I Thought I’d Addressed My Past Trauma. And Then I Attended A Gay Wedding.

Warning: This article contains the author’s recollections of anti-gay slurs from his childhood.
Two-and-a-half years ago, I attended a part-Christian, part-Jewish wedding of two women in Charleston, South Carolina, as the date of one of the brides’ uncles. As the two brides held each other’s faces and kissed, I, a 42-year-old queer man living in San Francisco, instinctively scanned the room for disapproving looks.
Throughout the last 20 years, I thought I’d worked through all the oppressions I’ve experienced: secret same-sex relationships, being uncomfortable around other LGBTQIA+ people, engaging in risky sexual behaviors and the absence of a consistent parental figure. So why did these brides’ open and welcome affection make me feel so anxious? My clasped hands trembled as if trying to break free from my wrists, and a flood of perspiration pierced through my black tuxedo.
However, I vowed not to allow the panic attack to cloud my thoughts or ruin my impeccable application of concealer. Being in that space, watching these two people take vows, forced me to dig up deeply buried and uncomfortable feelings.
After the wedding, I realized I needed to talk to someone who was not tied to my past.
“You may still harbor internalized homophobia from your childhood,” my therapist pointed out during our session. Upon her observation, I found myself involuntarily revisiting my childhood.
My first memory of meeting my mother was when I was 6 years old. Five years earlier, after she divorced my father in the Dominican Republic, she left me in the care of her parents and left for New York City to make a better life for us.
“A son who grows up without a father is destined to become a faggot,” my father used to say, unprompted, throughout their divorce.
When I turned 13, it felt like my mother enrolled me in “masculinity training.” I had to maintain a certain posture, avoid tight clothing and speak assertively because I was my father’s firstborn son, the macho heir who was expected to carry on his last name.
When I was 15, I started eavesdropping on adult conversations during a trip to the Dominican Republic. On one occasion, I overheard the neighbors in their backyard say, “I’d prefer my son to be a murderer or a rapist than a faggot.” They spoke in low tones about a teacher’s gay son in our town. The father had beaten him and disowned him. The news spread like a telenovela recap, with shock and filthy glee about how he “contaminated” the family and would never get married or have children.
“As a mother, it breaks my heart how he was hurt. But God forbid my child turns into that. I don’t want him to suffer,” my mother told my grandmother when the news had reached them.
After hearing that, I knew I could never come out to the two most influential women in my life. During my four years in college, I made a point of seeing my mother only for Christmas. Only after my grandmother passed away from a heart attack and I started therapy after graduation did my mother and I begin to reconnect.
“You’ve cut me out of your life, and you don’t have to,” she said one evening over dinner. “Please, don’t do this. I know you’re gay.”
“How?” I asked. “I’ve been cautious.”
“A mother knows her son. Don’t hide from me,” she pleaded.
I lowered my head. She raised my face with both her hands and wiped my tears. Then she took my hands and firmly placed them on her lower stomach.
“You came from here, and I will fight to protect you from anyone,” she said.
I flashed back to that moment vividly as I observed the mothers of the two brides that day in South Carolina, their eyes welling up with joyful tears as they lovingly stared at their daughters.
What I witnessed at the ceremony wasn’t unique: loved ones giving tearful, affectionate speeches about the couple. However, I was not entirely filled with pride — not just because of cultural expectations that haunted my past, but because of the physical violence I’d experienced, too. Seeing the brides’ unabashed expression of their own sexual identity dug up not just resentment but very real fear.
One of my most poignant experiences with homophobia involved being mugged, assaulted and hospitalized in the South Bronx by three men when I was 15. I was hit in the back of the head, and then two guys in hoodies pinned me down while the third punched and kicked me.
“Let’s teach this faggot-bitch a lesson he won’t forget,” he said. The other two responded enthusiastically. When I heard the flick of a boxcutter knife and smelled the garlic on it (used so cuts won’t fully close), I shook and screamed, “Please stop!” I knew they were going for my face.
“He’s not giving up,” I heard one of the two hooded faces say. I received 10 stitches above my left eyebrow, a split lower lip and two front broken teeth. But what hurt most was knowing that I could get attacked or even killed for simply existing as myself.
After that, I felt an even stronger need to hide, becoming hyperaware of my mannerisms, always ensuring my voice didn’t crack and avoiding standing too close to other guys.
At the wedding, I stood in awe as the brides’ family members gave their speeches.
“I am proud beyond words of my daughter for who she is and all she does,” said one bride’s father while the other proudly raised his hands with joy. I had never felt such intense jealousy after hearing those words. I imagined my father shaking his head with disgust because his prophecy about me being queer came true.
“It fills me with immeasurable joy to be here today, celebrating my daughter and the life she’s creating,” said the other bride’s mother. It was a sentiment I longed to hear from my own mother.
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“I may be her older sister, but I look up to my little sis. She’s that inspiring,” said one bride’s sister, beaming with delight. The words my late younger brother once said echoed inside me: “I’m proud of you. You’re not a hypocrite, and live your truth.”
Despite my discomfort, I was exhilarated to have witnessed their moment of unity. A lot has changed since I was the immigrant boy with the big secret, and I can now visualize dancing with my future husband at our wedding with my mother looking at us with pride.
During my post-wedding therapy session, I had a realization about my internalized homophobia. It may always be my unwanted companion because it has been a strong force for so long. It came at me from so many directions, and it has significantly influenced my life.
I’ve also realized I don’t have to let it control me; I can take control instead. I’ve learned about the importance of finding a supportive community and how connecting with others who share similar experiences can significantly impact our well-being. It requires constant effort, but it is possible to reach a place of self-acceptance and peace.
And it’s humbling to know — especially after all of the overwhelming feelings the wedding brought on — that my journey of self-love is a process that will continue to evolve.
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