Testament

Abstract

Testament Angelo Rich Robinson (bio) The Summer of 1998 begins as my previous three summers: working in Atlanta using the skills from my first career as a computer programmer analyst. I’m on break from doctoral studies in English at the University of Massachusetts Amherst. While routine, there is something new to this summer. In June, I officiated at two friends’ wedding in western Virginia and I visited Europe for the first time with a trip to the Netherlands in early July. But now, both of these new and exciting experiences seem like a lifetime ago, although it is only July 24th. I’m sure my impending trip home and what I must face there have much to do with agony and pain replacing the immediacy and joy of these experiences. Adding to the emotional misery, I was plagued with the distress from a multitude of canker sores in my mouth. This is already the most stressful week of my life and it’s only Friday. With existential dread and physical discomfort, I board a flight home to Pensacola. On the plane, I sit next to a white minister who questions me about my faith. I wonder if this is a sign from God that I’m about to do the wrong thing. He continues to talk about worshipping and attempts to blame blacks for the lack of integration during Sunday worship. I politely point out the errors in his thinking, educating him that it was whites who would only worship with blacks if they were in segregated inferior spaces or refused to worship with blacks at all. He doesn’t say much after that. I’m reassured that God did not send him as a sign to abandon my mission. I have told no one that I am flying home to finally share the truth about my sexuality with my parents, particularly Mama. I have always known that I would do this because I wanted her to hear it from me firsthand. I have never wanted her to get this news from a second party, and I certainly have never wanted someone to use it in an attempt to hurt her. Not surprisingly, I decide to put it in a letter that I will present to her. As the nine drafts attest, it is the most important letter that I’ve written in my life. I arrive home late Friday evening but do not plan to share the letter with Mama that night. She works overnight, and I don’t want to be insensitive. She has also previously insisted that she not be given any bad news before going to work--and definitely not at work. As a histologist, she works with sharp medical instruments and fears cutting herself upon hearing bad news. I have little doubt that this will be bad news to her. So although it is killing me, I wait. I have waited thirty-six years; I guess I can wait one more night. [End Page 279] It was a long night to say the least. Between the anxiety and the pain from the numerous canker sores, I don’t get much sleep, and the sleep I get isn’t that good. When Mama arrives home from work the next morning, she is busy with tasks. But she immediately begins to ask about my trip to Amsterdam. She is also curious about what I bought her. The gift is uncharacteristically skimpy, and I feel terrible about it but linen from Belgium was the only thing that was truly unique. Of course, there’s also Belgium chocolate, but that doesn’t appeal to her. So after talking pleasantries about the trip, I interrupt Mama’s business and ask her to sit as I want to talk to her. She hears the seriousness in my voice and complies with an almost stern look. I present her with the letter and impatiently wait as she slowly reads it with her head down, not once looking up at me. I watch for a reaction as my heart pounds like never before, but I do not get one as she continues to read in deafening silence. I frantically, but...