Dan Bucatinsky's Blog

Last week I went to the Golden Theatre to see Terrence McNally's beautifully realized portrait of the "new normal" American family in his touching play Mothers and Sons . By the way, I went with my mother. And as I sat in my seat before the lights dimmed, flipping through the Playbill, my thoughts took me back... back over 30 years, to 1983.



In 1983 I was in high school living in suburban Westchester. That winter break my father decided to take me into New York City to see Broadway shows every single day (and two on matinee days!). After having been forced, kicking and screaming, into playing on different sports teams in my early adolescence, I felt an unexpected delight that my father had embraced my interest, my passion, and planned an entire week around what he must have known was my dream: to be an actor.



What he could not have known then, however, was that at age 16 or 17, I was living in a perpetual state of suppressed panic. It was a white-knuckle, hot-face kind of panic about -- what else? -- my sexuality. I didn't want to be gay. I didn't know any gay people, and there were really none that I saw on TV or in the movies.



"Please don't let it be true," I would pray each night to whatever notion of God I could conjure. I even promised to commit suicide if it did indeed prove to be true by the time I was 18. The deadline was getting closer. And to make matters worse, it was, after all, 1983, and while the AIDS story was only beginning, the CDC had already pinpointed the gay community as the target. Some even called it "the gay disease." I tried not to think about it. If being gay didn't make me kill myself, no worries: Apparently now it would kill me anyway, without me having to lift a finger. I had a perpetually sick feeling in my stomach. Although this winter break on Broadway could be an excellent distraction -- or so I thought.



Sitting in the dark theaters, watching Bob Fosse's Dancin' or On Your Toes and a revival of Brigadoon, among other plays, I was painfully aware of all the other kids in the audience -- kids like me, sitting with their fathers and mothers, delighting in the magic of the theater. I remember thinking about my future, and knowing, deep, deep within me, that I would never have that opportunity, the opportunity to sit in a theater, holding hands with my spouse and my daughter or son, the opportunity to be a father. It wasn't something I cared to think about. But the thoughts kept creeping in. "This won't be you," I kept thinking as I looked at a father and his kids. "This could never be you."



My father and I ducked into Sardi's for a pre-theater meal. We flipped through the Playbills of the shows we'd seen. He'd even kept the ticket stubs so that I could put all of them in my scrapbook. Scrapbook? Looking back, how could he not have known, somewhere deep inside, that I was gay -- and, on some level, wanted me to know that he was OK with it? Years later, when I came out to him, though, he seemed genuinely surprised. Perhaps he was, that winter break, acting on some unconscious intuition that he later repressed.



We stepped out into the bitter cold and ran, huddled close together, to the John Golden Theatre to see yet another play. This one was a drama: Night Mother by Marsha Norman. Not exactly the winter-breaky, funsy fare like Dancin' or On Your Toes, but my Dad got a good deal at TKTS and talked me into it.



As we slipped into our seats, I'll never forget how real that set was. There was no curtain. It was just there, like a diorama, as thought the wall of an actual apartment with lights and running water had been sliced off, allowing the audience the chance to eavesdrop on the real lives of these complex characters.



The play, a two-hander brilliantly acted by Kathy Bates and Anne Pitoniak, opened with the daughter informing her mother that she was planning to commit suicide. She said she'd be dead by morning. My heart was in my throat for most of the play. "That could be me," I thought. If I ever discovered that I was gay, perhaps I too would inform my mother and father that I, like Jessie, would be dead by morning.



Well, life happened. I grew up. I came out. Thankfully, I didn't kill myself. And I grew into a man who has not only a husband of over two decades but two children and a career as an actor -- often playing gay characters who are themselves married. OK, sometimes I play characters who are gay and married and have kids and also get killed off a show called Scandal over tearful protests and some humiliating begging -- but that's a story for another day.



A week ago I was walking down a chilly sidewalk with my mother and once again found myself ducking into the John Golden Theatre, as I did with my father in 1983. This time, though, it was a little different -- and by "a little different" I mean a mind-blowing, heart-stopping, pinch-me kind of different that I could never have predicted 30 years ago. We were settling into our seats to watch Terrence McNally's Mothers and Sons -- his 20th Broadway production in a long, inspiring and deservedly lauded career.



Now a bit of context here. I met my husband Don Roos in 1992. About a year later I was with Don in New York City, where he took me to the Empire Diner near 23rd Street to meet one of his closest friends: It was Terrence McNally. Having already been an aspiring actor for almost 10 years, and having studied (and done scenes by) many of the great American playwrights, I was a huge fan of Terrence's -- and quite nervous to meet him. What was I doing at a lunch with Terrence McNally?! I was in my 20s, still closeted professionally, still struggling to make a name for myself in such an elusive and intimidating business, and here I was with one of the most accomplished names in the theater -- not to mention an outspoken and inspiring voice for the LGBT movement.



