A Few Words from Mother

To the Readers of My Genius Son's Book,

Everywhere I go with Robert, people ask me, "Don't you mind the things your son writes about you? The wigs, the plastic surgery, the vomit..."And my answer is no, it doesn't bother me that Robert writes about it, it bothers me that I had to live through it.

Most of the events Robert recounts in this book occurred during the most god-awful time. And though, in looking back, I can see that much of my behavior was, well, unusual, it all seemed so reasonable at the time. Which brings me to another thing people tend to ask me when I'm out with Robert: "What have you learned from the experiences you've lived through?"

And my answer is "Nothing." "Nothing?" they repeat. "Well, I wouldn't shave my head again." Because that really wasn't a good idea. But again, at the time, it seemed entirely logical. Which tends to be the way with life. It seems you can operate with complete certainty, and still, in the long run, be completely wrong. Shit. Wrong and stubborn really is a terrible combination.
But of course, you don't know that until much later. Sometimes not until your son writes a book about it. And that, in its own way, is a marvelous consolation, because at least something good and funny came out of the lousy times.

At least Robert can see the humor in the really terrible decisions I made, instead of just silently resenting me for them, like the children of every other woman in every other country club in America. As it turns out, I've had bad luck with all the men of my life, except my son. There hasn't been a single moment of his life when I haven't worshipped and adored Robert, and now there's a book to prove it. With a beautiful picture of us on the cover. Heavenly.

Much love,

Swoon by Victoria Redel

When I was sixteen, my mother offered me fifteen hundred dollars if I swore never, ever to read her another poem I hadn't written. I cashed her check, but I've cheated once or twice. And the only time it's ever ended happily was when I discovered this poem, written by my super-hot friend Victoria Redel, from her book Swoon. Mother says that more than anything she's ever encountered, this poem expresses the way she felt raising a gay son. It's very lovely, and I hope readers will love it, too.

Tell me it's wrong the scarlet nails my son sports or the toy store rings he clusters four jewels to each finger. He's bedecked. I see the other mothers looking at the star choker, the rhinestone strand he fastens over a sock. Sometimes I help him find sparkle clip-ons when he says sticker earrings look too fake. Tell me I should teach him it's wrong to love the glitter that a boy's only a boy who'd love a truck with a remote that revs, battery slamming into corners or Hot Wheels loop-de-looping off tracks into the tub.

Then tell me it's fine--really--maybe even a good thing--a boy who's got some girl to him, and I'm right for the days he wears a pink shirt on the seesaw in the park.

Tell me what you need to tell me but keep far away from my son who still loves a beautiful thing not for what it means--this way or that--but for the way facets set off prisms and prisms spin up everywhere and from his own jeweled body he's cast rainbows--made every shining true color.

Now try to tell me--man or woman--your heart was ever once that brave.

Excerpted from Swoon by Victoria Redel. ⓒ 2003 The University of Chicago Press
Reprinted with permission.