The Todd Glass Situation (22 page)

Thanks, Fred.

And thank you.

Good night.

As
I said earlier in the book, it took a series of teenage suicides to open my eyes to how devastating hatred can be to a child. I still feel the urge every day to speak up for those kids, making sure that the people who surrounded them understand their complicity in those tragedies and maybe helping others avoid a similarly heartbreaking set of circumstances.

Let's face it—most of the people I want to address would never read this book. But they might respond to a heartfelt plea from the kids who need them.

The following letter is mostly made up of passages from the book, so if I sound like I'm being repetitive, well, yes, I am. My hope is that it might help someone articulate the feelings he
or she is (literally) dying to express to a parent who wouldn't in a million years read a book by a gay, dyslexic comedian.

Dear Mom and Dad,

These might not be my words, but I hope that what you're about to read helps to explain the way I'm feeling right now. It's important that you know I want nothing more than what any other kid on this planet hopes for: to be loved and accepted by his or her parents. But your actions have prevented me from living that kind of life everyone around me gets to enjoy. You have taken that from me. Stolen that from me. But I want you to know that it's not too late and I beg for you to give this letter serious thought.

Ever since I was little, you've made me feel bad about myself. Now you've chosen to turn your back on me completely. I get that me being gay is not what you wanted. Believe me, if I had a choice I would gladly change this about myself if for no other reason than to end this nightmare.

But I can't. And I wish you could put half as much effort into understanding and loving me as you have into trying to change me.

I'm sure you have your reasons. Maybe it has to do with your religious beliefs. But from my point of view, the idea that you would let an archaic institution separate you from your child doesn't make any sense to me (or to most people who know anything about these things). I know you think they're right about me, but they're not. Besides, why would you trust and follow “experts” who make your life easier while choosing to ignore the ones who could make my life easier?

Maybe you think I'm sick. Well, you'll be hard-pressed today to find a pediatrician or an accredited psychologist who will tell you that homosexuality is an illness. In fact, any doctor who diagnosed homosexuality as a mental illness would be discredited by every medical board in the country. Shouldn't that alarm you? Don't you trust doctors to fix your health problems, plumbers to fix your sink, or mechanics to fix your car? There are people who dedicate their entire professional careers to understanding what we're going through—why can't you listen to what they're telling you? Why do you instead trust my well-being with people with no academic background or experience?

I get what you think you're doing. If I were on drugs there would be plenty of counselors who would tell you to turn me away just like you've done now. They would tell you that by letting me in your house, feeding me, or giving me money, you will only be supporting my addiction. That I may need to hit rock bottom before I can really begin to change.

But do you know why a professional therapist or counselor might make this kind of recommendation? Because of their extensive research and past results. They know it can work. And if (God forbid) I was to die from an addiction before getting better, no one would blame you for making that choice. Even if you blamed yourself, you would have plenty of professional help from people who could reassure you that you did the right thing.

But guess what? I'm not on drugs or engaging in illegal or dangerous behavior. I'm
gay.
And if something was to happen to me, no one will come to your defense for cutting me out of your lives. No one will tell you that you did the best
thing. That's not an opinion; that's a fact. Maybe some people will tell you to forgive yourself eventually but that will be a long road. You'll have to educate yourself, learn from your mistakes, and maybe use your example as a warning to other parents in your shoes.

But wouldn't it be easier to just skip all that and love me for who I am for as long as I'm alive?

I think, deep down, you know that there is nothing wrong with me; the truth is I'm different than what you were expecting and you don't know how to deal with it. I know it's hard for you to accept me because so many people in your social circles are telling you not to. I imagine it must be embarrassing to have a gay child when those around you still think being gay is “weird.” I can't change. You can, but don't want to. And that's what hurts the most.

I want to end this on a positive note. Like I said, it's not too late. I don't want to hold on to anger or any feelings of resentment. Even though some of the points in this letter might sound harsh, I love you very much and hope that you'll learn to accept me for who I am.

Love,

[Fill in your name here.]

Kids are usually embarrassed to discover that they get their sense of humor from their parents—especially their mothers. But as an adult I can totally see it. I am very proud to have received that from you, Mom. I think every parent wants to hear that they did a good job and I just wanted you to know that you did. As my brother Michael put it, “I like who I am because of you.”

Well, it wasn't until I got older that I realized how much of you is in my fiber, Dad. I miss you. I love you. I think about you more and more often as the years go on. I just smelled your sweater yesterday. You did a good job, too.

Like most families, we are not without problems, but our family drama is normal family drama. I'm not saying we take each other for granted, but we often don't take the time to express how we feel about one another. A few years ago my brother Spencer put it perfectly when he said, “We all really like each other.” Whenever we all get together, we can count on laughing a lot—I don't know that a lot of families can say that. So thank you, Spencer, Michael, and Corey.

Thanks to Katy and Tyler—not only are you my niece and nephew, but as you've gotten older, you've become my friends. Meryl . . . I realize that for a lot of years I might have taken you for granted, but that's only because you fit into our family so seamlessly. You always felt like a sister to me. I love your great energy and am always excited to see you. Wendy . . . You don't talk that much and you keep things simple. I love you for that. Erin and Sammy . . . next time I'm home I'll take you to Target again and we'll get Slurpees. Steve . . . You can be sillier than all of us—that is a bonus. Thanks for the rides to and from the airport, the five trips a day to Wawa with me, and for putting dimmer switches on all the lights so I'm comfortable. Little Steve . . . thanks for laughing at all my jokes. Cara . . . thanks for laughing and giggling and keeping my mom busy.