Over the 21 years that I've been with Don, Terrence has been an inspiration to me as an artist, as an actor and as a gay man. It was Terrence who inspired Don and me to get "civilly united" in Vermont in 2004. Tom Kirdahy, Terrence's husband, urged us to marry in 2008 in California, telling us that for the sake of our kids we should avail ourselves of every opportunity to legally protect our union. So we did. Terrence has always led by example and through his work -- coaxing many of us to speak up and tell our stories. Our stories and the evidence of our lives today will be the history we read about tomorrow. And that fact is never more evident than in Terrence's gorgeous, heartbreaking and hilarious play Mothers and Sons.



I sat in the theater, next to my mother, admiring yet another set, perfectly designed by John Lee Beatty, like the one in Night Mother, as though the wall of an actual Upper West Side apartment had been sliced open for us to see. And there, living in that apartment, is a family: two men, husbands and fathers, and their son Bud. At long last a portrait of an American family like so many emerging over the past decade -- a family like mine! Tears of recognition, perhaps validation, rolled down my cheeks.



The play takes place over 90 minutes in the lives of two parents who just happen to be a gay couple -- and the beautifully mundane routine they've created in raising their son. When you come home after a long day and kiss your husband and put your kid in the tub, you're not thinking about the battles and struggles and lives lost in the decades-long war waged to win such basic freedoms to enjoy such mundane rights as marriage and parenthood. But those struggles -- those losses -- are merely a scratch on the surface. And when Cal (played by Fred Weller) opens the door to Katharine (played by the brilliant, heartbreaking Tyne Daly), the mother of his ex-lover Andre, who died of AIDS over 20 years ago, that history cracks open like the top to the box of letters and photos of Andre that Cal and Katharine, like us, are forced to confront.



We can't rejoice in the light of who we are now without remembering and honoring the darkness we endured to get us here. I saw myself up on that stage in the John Golden Theatre -- not just my today self, which I saw in the gay men, the husbands, the fathers, the sons onstage, but the ghost of my former self, the son I was in 1983, sitting in the same theater, weighted down in the darkness and pain of my own struggles with self-hate and the hate others had for me that made a future like the one I live now seemingly an impossibility. Thankfully that ghost is now safely tucked away in my past, and the proof of that is onstage at the Golden Theatre. Go see it. Take your mother or father. Or let your father take you. Or your mother. And if you have an extra ticket, take mine. She wants to see it again. You'll like her. But she does open a lot of cough drops during the show.



Now, about my character's death on Scandal, and how to launch a write-in campaign....



Few plays on Broadway today speak as urgently to our times as Mothers and Sons, the 20th Broadway production from legendary four-time Tony Award-winning playwright Terrence McNally, now in previews at the Golden Theatre. In the play, Katherine -- portrayed by Tony- and Emmy-winning Tyne Daly in perhaps her most formidable role -- visits the former lover of her late son 20 years after his death, only to find him now married to another man and raising a small child. A funny, vibrant, and deeply moving look at one woman's journey to acknowledge how society has evolved -- and how she might -- Mothers and Sons is certain to spark candid conversations about regret, acceptance, and the evolving definition of "family." Daly is joined by Broadway vet Frederick Weller (Take Me Out), Tony nominee Bobby Steggert (Ragtime), and newcomer Grayson Taylor, under the direction of Tony nominee Sheryl Kaller (Next Fall). For more information, visit mothersandsonsbroadway.com.



Need help? Visit The Trevor Project or call them at 1-866-488-7386. You can also call 1-800-273-8255 for the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline.



For more information about Dan Bucatinsky, visit danbucatinsky.com.

Last week I went to see Terrence McNally's beautifully realized portrait of the "new normal" American family in his touching play Mothers and Sons. By the way, I went with my mother. And as I sat in my seat before the lights dimmed, my thoughts took me back over 30 years, to 1983.

The kids want to fish. Damn. I'm going to have to dig for worms. I hate worms. They're icky. But the dad I'm aspiring to be doesn't say words like "icky." Why can't I be more like those other kinds of dads? Wait. Is this just internalized homophobia? Probably. So what am I saying?

Armed with inspiration from Dan Savage's groundbreaking book, my partner Don and I finally mustered the courage to start our own adoption journey. Now, years later, I've chronicled that journey in my own book. Therein lay the extent of my connection to Savage -- or so I thought.

