Part 1  •  New Rituals

1992

In my father’s Pierce Street flat the three of us—my sister Alexa, my father and I—sat by the bay window as we would before going out to dinner on Friday evenings. This was one of my father's rituals. And because we were here in the city with him, it would become a family ritual. 

But this was new. 

Dad's weekend sanctuary was now his home, and where he was always meant to be. There among the Union and Chestnut Street strolls of quaint whitewashed meat markets, striped-awning sidewalk cafes, and boutique apparel shops. The colorful rows of polite chateau-ettes tucked so tightly together that only their obelisk-shaped bushes serve as front yards. And the Marina Green vast park lawn that lines the harbor, where a fractured family of three would watch displays of vibrant kites sail in blues, reds, and yellows, and drink rootbeer-flavored milk bought from the poshest Safeway in America.

My father WAS the Marina District, and it was him. Aspirationalism embodied in a neighborhood—a Ralph Lauren brand unicorn proudly securing the scarce breathing room between Pacific Heights’ cascade of old-money and the waterfront. For in a town where any flamboyant demonstration of wealth was thought vulgar, the barometer of prestige is proximity. And Dad had permanently joined the club of inhabitants with a front row view of where the iconic vermillion bridge leaps through a garland of white over sparkling waterways into weathered hills flecked by scant sun rays.

Alexa and I had arrived that afternoon on a train from Stockton, an unglamorous inland town where, just six months before, my father had been a suburbanite family man—couched in the den reading his paper on Sunday mornings, occasionally tilting to one side to release a celebratory burst of gas through his khakis. And where we had been his obedient flock of lambs that drew compliments from onlookers. It was under that tri-level roof that a fallacy, an illusionary bubble had grown, and was primed to implode. He and his wife Kim (our stepmother) mercifully dismantled our contrived, patched-together household and Dad fled permanently to the apartment he kept out in the city. And now we were here, with Dad, in his bachelor pad by the bay, creating new rituals.

My older sister Alexa was a pretty, soft-faced Mediterranean brunette, insecure as any high school freshman but twice burdened with the wounded child thing—the condition that makes it impossible to ever be comfortable in your own skin. Even at that awkward age, however, she was somehow bullish enough to plow through out of pure spite.

Not me however. I moved through the world as if an odor of fear preceded me. Simply leaving my bedroom spiked anxiety. Likely an undiagnosed form of agoraphobia. I was unsettled in the world. I wouldn’t know what to do with social capital if I ever acquired it. Probably give it away as soon as it appeared—like quickly passing the ball in a game I possessed no command of. 

Dad was in his casual, afterwork attire—a colorfully striped rugby shirt tucked into relaxed-fit jeans, brown woven belt and loafers. His crisp, white dress shirt from the day tossed in the hamper awaiting its trip to the cleaners, his black or gray or brown suit already carefully returned to it’s designated glossy hanger labeled Sax Fifth Avenue or Bullock & Jones.

Yet this particular evening felt uncharacteristic. He didn’t make his usual martini—dry Stoli’ vodka “up” with an olive. And he was unusually attentive to our needs—seemed genuinely interested in our thoughts and feelings. 

This was a rare moment with my father. Dad was so outwardly bolstered against his true fragility, there was always an emotional expanse I’ve never successfully bridged. And the depth of connection that lacked between us resulted in, for me, a more abstract way of relating to him. He was like the leading man in a film I’ve watched repeatedly, but could never reach into the screen and make contact with. He was Carey Grant, whom many (including his ex-wife) had compared his looks to, with his fresh-shaven olive jawline and swept black hair framed proud against a crisp bright collar. A presence that’s at once commanding yet softly sophisticated. Warm dark eyes, a smoky smile, wise and reassuring. Complete with a little foreign convertible—in the movie of my childhood, this is my father. 

Sitting together in his tiny city apartment there was an unease among us; we all could feel it. Poised with palpable vulnerability, he seemed to be preparing to tell us something that would drastically change our course—an important briefing from the chief of operations.

“Wait, I have to use the bathroom first.” I interrupted. 

“Ok... we’ll be right here,” Dad said reassuringly.

I stood up and dashed across the wooden floor that groaned and creaked, sending loud hollowy clatter throughout the apartment. I caught myself, anticipating being scolded for disturbing the downstairs neighbors. But his deep, nagging voice was silent. 

I rounded the bedroom—just a futon bed in a walk-in closet that must've sprouted and awkwardly bloomed in the middle of the already tight quarters. The bathroom door squeaked as I shoved it closed, the decades of paint build-up keeping it from fitting right in the frame. Spattering the porcelain bowl, I stared out through the small window pane at the dark, narrow space between buildings, and into the peepshow of a neighbor's bathroom. I sometimes saw the outline of what I thought was a woman showering there. It was together thrilling and uncomfortable. Uncomfortable only because this was my father's bathroom. This was his private world—the smell of the old walls and hallway carpeting, the liquorice flavored natural toothpaste that I’d never tasted before, the strange closet bed. I was merely a tourist in it. 

“Are you coming Zack? There’s something important I have to tell you guys.” He gathered his stray lamb to the flock. What I didn’t know is we were about to be allowed to peek over the wall into the hidden land beyond.

 “Ok we’re all here now.” His arms folded, gaze directed downward as if leading us in prayer, only occasionally glancing up at our faces. We listened intently, with eyes also bowed. 

“Ok. You know how typically men and women are attracted to each other,” he explained, “well sometimes women and women will like each other and same for men and men.” His brow tensed to see that we were understanding everything. “Well, I haven’t told you this before but I’m telling you now. I am bisexual, meaning that I love women like your mother, Beverly, and your former stepmother, Kim, but I also like men.”

I sat listening, nodding as if I deeply connected with his words. But in truth I was blank inside. Not because he was being unclear, but because he was talking about himself, and that almost  never happened—in that way, or any. A more typical family state-of-the-union address would sound something like: “Kim and I are getting married and we will all live together and you can see your mom and your brother every other weekend” or “Kim needs some time away from children so you will be going to a long-stay camp this summer” or “Kim is going through a hard time right now so let’s be on our extra good behavior” or “Kim and I are getting a divorce and you will be going to live with your mom and brother, so gather everything you can in the next 30 minutes and I’ll put it in the car.”

So what he was saying now just sort of wafted through me. Like the fog that had already swallowed the western half of the city. And I sifted through it to find some declaration of the fate to come. But that was it. There was none. He just needed to tell us this, let us know this about him, and hope we would understand. He asked if we had any questions and if we were ok, and we nodded. 

What I would learn over the course of the next several years, was the subtext to his disclosure, which was, ‘I like men. And I’ve spent most of my life living and sleeping with women, but I honestly don’t like them all that much. Well... not as much as men.’