I’ve always felt a special connection with my older, and only sister Jill. She was always there to protect me from the horse-play and bullying of my three brothers. She would keep her eye out for me, making sure I didn’t do anything overly stupid and was right there to tell me when I was dangerously close to looking like an idiot. Often, however, she missed the mark considerably and the damage had already been done to my ego, my image and my fragile self-confidence.

When I came out to my parents, via a long-winded and convoluted letter carried across country by the US Post office, it was my sister I called, not more than 30 minutes after depositing the letter into the blue metal mail box on the corner, sealing my fate and ensuring there was no way back. In that panicked phone call with her, I shared, for the very first time with a member of my direct family the news that I was a fag. She was surprisingly calming telling me that it was going to be OK. Something in her voice made me actually think it would be.

It would b a number of years and long-distance arguments with my Mom before it really was, but I knew that most of the time, Jill was in my corner and that I wasn’t alone.

After having lunch with my brother here in Chicago last Thursday, and seeing him for the first time in three or four years, I felt like reaching out to the rest of the family and seeing what was happening in their lives. In addition, the discussion with my brother about what inheritance plans he was making for my parents estate, shook me somewhat, not wanting to think about the days when it would be set in motion.

I picked up the phone and called Jill. We caught up on her life and the activities of her kids. I never pictured my sister as a soccer/ballet mom before, but she seems to be happy with everything she has going on in her life. The conversation eventually wound around to the talk I’d had over lunch and Jill flatly stated “Well, I’m getting all of Mom’s jewelry”. At that point, there was a brief pause and she offered “That is, um, unless you want some.”

Shocked silence on the phone as I digested what my sister was asking.

“Are you one of those guys that wears dresses?” she asked with a playful tone in her banter. “I’m not sure, so I figured I’d ask. Do you want some of Mom’s jewelry?”

“No, that would be my ex-boyfriend, and that is why he is an ex.”

My sister, true to the family’s twisted sense of humor, just called me a drag queen. You know… I’ve gotta come up with something to retaliate. I’d never let her get the spit-wad shot as a kid, and I’ll definitely not let this be the end.