Armed with inspiration from Dan Savage's groundbreaking book, my partner Don and I finally mustered the courage to start our own adoption journey. Now, years later, I've chronicled that journey in my own book. Therein lay the extent of my connection to Savage -- or so I thought.

What I wanted, really, was for people to believe I could play any role, not just gay roles. And I was willing to closet myself once again in the press in order to achieve my unrealistic goal. Luckily, though, my closet was a glass one. Your work speaks louder than your agenda.

This is my one shot to teach my kid about acceptance and body image and compassion and the importance of good nutrition all at the same time. But no pressure.

Eliza and I are in a skipping contest coming out of her schoolyard when suddenly she stops short.



"Daddy," she says.



I stop. "What is it, sweetie?"



"That's Tilley," she says, pointing across the street. "Isn't she fat?"



I am stopped dead in my tracks. It's like I've just walked into a wall. But Eliza continues to skip ahead, oblivious to my reaction. I call to her to come back to me. I have to think fast. But I don't have the slightest idea what the hell I'm going to say. She said the F word. About another kid. She's in kindergarten, for God's sake; can't "baby fat" stay innocent for a little while longer? At least till first grade? That being said, little Tilley, cherish her, really ain't so little. There's no way around the fact that Tilley's round. Okay, I'll say it: she is fat. If they had a contest to pick the poster child for childhood obesity, she'd win. Or at least place. And this kid sports a perpetual fluorescent orange mustache from the "barbecue-flavored" snacks she's always shoveling into her mouth.



I know. I sound a little mean. Maybe because Tilley is mean. She's the class bully. And it's no wonder. They say kids who bully are often protecting themselves from being teased. I certainly don't want Eliza to play any part in teasing another little kid by calling her fat. Tilley could stand to learn a few things about compassion and kindness and the dearth of nutrition in a bag of nacho-flavored Doritos, true, but girls have enough of a challenge growing up with a positive body image.



I look down at Eliza on the sidewalk. I think to myself, Time to break the cycle, man! This is your chance!



I open my mouth, but what the hell am I going to say? What exactly is the correct message? I'm in a tight spot. The simple truth? Tilley is fat. Perhaps the lesson is about how kids come in all shapes and sizes. Or maybe I need to say that no kid wants to be overweight. I can use this as an opportunity to tell my precious, impressionable daughter that we don't point out particular physical traits about a person because we don't know how that would make them feel. Yes. This seems like the way to go. It's been only a few seconds and yet I'm drowning in uncertainty. I suddenly feel hungry. I need a snack. A bowl of cereal, perhaps. Or a plate of pad Thai. No! A giant black-and-white cookie. Stuff the feelings. That's right. Stuff them right up.



This is my one shot to teach my kid about acceptance and body image and compassion and the importance of good nutrition all at the same time. But no pressure. I simply want the next thing I say to be firm and clear and carry weight, so to speak. Eliza's looking up at me. My stalling is clearly making her anxious. Finally, I squat down and look her squarely in the eyes.



"Eliza, sweetie, let's not ever use the word 'fat' to talk about another person. Okay?"



"Why, Daddy?"



"Well. Different kids process food differently..." She looks at me blankly. "Do you know what that means?" She shakes her head.



"It's what happens -- I mean, once food gets inside your body, it does stuff --"



"You mean when it turns to poop?" she asks, holding back a laugh.



"Uh, yes. Sort of. When food gets inside your tummy, all the good stuff helps make you healthy and strong. And all the extra stuff we don't need turns into poop. Or it gets stored as fat on your body."



"Oh," she says. I think she's getting it.



"Some kids are small and others are big. But what makes us look different on the outside doesn't mean we're different on the inside. You know?"



She nods. Now she starts looking around. She's bored. But I'm not done.



"Many kids don't like the fact that they're heavy but they struggle with it and being called 'fat' could hurt their feelings. We don't want to hurt Tilley's feelings."



Eliza looks away. She's such a compassionate soul, I can tell she feels bad. But then she says, "But Tilley is fat. Right, Daddy?" Her eyes are as round and wide as -- as a chocolate bundt cake. Oh yeah. That's what would be really good right now. A moist, chocolate bundt cake with a lot of frosting.



I'm not going to lie to my daughter -- or make her think she's got vision problems.



"Yes, Eliza. Tilley's a little . . . heavy. Let's use that word, but only when we're talking in private, okay?" I hate the word "heavy" and would die if someone used it to describe me. Or "hefty" or "husky"! Eww. But for Eliza's sake, this is going to work.



I continue, "What's way more important is that Tilley is a nice person and you like her."



