He had tried to write an epilogue about the lovers’ future together, away from London, sharing their lives in seclusion as “woodsmen,” but he threw it out. Learning more about the man’s life confirmed my instinct. I saw Maurice anew after reading Wendy Moffat’s beautiful biography of Forster, A Great Unrecorded History. Why did I write Alec? Why spend five years writing a novel that, because of copyright, I was uncertain I would be permitted to publish, even if I could interest a publisher? Because of my instinct there was more of the story to tell. They were told that their only son, whom they loved immeasurably-healthy, bright, well-behaved, praised by his teachers-was fundamentally, and in the most shameful way, “sick.” With the passage of time, I’ve come to understand how not only I but also my parents were victims of a socially and religiously sanctioned lie. This painful episode preceded, by only a few months, the momentous announcement from the American Psychiatric Association that removed homosexuality from its roster of psychiatric disorders-December 15, 1973. (The psychiatrist gave up on me after one visit and no, I did not change my name.)
They loved me, and love eventually prevailed. My parents, who, trust me, were excellent people, died many years ago, having long since repented their bigotry. After a late-night scene of tears, insults, reproaches, and rage worse than anything I had imagined, they implored, then insisted, that I see a psychiatrist to be “cured.” My father, a gentle, mild-mannered man, very proud of me, suggested that I change my name to spare him a family scandal. Rather, they confronted me with the “evidence” of a phone bill.
My parents’ learning that I’m gay triggered a family trauma.
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