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he ignored me. And Forbes loved it, unlike me.
    Forbes, who was also a very talented artist, once presented my father with a portrait done in oil, framed in simple blonde wood. It was so dead-on, the half smile starting in the eyes, the intelligent forehead, the easily annoyed mouth that could go either way. My father seemed uncomfortable with his own image, but he hung it up in our living room anyway.
    I’d look at it, marveling at the idea that someone could take your face and put it on a canvas so perfectly, and then have it be more than just your face. That painting was my father so very clearly, the rage and the sweetness all wrapped up in a sweater vest. I hated that painting when I hated him. I loved it when I loved him. My father never mentioned it. It just hung there.
    Surprisingly, my father had a history of hating homosexuals. My mother told me the story.
    “One time, Daddy have a friend, so close that he is almost, well you know . . . Sometimes when you are young, you have a friend, you love your friend so much you don’t know what to do, so with Daddy and his friend, he have this kind of situation. So one day Daddy and his special friend go to a picnic and they drive to the country and they stop car and Daddy’s friend say that he love Daddy, something like that. And then he put his hand on Daddy leg, something like that. And Daddy was so shock. And so he punch his friend, and then kick him out of the car and just drive back without his friend. And he never speak to him, see him again. And how much pain is Daddy, because he miss his friend, but Daddy cannot forgive that kind of situation. Because when you young, is not really gay, how they have gay wear the leather pants we see in front of bookstore. Not like that kind of gay. Maybe they become that kind of gay later. When you young, you just love, you don’t know what to do. You just love your friend, you don’t know what to do.”
    Years later, after the store closed and all the employees got new jobs and some died and we all lost touch with each other, I came home to attend my grandfather’s funeral. My family and I were all bumping around each other in the emotional fog that mourning can bring. My father and I were sitting in the living room, not talking as usual. We were both looking at Forbes’ painting, which captured my father in his younger days. We stared at it, quietly and unaware of each other. Suddenly, my father said, “You know, I really loved him.”
    I felt it. He did love this wild yet oddly conservative homosexual who had tattooed arms and a British accent, a man so unlike himself that the idea of a friendship between them was ridiculous. At that moment, I loved my father more than I ever had. His simple statement made me cry, and I didn’t care if he saw me.

5
     
    ON BEING A FAG HAG
     
    I am fortunate enough to have been a fag hag for most of my life. A fag hag is a woman who prefers the company of gay men. The marriage of two derogatory terms, fag and hag , symbolizing the union of the world’s most popular objects of scorn, homosexual and woman , creates a moniker that most of those who wear it find inoffensive, possibly because it smacks of solidarity.
    Some women have come to me urgently expressing their desire for a new name. Countless fruit flies, queen magnets, and even a swish dish or two have begged me to reconsider the title of such an important entity. While no woman wants to be thought of as a “hag,” you must acknowledge that the gay man in your life is not concerned with your youth and beauty. He wants to know your soul. He loves you for your courage and intellect. Whether you are lovely or plain, you are beautiful to him for these qualities—and many more.
    Similarly, most of the homosexuals I know bristle at the word “fag.” It conjures up images of awkward, limp-wristed adolescence, of the taunts and catcalls of bullying jocks who are insecure in their own sexuality, all too willing to lash out to mask