"Tilley's not that nice," she says. "She's a bully."



"Right. And maybe she is a bully because she doesn't like what people say to her. So... let's not ever talk about what Tilley looks like in front of any other kids -- and especially not Tilley. Because she punches. Okay?" Eliza nods. I'm relieved. It was probably more than I needed to say, but I never seem to learn moderation. Less is more. Less talk. Less worry. Less chocolate bundt cake.



I look down at Eliza and she's clearly had enough. All right. Moving on. We head toward the car. Eliza is quiet for only a beat.



"What if I like her dress? Can I tell her?" Oh my God. I've completely confused her. I should've kept my fat -- oops, I mean heavy -- mouth shut; told her not to call Tilley "fat" and kept right on walking. By making it a whole thing -- trying to tell her how serious it is that we not hurt Tilley's feelings -- I've taken a highlighter to the whole "fat" issue in her head and stressed her the fuck out. I look at her tiny, confused face.



"Yes, lovey, of course. You can always say something nice to your friends. That would make her feel good." Eliza smiles. We keep on walking.



"But being fat is super bad, right, Daddy?" I close my eyes and die a little bit. Why do I talk? What's wrong with just walking? I don't want Eliza thinking that "fat" is the worst adjective to describe a person either. Even if I, since early in my life, was led to believe otherwise.



*****



I've never been overweight. But in my house growing up, fat was the worst thing you could be. And while my father and mother and sister struggled, I managed to stay a consistent weight for most of my life. But I felt pressure all the time not to let it happen to me. And by pressure I mean a death grip.



In my life, food has always had power, both when I've wanted it and when I've wished I hadn't had it. It's always been both reward and punishment. You don't eat, you're good. You eat, you're bad. And once you're already bad, you may as well have a second helping. Or a third. You can be good tomorrow. It's a great system if you are looking to cement a lifetime of inner struggle. But wait, there's more! Food, I learned, is an excellent weapon of manipulation as well. That's right, if you order right now, you can project all your own food neurotica onto a friend or loved one absolutely free!



My mom didn't like it when my dad gained weight. And he, in turn, didn't like it when she told him how to eat. She'd buy tempting foods, either consciously or not, perhaps to test his resolve. Or was it a way of testing how much he loved her? But he'd always resent the test, naturally, and eat. She'd glare at him and he'd eat some more, using food to exert his power and control. I could read the thought bubble over his head: Watch this, lady, I'm having a third ice cream sundae 'cause nobody tells me what to do!



They also had a little system when my mother thought my father was eating too fast. She would tug on her ear. It was supposed to be a subtle, clandestine signal she'd give him when he didn't realize he was shoveling his food. But there was one problem. His face was always down during a scarf-fest, so he couldn't see her give him the signal. So it evolved into a loud banging with her elbow to get his attention, along with a loud, sharp "Julio!" He'd look up, startled, and she'd tug on her ear. It was about as subtle as Lady Gaga in a bikini with her hair on fire during a halftime show.



Given the attention and power food had when I was growing up, it's no surprise I've been able to pick up a few pointers on how to play the same fucked-up game with myself. I'll have what I want and then kick myself for having it. What? Chocolate hazelnut donuts? And they're gluten-free? I'll take two! And then: No wonder you just tore through the seat of your "skinny" jeans, Fatty, Fatty Bo Batty!



But after this wonderful sidewalk lesson I've given Eliza, she'd probably tell me not to call myself "Fatty" if I don't want to hurt my own feelings. I'd explain how it's different when I'm the one saying it. And she'd probably want to know why: Do you want to hurt your own feelings, Daddy? Hmm. If it would make me lose five pounds, yes.



I know my relationship with food needs to change. We need to maybe take a break from each other. See other people.



When Don and I were expecting Eliza, we talked about our struggles with food and the power it seemed to have over our lives. How we both longed to rid ourselves of these demons, if not for ourselves, for the sake of our kids.



"Let's make sure we never make them feel like some foods are 'good' and some foods are 'bad.'" That was a popular theory. And an admirable goal. But guess what? Some foods are bad. And some good. So what kind of bullshit parenting is it when you treat a carrot stick the same as a Nutter Butter? There is only one thing in a carrot -- carrot! A fucking Nutter Butter has at least a dozen ingredients, most of which are either sugar, oil, or some other ingredient made up of sugar and oil. "Let's not make dessert a reward for eating the rest of the meal," Don said at one point. Okay. Good one. But any parent will tell you that kids only want dessert and if they don't have to eat their broccoli, they won't. So pretty soon, dinners would be made up of popsicles, pudding, and marshmallow treats.



