I Have Something to Tell You – For Young Adult by Chasten Buttigieg (Review & Giveaway)

A few months after I came out to my parents, I decided it was time to tell the only living grandparent I had. Wanda, my mother’s mother, was a force to be reckoned with. She was a deeply religious woman, a devout Catholic who took tradition and family very seriously (though she’d some- times lean over while we were kneeling and praying in church to tell me to keep walking after we took Communion so we could beat the other families to the restaurant for breakfast. She loved her god, but she also loved not waiting for a table at Cracker Barrel). I adored my grandmother. I spent a lot of time with her growing up, and in high school, I’d often stop by to check in on her for a few minutes, which usually turned into Mom calling to tell me to come home for dinner. I’d sit on Grandma’s couch and listen to her tell stories about growing up in Oklahoma and how her father would make her pick cotton out in the fields. She’d tell me about the cherry farm or my mom’s childhood. Grandma always lured me in with a root beer or something sweet, and we’d sit and watch television or talk. I know we’re not supposed to play favorites, but I think I was pretty high up on her list.

One evening, while Grandma was visiting, I asked if I could take a walk with her. We made our way outside and eventually found ourselves sitting in the front seat of her Buick Skylark. We sat in silence, and I stared at her rosary dangling from the rearview mirror. The tears began to well as I thought about breaking her heart. I looked over at her confused expression—she could tell I was hurting. “Grandma, I . . .” But I choked. She immediately reached her hand over and rested it on my forearm. I felt her rings pressing deep into my arm as I struggled to get any words out. “I know, Chassers,” she said. “And I love you just the same.” I laughed and fell apart in her arms, catching my breath while inhaling her perfume from the sleeve of her sweater. How long had she known and waited for me to tell her? She brushed a few fingers through my hair and hushed my tears, telling me it was going to be all right.

Grandma was my staunchest ally. She died less than two months after I married Peter. Our wedding was the last trip she took outside of Traverse City. Her lungs were working overtime at the wedding as she walked slowly down the aisle of the church, her mobile oxygen tank puffing and echoing through the small sanctuary as she struggled to breathe. From the lectern, Grandma looked into our eyes as she read the Gospel (Matthew 5:13–16), which instructed us to go out and let our light shine for all the world to see. She beamed with pride at me as I gripped Peter’s hand tightly. I was so lucky to be loved by her.

Being gay did not prevent me from having that beautiful moment on my wedding day. Being gay didn’t prevent me from finding love, happiness, or family. But like many who have walked a similar path, it did take a while for me to discover that those things were possible—much longer than it needed to.