There's so much I want to say and I don't know where to start—it's taken me a half hour at my desk, starting and stopping and starting and stopping again, just to get this far. I hope that, in reading this book, you know the way that I feel about you. Because of you I did and saw things that I never would have done or seen without you. It may have seemed like I complained a lot: “It's too hot . . . I don't want to see the Eiffel Tower.” But if you were a fly on the wall, you'd hear me talking about those trips all of the time—the family dinner in Italy, visiting your dad in Bangkok, camping in your old VW van. Then there's your constant and never-ending belief in me and support for my career. Although our relationship may be different now, I know that our journey, our friendship, and our love for each other will continue to grow.

I guess you could say with Chris I got lucky twice—once with Chris, once with his family. They
knew
before either of us was ready to admit our relationship and treated me like I was part of the family. I remember once hearing one of the nieces referencing me as her uncle—I've got to tell you, it made me melt. So thank you, Pierrette, Henry, Sam, Annalisa, Sibonne, Mike, and Stephanie!

I already mentioned it in the book, but to the anonymous benefactor who paid for me to go to Wordsworth Academy: This was the most decent, kind, and selfless gesture that has ever
been put in front of me. Even though you remain anonymous to this day, I hope you know how much it meant to me.

From the time you saw me in line to see a show and told the doorman not to charge me, you have treated me like a member of your family. Whether it was giving me spots or helping me move to L.A.—where you drove me around, something I couldn't fathom doing myself—you took me under your wing and nurtured my comedy. I'm not exaggerating when I tell you that I think about that a lot. You did so much to help me become a good comedian, from booking the great comics I got to see at your clubs to teaching me that the audience isn't always right. These were valuable lessons I never forgot. I'm sorry I haven't told you that enough.

From the time I started working Comedy Works—I was just seventeen—you were like my comedy mom. And even though you're gone now, I think of you always, which is not hard to do since your face is the wallpaper on my cell phone. I think about how kind you were and how great it felt to make you laugh—especially the time I got out of the car on the Schuylkill Expressway and started dancing. Watching you convulse with laughter was the best feeling in the world. You are missed.

It started as a professional relationship and quickly grew into a friendship. And I've never told anyone this before, but it was a friendship that grew into love and a secret love affair. I should have stayed in Philly and married you, Andy . . . Okay, just kidding. This joke was just for you. You had such a great energy that I was always looking forward to seeing you, no matter what we did together. I love you and thank you for all the help and support early on.

I think about your family all the time. No matter how many years have passed, I always remember what a kind thing you did for me when I was a nervous kid moving out to L.A. Being welcomed so warmly into your home helped a lot. I look back on that time with genuine fondness and appreciation. So Caroline, Randy Jr., Randy Sr., and Sue . . . What can I say? Thank you.

When the Joneses moved, Martha's mom, Mim, invited me to stay with them—rent free—which allowed me to concentrate on doing comedy full-time. We sat on those sofas and talked and talked—you may be the only person I've ever met who can talk as much as me. I cherish those memories. So thank you, Mim. I miss you.

When I came out to Lynn and Teresa a long time ago, they confessed that they'd always had a feeling. “Buddies don't let each other drive their cars,” Lynn chuckled. That line made me laugh so hard I remember it to this day. You are so special to me. Our time together is precious to me. I am so lucky to have you as friends. So thank you and let's hang out more.

I'm a little embarrassed I didn't send this to you a long time ago, but you know what they say: Better late than never. I remember lying in the hospital when you walked in for the first time, leaned down over my bed, and reassured me that I didn't need open-heart surgery. That was the best news I had gotten that night and you made me feel at ease. Thank you for saving my life.

The people that work on
The Todd Glass Show
with me have become my second family. So thank you, Chris Burden (you funny fuck), Katie, Mikey, Andrew, Eric, Jingle Joe, Jake Adams, Preston Smith, Aristotle, and, of course, Tom Martin and Blake Wexler. Besides stand-up comedy, doing the show is my favorite thing in the world. Thanks also to Chris Hardwick for letting me do whatever I want and never calling me with instructions.

You're like the best aunt in the world. When this is all over, and you know what I'm talking about, we are going to party like crazy people. Be strong. Love, Todd.

I've always admired Howard Stern—his show is real, honest, and in the moment. Growing up, he made my friends and me laugh so hard we would LITERALLY have to pull off the road. When I started doing my podcast, I wanted to do a similar type of show, but quickly realized that getting honest on the air meant I had to come clean about a few things in my life. Hiding my sexuality might have been acceptable onstage—where I could find other truths to talk about—but it wasn't an option for the podcast. Still, it took me a year to come out in a public way. I can't tell you how nervous I was to come back and do my show after my announcement, or how happy I was to realize that nothing had changed for the worse. In fact, the show was much better—we could finally incorporate my
situation
into bits, talk honestly about serious issues, and make all kinds of new jokes I couldn't have before. My listeners responded with comments that were warm and reassuring and emails that went deeper and more openly into things we talked about on the show. So thank you to all my listeners, and thank you, Howard. You set the standard for honesty on the air so high, it pushed me into the right direction on my show and in my life.

Listeners to my podcast know him as Almost-Dr. Kevin Sousa—although by the time this book comes out, the “Almost” part will be gone. I've known you, Kevin, since I lived in Philadelphia. You were instrumental in helping me make the decision to come out: A week after I told you I was thinking about it, you called me to find out what progress I'd made. When the answer turned out to be “not much,” you pushed me to call Marc Maron. Your kindness, love, and professional therapeutic skills helped me get through the scariest thing I've ever done. I hope you know how I feel about you. And while we're talking about the Sousas, thank you to Patti—your love has always meant a lot to me, especially around the holidays—and to the rest of the family: Jon, Terry, Peter, and Michael.