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As a kid, I lived by two truths—I was Italian and I was Roman Catholic. The men in my life (my father and the Pope) ruled. The women? They made gravy and macaroni (not sauce and pasta; no real Italian said sauce or pasta in my house) and they made more kids—preferably boys. Girls were loved, naturally, but boys were revered.
In my somewhat insular world, both sexes knew their places and had very specific jobs and perks. Even though I was young, I knew what that meant: Boys eventually become men who get to do whatever they want to whomever they want, and girls grow up to be women who get to do what they're told. There are men and there are women, I was often reminded, and nothing in between.
But I was pretty sure I sprouted from between some crack in that logic. So as I got older, I paid extra special attention to the adult conversations around me. I was sure there was more to the story of life than I was being told.
I heard talk of weddings, divorces and even “goomahs,” but I never heard anyone in my family talk about gay people. We would discuss the social issues of the day—civil rights, bussing, politics, etc., at the top of our lungs because, well, we're Italian, remember? But gay rights never came up. And I thought it odd, as if the topic was purposely avoided.
Turns out, it was purposely avoided. Once I came out, I learned that everyone in my immediate family already knew I was a lesbian, but no one wanted be the first to talk about it. Made perfect sense, really.
All things considered, and in comparison to Vito's outing, my coming out was fairly uneventful. And one huge reason for that is because I'm not a man. But another is that my family is Italian, not insane. I come from a fairly reasonable clan—hanging meat issues aside. Unlike the Soprano's, we respect one another as much as we do our heritage.
These days, my life doesn't come close to resembling what it once was. It was a slow process, but after my father's death everything changed. The Friday night poker games ended. The goombahs stopped visiting, and I remodeled the outdated house. I still enjoyed Sunday dinners with my family, but they weren't the same. We ate at three or four or five o'clock, if we wanted to, and sometimes we ate teriyaki steak. We talked openly about gay people, including myself, and even my mother began saying “sauce.”
Today, I love my family from 3000 miles away, and I hardly ever eat pork.
It's not that I became less Italian, or that I honored my father less once he was gone, it's that I became more of other things. And with that realization comes a bittersweet feeling. I miss my dad like crazy, but through the hole he left in my life, I walked. I took the path that's pink, and no one in my family tried to stop me.
I can't thank them enough for that.
It's funny, the thing called “family honor.” I used to think of it as being something bigger than I am, something that bound me. But now I think it just paved the way for me to honor myself.
It will be interesting to see how Tony alternately steers and navigates honor this season. It's clear that he now wants other things—more out of life. But whatever happens, I'll watch The Sopranos next Sunday and prepare to mourn the loss of Vito—not the loss of his mobster life, but the loss of his big ol' gay dreams.
Salud, ya big fanuc!
Kim Ficera is the author of Sex, Lies and Stereotypes: An Unconventional Life Uncensored. Her bi-weekly column Don't Quote Me is dedicated to all the folks in and out of Hollywood who talk without thinking or who don't know when to stop talking. Email her at kim@kimficera.com.
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