As the daughter of a gay man in the 1970s and ’80s I learned how to pass early in my life. I observed that, by behaving in certain ways and omitting certain details of my home life from casual conversation with kids and their parents, they might think I was like them. That I came from a respectable home, with a respectable mother and father, instead of the messy apartment of a pot-smoking gay poet dad. My father even indoctrinated me early, asking me not to mention his boyfriends to my grandparents. I knew then that uttering the wrong thing could disrupt tidy and polite worlds.