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My mom doesn't get the whole gay thing, but she loves me.
Growing up, me and my mom never really talked about me being gay.
My mom asked me one day at lunch in a very lovely and respectful way. I was finally comfortable enough to say yes, I was gay, and it really was never talked about again.
Eventually my courageous Mom did something we do all too rarely. She got on a plane and she came to see me in L.A. - this place where we'd always been told sinners lived. She came to see my gay friends.
Once we got signed, I moved out of my house because I was having teenage issues with my mom. It really wasn't my fault, looking back. You know, I'm gay; it's weird. It was one of the things. She has no problem with me being gay, but she had a problem with me dressing the way I do at first.
I knew that I was a gay boy fairly early; what was interesting to me was that my mother didn't know. She made me play baseball - I had no desire to do that. I said, 'Mom, I don't like direct sunlight, I don't like bugs, I don't like grass, and I'd rather be in the house playing with your fabric samples.'