A Letter I’ll Never Send


Dear Dad,

I don’t remember ever writing to you when you were alive, not even when thousands of miles separated us. We didn’t have that kind of father-daughter ease of communication and that’s ok. I’ve made my peace with the fact that both of us were doing the best we could. The truth is, writing this now, when you’ve been gone for over twenty years, is the first time I’ve ever consciously wanted to say something in writing directly to you. You would likely be suspicious of this gesture, putting words out there in some kind of public way directed toward you. Toward your memory. But you also had an appreciation for the theatrical, so I hope you can file this under a display with the kind of creative flair that you yourself lived in.

It’s National Coming Out Day today. Did that exist when you were alive? I’ve been seeing posts on Facebook about it and it caused me unexpectedly to cry. You probably would have hated Facebook with all of its over-sharing potential and attention to the minutia of life. You were a private man, at least with me. I don’t know where the tears came from exactly but I do know this: your coming out to mom in 1972 in Topeka, Kansas was one gutsy move.

I have mom’s version of the day but I wish I had asked you to tell me about it from your perspective. Were you afraid? What did you think would happen? Did mom react like you thought she would? What about your fraternity brothers from K-State? How did it feel to have it finally ‘out’?

I’ve interpreted your silence from talking about these things and about being gay in general as being rooted in shame. You had an enormous vocabulary that you loved to wield, but also the ability to not talk at all about the deep things in life. About how it felt when you found out you were HIV+, about losing so many of your friends, about how your own parents expressed their love to you. Maybe it too was hard to talk about. Maybe you were trying to protect me in some way. Maybe I’m over-identifying a sense of shame that wasn’t there in you. I hope so.

Bravery is what you showed me by coming out. Thank you for being true to yourself. Thank you for giving me that example. Thank you for trying the best you could during a complicated life in our messy family. And thank you for passing along your high cheekbones to me. I’m trying to use the life you and mom gave me to be courageous too.

Love, Molly


10 Comments Add yours

  1. John MInnick says:

    Well done Molly, well done! Your Dad would be proud of you for writing your letter to him.

    1. Molly says:

      Thank you John!

  2. thepeachnana says:

    This is beautiful and spot-on.

    1. Molly says:

      Thanks mom, that means a lot – especially coming from you!

  3. Cory says:



  4. catherine gates says:

    Molly I’ve always thought of your family as trailblazers! Through all the pain and love you feel,you and your family have made it easier for others to live in honesty .

    1. Molly says:

      Thank you for saying that my friend!

  5. Tom Slover says:

    My best friend in high school was gay — I didn’t know it then. He went through life I believe as many did in the 60’s — he married, got divorced and came out. He called me. Sad to say Kenny died of aids in 1988 — one of the first. I was able to see him 6 months before then. He was an artist and I help organize a retrospective of his work the year he died. When I went to the retrospective I was in the middle of my own divorce — I went to the church where his ashs were and yelled at him for leaving — the priest heard me and we talked — the funny thing he told me was Kenny made his own ash receptacle and he made it too small for all of them to fit.

    1. Molly says:

      Tom, I’m sorry for the loss of your friend Kenny. I’m sure the fact that you continued to be his friend throughout the different stages of his life meant a lot to him. And yes, that is a funny ending about the ashes not fitting in to what he had prepared!

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