I knew I had to come out to my grandfather before it was too late

This First Person column is written by Shimshon Obadia, an interdisciplinary artist and writer who lives on the unceded traditional territory of the Syilx Okanagan people in Kelowna, B.C. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ. 

I got the phone call from my mom while I was out for coffee. I stared at my phone for a moment as it vibrated its way closer to the edge of my table before declining the call. It wasn't until I started walking home that I decided to call her back. Ever her practical self, she didn't waste time, "Have you heard the news about your Guoon Guoon?" 

Well, his dementia looks like it's getting a little worse." 

He'd been doing so well lately, though obviously, our family knew he wouldn't always. Then she laid it out: "It looks like his cancer's back, but they're not putting him on chemo this time." The cacophony of traffic and strangers passing made me dizzy. My heart pounded out a staccato beat as the last few words of our conversation drummed in time with a quickening march home.

Mom: "There's nothing he can do but take the meds they've been giving him and hope for the best now."

Me: "How long?" 

Mom: "They don't know; months, maybe years, there's just no way to tell." 

My grandfather and I had always been close before I moved from Toronto to Kelowna, B.C. A few years after moving, I came out as trans non-binary. I'm also pansexual and polyamorous, but generally describe myself as "queer" in a word. While reception of my identity has been mostly positive, with only a few major caveats along the way, I was wary of possibly losing some of my family including my Guoon Guoon. So I didn't come out to them for nearly a decade.

With my grandparents, there was a generational divide, topped by a religious barrier between us that we rarely, if ever, addressed. So I thought I could avoid tarnishing all my good memories with my grandparents if I stuck to phone conversations where they didn't have to see my makeup or feminine clothing. If only I could freeze things the way they were right before I embraced who I truly am. But with this news, pause wasn't an option anymore. I had to see my Guoon Guoon. So I booked a flight, and getting on that plane firmly pressed play.

I landed in Toronto, adorned in all my aggressively queer garb, waiting for my sister's grey SUV at the passenger pick-up zone. She was coming straight from Queen Street with fresh roti on board; a ubiquitous taste of home in Toronto and an impossible find in Kelowna.

When my Guoon Guoon and I planned how we would spend the first day of my week-long visit, we both immediately knew we wanted to cook together. The two of us have always bonded over meals. He is someone who chooses to speak deeper with food than words. It's a love language I suspect he learned from his father, a chef who had a series of successful restaurants throughout B.C.

All I wanted to do was spend some time in the kitchen with him. I wanted to know how to get his seafood congee to just the right viscosity. I needed to learn the trick to stir frying delicate sea bass fillets with orange rinds at a pace that cooked both to the perfect texture. Far more importantly, what I wanted was a little extra time with my Guoon Guoon.

When I walked into the lobby of my grandparents' Toronto condo, I was shaking with adrenaline. My chest thundered and my breaths grew shallow as I walked into the elevator. I had no idea what to expect when I got to their floor. For so long, I had convinced myself that coming out to my grandfather and sharing the person I've become was never going to happen. I wanted to show my Guoon Guoon the person he played such an enormous part in making; even if he didn't know it would result in my embracing a queer identity completely outside of his worldview. 

And yet, as I got nearer with each floor passing below me, something shifted. The closer I got to seeing my Guoon Guoon, the more I remembered the good times we'd spent together. Waking up early to watch him make waffles when me and my siblings slept over as kids. Doing my homework at his kitchen table while he fixed me a snack, slipping me slices of processed cheese — an unhealthy treat forbidden by my parents and a guilty pleasure he and I shared. I had faith in him. 

The elevator door opened and I faced down the hallway to his condo. Would he think this was just some new fashion trend? Would he make a joke of it and say something off colour I would uncomfortably laugh off? Would he say something worse, something I couldn't take from this man I respected so much? When I got to his door and he opened it however, all he did was hug me. "I'm so happy you came to see me, Shimshon," were the first words out of his mouth, followed by, "I love you." And then my Guoon Guoon's eyes welled up and we both stood there embraced in his entryway, shedding tears and the weight that time and distance had placed between us. Thank goodness for waterproof makeup.  

I felt like the faith I had in my grandfather was rewarded in that moment. Using the courage that warm feeling gave me, I decided it was time I tell him the truth. He had his laptop set up on the dining room table. He was picking out a couple recipes for us to cook that afternoon. With just the two of us there, I sat across from him and said the simple words that took a mountain of bravery "There's something I want to tell you about me." 

With the early state of his dementia, combined with his intense medication regimine, explaining my gender and sexuality with new words for his vocabulary, like trans, metamour and gender-queer took a little bit of time. And though my Guoon Guoon was fairly lucid, processing new information can often still be a difficult task. While he didn't say much when I was done, he showed me his love and acceptance right away. 

This is a man, after all, who has always spoken strongest through the love language of food. And was he ever vocal that day. 

We started with a menu of a couple simple traditional dishes from his repertoire: his succulent crispy fried tofu, supple steamed soy bok choy, and Chinese-styled lemon ginger poached salmon steaks. Then he texted more ingredients to my grandmother who was out shopping with my uncle. 

He sneaked to his laptop, giving me a pleasant surprise as he began printing out another recipe to teach me, and another, and another. What was supposed to be an afternoon cooking together ran late into the evening as we made dish after dish, stuffing the warmer to capacity with the feast we'd created. 

That day, I got back something I thought was gone forever: the chance to be my whole self with my grandfather. Every time I share one of these dishes with friends and my chosen family back home in Kelowna, every time I pull up one of my Guoon Guoon's recipes and taste his flavours on my lips, I'll have his love and faith in me, right here. 

Shimshon Obadia is an interdisciplinary artist and writer. Their work explores issues connected to their identity as a queer and trans, neurodivergent, mixed-race person of colour. Most days they can be found writing, reading, and talking to writers on the Inspired Word Cafe podcast. Do you have a strong opinion that could add insight, illuminate an issue in the news, or change how people think about an issue? We want to hear from you. Here's how to pitch to us.