Eli Ingraham, a friend and colleague at WGBH, tells me the story of the gains and losses of coming out of the closet in mid-life.

Eli Ingram:

My sister and I were each at separate colleges. A classmate of hers killed herself. She was gay. [Reflective piano music begins, and continues under the narrative] Her father went on a rampage and got the names of all the women she knew at school and started calling the parents. When the gentleman called our home and outed my mother’s daughter, she came barreling into my room in a fury and screamed, “Are you a lesbian?” I said, “No!” And she went tearing down three flights of stairs and confronted my sister. My sister said, “Yes!” I was just mute with shock. I just could not believe what I was hearing. [Eli sighs, and her voice quavers:] I couldn’t support her. I betrayed her. I allowed her to be isolated; it hurt her deeply and it hurt me very deeply. It was survival. I didn’t want to risk being disowned.

[Music becomes more orchestral, and continues throughout the narrative.]

Many years later I drove down to the Cape where she was to admit that I was gay. My sister was gracious for about two hours. [Eli laughs] The reality of what she had had to do alone kicked in and she was angry. And I just had to let her be that way for about a year.

I was 37. I couldn’t expect her to understand the insanity that I had been living in because I could not admit that I was gay. Anything but that. [tearfully] And admit that you’ve been dishonest, not only to yourself but to others. My mother said, “It is the last time you’ll see my face.” I got out of the car and closed the door, and that’s the last time I’ve seen her face.

I have a beautiful daughter, Tasmine, who’s turning three in March. Every day I tell her I love her. Every day I tell her I’m proud of her, and every day I tell her what a good person and wonderful spirit she is. She hears those three things at the end of every day. [laughing] Know what she says in response?

“I know, Mama—I know.”

When I was about nine or ten and her mother died, Mom was just crying all the time – she said to me, if her mother knew how much she loved her, she could stop crying. It’s probably how I feel about her. [Eli sighs.] I have reached out to her, “returned unopened” over 20 years. A lot of wasted time. I hope there’s time for this one. She was the one who taught us love of neighbor, really, as she carted us around in the car, delivering care baskets and weeding the gardens of the entire town. Saturdays she took us to the Natural History Museum, and all of the dioramas and explained to us – from the time I was really small, without my saying a word. Her buying me poetry books, stories of people overcoming adversity, because she just knew it was a language I spoke. Despite everything, it came through – her love came through. Mom! People do what they can do, and that has to be okay.

[Cello takes precedence over rest of orchestra; music crescendos and then tapers off.]

[End of recording]

Transcribed by: Liz Cooksey