I've been thinking about history a lot recently. Particularly about my family history. People are usually amazed (and skeptical) when I tell them about my dad's side of the family because most stories involve prison, murder, and incest in some way or another. The stories often strike people as garish or even repulsive, but I usually look on my family's history with pride. I would much rather descend from a bunch of gun-slinging cousin-marryers than a family of god-fearing, straight-laced farmers.

Tonight my dad's only sister was here and, over a cup of high-test coffee and a spliff, she began trading stories with my father about their childhood in rural southern Minnesota. My dad's family had no money when he was growing up--they were regarded as white trash in a community where the only "mansion" for miles was a three bedroom house. The boys were sent to the potato fields shortly before puberty hit. My dad and his six brothers were allowed to keep half of the wages they earned picking vegetables and turned the remainder in to their mother, who used it to supplement the meager income their father made when he wasn't drinking himself into oblivion at a bar.

They told a number of stories tonight about their cousin Charles, who grew up alongside them and experienced the same wild boyhood as my father, filled with stories of sheriffs, guns, snakes, and violent preachers. It wasn't until late tonight that I realized that Charles was dad's gay cousin. A few minutes later I recalled that he had moved away from their tiny town as soon as he was old enough, eventually reaching gay Mecca: San Francisco. And finally it hit me: Charles had died of AIDS in the eighties.

He is the only person I know who died of AIDS, and I never even met him. After he passed away, his father flew to San Francisco to clean out his apartment. He undoubtedly knew about his son's "lifestyle." Everyone knew, although no one ever spoke of it, especially around his mother. When my dad's uncle arrived in San Fran, he found an apartment filled with tasteful furniture, elegant window treatments, and a young gentleman named Javier. According to family lore, Charles's father paid the boy enough money to cover a month or two's rent, took Charles's belongings, and returned to Minnesota, never to discuss his trip to SF with his wife.

Everyone knew, but no one ever spoke of it. That sentiment makes me shudder because I am in the same family as Charles was, with a few new faces, a few faces gone, and I realize that most people in my family "know" about me but never speak of it. I don't even speak of it outside of my nuclear family. If I were to, god forbid, contract AIDS and die, would people say that I had cancer or a sudden heart attack, like they did for Charles? Will my boyfriend always be my "roommate" to my uncles and aunts?

Tonight I suddenly felt a longing to know Charles, to know what life was like for him, growing up in an exorbitantly macho family in the 50s. The only way I can explain this sudden urge is that I feel a need to connect with my dad's history. I love hearing the stories of my uncles' antics when they were growing up, but I can't relate to them as a gay male. No matter the circumstances, I would never have owned a pellet gun, worshipped Roy Rogers, and fooled around with my brother's girlfriend after the sock-hop on Friday night.

Do you ever notice that you want to inject yourself into history and think "What would I do? What would I be like? How would I react to that?" I find myself doing that frequently with my family history, and the only link for me is Charles, this enigmatic man who died far too young. It's hard for me to summarize my feelings about this, but I guess writing it down helps me to sort through it. History, homosexuality, family... and snakes.