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He had discussed his early homosexual desire with a therapist, who dismissed it as unresolved envy of his more athletic childhood friends, and, eventually, he married my mother and had me. All along, there was an expectation, both internal and external, that my father would marry a woman and have a family. He himself would become a sought-after advertising executive who worked with arts organizations in New York. My dad had grown up in the Bronx, the son of first-generation Jewish immigrants who had transcended their Depression-era childhoods to become successful professionals. I don’t know whether he was driven by a desire to express himself fully, to compromise neither his identity as a gay man nor as a parent, or by a lack of willingness to sacrifice any time in a world that he had spent most of his life denying. But, for the moment, he was well-at least well enough to take his daughter on a Caribbean vacation.įitting me into his gay life style, one that did not typically accommodate children, was my father’s norm. I was travelling with my father, who, less than eighteen months later, would die after a five-year battle with AIDS. I was barely a teen-ager, and, from my view across the dining room, I appeared to be the sole female passenger on the cruise ship carrying several hundred gay men from Miami, Florida, to San Juan, Puerto Rico, over the course of seven days-and definitely the only kid.
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The first night on the ship, I wore a cobalt velvet jacket with a shawl collar, stonewashed jeans, and a necklace bearing three tiers of iridescent orbs, an unintentional nod to the disco ball that would cast the ballroom in a glittering glow.