorie meals and dairy products on to the conveyor. At that moment I decided my lesson for the day must be that nylon jogging suits have not, in fact, gone out of style. Or maybe the Activa Lady in front of me had not yet received the memo. I pushed the thought aside and braced for the inevitable. The candy is located next to the register for a reason, after-all.

I steeled myself for the “Can I? No!” exchange I knew was to come. Almost as soon as the thought passed from one side of my mind to the other, I heard the opening salvo.

“Dad?”

I set a stern “not today, not ever” look on my face, and turned to answer the query.

“Yes?”

“What does that mean?”

What? She caught me off guard. My mind was racing to catch up. What does what mean? Did I tell her she couldn’t have candy in some foreign tongue?

I looked around trying to figure out what she was asking. After several moments I realized the best means to find the object of her question. I followed her gaze to, not the candy rack, but the tabloids. Uh oh. This could be bad.

I quickly scanned the front pages of the Globe, The Enquirer, and (my favorite) the Weekly World News to find out what puzzled her.

“Oprah Gains 80 lbs.” Nothing confusing there.

“Angelina Baby Shocker.” I doubt it’s shocking, but again, nothing confusing.

“Redneck Aliens Take Over Trailer Park.” I love the Weekly World News.

Then I saw it. “Obama Gay Cover-Up.” Accompanied by a photo of a very distraught President Obama. Surely that’s not it. Oh, please.

“What does what mean, baby?”

“That word?”

My 8-year-old daughter pointed to the word “gay.” I froze. My mind was blank. I glanced at Mrs. Danactive. She quickly looked away toward the cashier.

Finally my brain started working again. But there were still too many thoughts to engage in speech. What do I tell her? Do I really want to explain right here in the checkout line at Wal-Mart what it means to be gay? Do I want Ms. Middle-Aged Jogging Suit listening in and judging me? No. No I don’t.

I tried to stall. What does word what mean? Cover-up? It means you’re hiding something.”

“No, what does ‘gay’ mean?”

Crap! Try another stall.

“It can mean happy.”

“What’s wrong with being happy? Why would he cover that up?”

Uh oh. My stall (for a few years) tactic didn’t work. At this point I had two choices. I could continue to brush it under the rug with a quick and quiet, “I don’t know.” Or I could do the right thing and tell the truth.

I stood there for what seemed to be 3 eternities. Again, my mind was racing. My internal arguing voices were increasing in volume.

“Just tell her what it means.”

“No, she doesn’t need to know that?”

“Why not? You believe there’s nothing wrong with being gay, right?”

“Um, well, yeah, but I don’t want this lady to hear me. She probably doesn’t agree. She might…”

“Might what? Disagree? Yell at you in Wal-Mart? Call you a Sodomite lover? Throw yogurt and low-calorie frozen dinners at you?”

“Well, um, no.”

“Tell her.”

“What if she asks questions about… details?”

“Tell her”

Finally I looked at her and said, probably in a quieter than usual voice, “It means when men have boyfriends and girls have girlfriends. Guys who fall in love with guys and girls who fall in love with girls.”

Her response was a shock. “Oh.”

That was it. Nothing more. As I waited my turn, then unloaded my cart I was a bit ashamed of myself. Why was I so reluctant to tell her what it means to be gay? I was most ashamed of my initial thought. “She doesn’t need to know that yet.”

Why not? There are certain things we keep from our kids until a certain age. The birds and the bees. In depth discussions about death. But the meaning of gay?

I thought back to my days in elementary school, junior high, and high school. “Gay” was one of the cruelest insults you could throw at a boy. Call someone gay and everyone would laugh, relax their wrists, and start talking with a lisp. Fail to deny the accusation (or to deny it passionately enough) and you could be sure an ass kicking was coming your way. Followed by the stigma of being a “faggot” for the rest of your days in the school system.

I doubt things are very different today in good ole Florence, AL. I don’t want my kids to fall into that bigoted trap. We have gone to great lengths to instill a sense of equality among races and genders in our kids. One of the first baby dolls we bought was African American. Racism still held a tight grip on the Florence City School System in the 80s and 90s. I don’t want my kids to fall into that bigoted trap.

We have never really addressed sexual orientation with our kids. I have a few friends who are gay. My kids have met one of them (maybe more if there’s another I’m not aware of.) I’ve said it before, but one of my best friends is gay. But I have never mentioned to them that he is gay. In fact, I’ve kind of gone out of my way to not mention that he’s gay.

So here I am, a hypocrite. Preach one thing and practice another. No more. I want my kids to know that there are gay people and there are straight people (or breeders, that one still makes me laugh). To know that there is nothing wrong with being gay. To know that “gay” is not an insult. Which means I need to show them.