"Let's not go overboard with all that 'organic' bullshit," we would both agree. It is beyond obnoxious when a parent removes an organic radish, goat's milk yogurt, and a tofu square from a BHP-free plastic container and yells, "Snack time!" Without fail, a bunch of scrappy-looking kids with matted hair and premature body odor appear as if from nowhere, like woodland creatures scurrying out of hollowed tree trunks and mossy knolls. Eagerly they skip with ignorance-is-blissful speed, failing to bat an eye when Mommy whips out her sagging workhorse of a breast, offering a liquid refreshment to her six-, seven- and eight-year-olds. Why? Kids get used to what they know. That is, until one of them gets a whiff of a real Devil Dog or Hostess SnoBall. Then all bets are off: Put that tit away, Mom, unless you're willing to wrap it in chocolate and marshmallow and fill it with cream!



On the other hand, why should there be more than twenty-five ingredients in a jar of peanut butter? And why partially hydrogenate oil and infuse it into every food a kid eats? If you have to do it, do it all the way! Fully hydrogenate that oil. Commit to it. Don't hold back. All or nothing, baby!



Suffice it to say, food has taken up a huge part of my psyche over the past forty years, and even more so since I've become a parent. The stress of my kids' nutrition and my own has taken a toll on me -- ironically, in the form of ten extra pounds.



I can't imagine how I'm not passing these food issues and body shame to my kids. They'll pick up on it even if I don't say it out loud. Because -- I gotta say this -- I don't want them to be fat! Sorry. I have to be honest. I also want them to have a healthy relationship to food without feeling guilt or shame or paralyzed by whether a food is good or bad. And while the road to weight gain is so easy for a kid -- the daily exposure to candy, cupcakes, pizza, and french fries at every turn--the battle for a healthy body image and self-esteem is among the toughest.



We were at the local pool and I overheard a parent noticing a heavyish eight-year-old wearing a bikini. Her mother brushed it off with "What can I do? She loves that bathing suit."



The other mother smiled and nodded reassuringly. "Good for her," she said. "Good for her!"



But really? What exactly is so good about it?



Something that still bothers me today is the image of a particular girl, Marcy, at a summer camp I went to. Marcy was overweight and wore bikinis. Her belly stuck out between the two pieces of fabric like marshmallow squeezing out of the s'mores she'd stuff in her face after polishing off the Good Humor ice cream bar that melted into her belly button. I was disgusted by that girl -- angered by her. How dare she let herself go like that! But it was a crazy reaction to one little girl from an eight-year-old boy. Okay, maybe a little less crazy from a little gay boy, but still. Who cares? She was a kid! I was wrong to have that reaction. Just as I'm wrong to have it now, as a grown-up, trying to rid myself of these weight-obsessed demons.



Eliza got her first bikini at her last birthday party. It was more of a tankini. But wow, did she love it. I had mixed feelings about a six-year-old wearing a two-piece. It's panties and a bra, no matter how many seahorses they paint on it. What's next? Little baby thongs and Carter's brand garters? I don't like it. But Eliza wore her tankini to bed, she loved it so much. And she has a fantastically adorable, beautifully perfect tummy and, thank God, has no issue with people seeing it. Her daddy could learn a thing or two about that.



I come down to breakfast a few days after Tilley-gate in a new pair of jeans I'm breaking in. They're a little tight, I admit, but nothing a few deep knee bends won't fix. Eliza bolts down the stairs and looks at me. She doesn't say anything for a few seconds.



"What is it, sweetie?" I ask her.



"Those pants, Daddy."



"Yeah. They're new. You like them?"



She is very deliberate when she says, "You look like you're a little . . . heavy."



Now I'm still a gay man and the words hit me like a bullet. It's the kind of bullet that explodes inside and sprays shame and self-hate throughout my body. Eliza smiles at me, proud that she didn't use the F word. But I'm afraid that's not good enough.



"You know what, coconut? When you're talking about Daddy, you shouldn't use the word 'heavy' either."



"What word can I use?" she genuinely wants to know. I take a few seconds and then it comes to me: "Thin!"



From DOES THIS BABY MAKE ME LOOK STRAIGHT? by Dan Bucatinsky. Copyright © 2012 by Myrio, Inc. Reprinted by permission of Touchstone Books, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

This is my one shot to teach my kid about acceptance and body image and compassion and the importance of good nutrition all at the same time. But no pressure.

Why did I have to buy the umbrella and grocery shop and take Eliza all at the same time? Why did I agree to host a stupid barbecue? Why did I agree to do all the prep and planning? Why did I agree to have kids? I've definitely bitten off more than I can chew.