"These days," I had lost Mom's conversation and now realized she had switched to her favorite philosophical conviction, "people are afraid to be different, to be themselves, I mean. As soon as someone puts his head above the crowd," this was her favorite way of phrasing it, "because he has some unusual ability, or because he's different in some way, everyone tries to batter him down, to make him fit the mold. People are afraid of people who are different or talented because they don't understand-they're afraid of anything they don't understand." "Our is mainly a comformist society," I said, unnecessarily.

"You should never be afraid to be yourself. It needs courage because others will criticise you and make fun of you." She paused to sip her coffee.

"I wish you would come over for dinner more often, Dave," she continued, resuming her original tone, "We've been so close, you and I, and I miss your company. Bring John along too, if you want—even if he is particular about my cooking," she added with a slight tone of injured pride-John had once criticised her cooking!

Mom always said this too--"We are so close," she said, time and again. Yet, I often wondered if she could know me at all. When I was with her I had always felt like a little boy, hidden deep inside a man's body, peering out to view the surroundings with complete detachment as though watching a play. I tried to imagine how she pictured me as she looked across the table. A young man in his middle thirties who yet looked in his twenties, neatly dressed in trim-fitting clothes, calm and relaxed, sipping his coffee comfortably. She did not see the struggle that was going on in me at the moment. All through the years since my middle teens when I was struggling with my "problem," the years when I tried to convince myself that I was not gay, the years of guilt and self-condemnation, of seclusion and loneliness, she had not known me.

My only solace had been the piano. I would play for hours, composing; my absorption in the music bringing forgetfulness of my own troubled emotions. No, I had never been able to be myself in her presence. Now, I was fighting for the courage to open myself to her. Having found myself, so to speak, through the years, and through John's love, I wanted to let her know me. But would I find the strength?

It occurred to me, trying to picture her reaction if and when I could manage. to tell her, that it would also take courage on her part to accept me. To accept the son she had always idealized as, how did she put it? "such a fine boy"to accept me as a queer! She had sometimes used that word, I remembered. Mom was still busy talking; but I hadn't heard. She was repeating something she particularly wanted me to hear. "Hmm-what?" I asked.

"You weren't listening to me," she pouted, " I said, did I tell you that the woman next door moved? You know, the one who was always drunk?"

I shook my head.

"Well she moved. There's a man living there now. I think he's-uh-a homo. He always brings in men friends, never any women. And sometimes they stay all night."

Here was my chance! I fought to open my mouth. My mind struggled for words. My hands sweated. My heart tried to pound its way out of me. But I could only say "A lot of men have sex with men friends."

"I suppose so,” Mom said, her tone implying that she thought it very strange, as she collected the soiled dishes from the table. "Will you play for me?"

I was glad to play. I felt like it, and even if Mom never did really sense the emotional turbulence behind a calm exterior, she always could sense things