O brother, where art thou?

Mention family to a lesbian or gay man, and the usual response--whether you're talking about a film or a book or another conversation--is the retelling of a coming-out stow or growing-up trauma centered on Mom and Dad. Leaving aside the occasional PFLAGen-lightened parent, the characters in these tales lean heavily toward the homophobic. But unless you're an only child, the family picture's not complete without the rest of the brood. What about little sister or big brother? The dark side of our relationships to our siblings is still greatly unexplored terrain. In some ways rejection by a brother or sister is worse because it comes without the parental excuse of generational baggage.

It's a contradictory relationship. Co-conspirators throughout childhood, we're expected to be close. Yet due to that shared past and merged identity, brothers and sisters are the ones most likely to be disturbed by our sexuality. Familiarity can breed fear of contagion and outright terror when it comes to queerness. Siblings' methods may be subtle, but they're no less cutting. The trigger? Often enough, it's the family--theirs, that is.

My own sisters, liberal and modem, always seemed easy and accepting of my being a lesbian--until one of them got married and had a child. I was shocked when she informed me that she and her husband had made a will that specified another couple as their son's guardian in case of their sudden deaths. She cares a lot about family, but they wanted a "real" one for their son, if need be, she explained. No offense.

I've discovered that my experience is anything but unique. My girlfriend, Mary, understands. Her brother, a Republican and a religious Episcopalian, asked her to be the "financial" guardian of his three daughters in the event of his and his wife's deaths but preferred a married sister as the legal guardian. "You're smart about money," he explained. "But the girls need a father."

My accountant, who's an Orthodox Jew and gay, was deeply wounded when his brother didn't include him in the rituals surrounding a nephew's bris (circumcision). He attended, only to be pointedly ignored when it came time for the family's participation. Other distant, heterosexual relatives were called upon to take part in the ceremony, leaving him excluded. The slight and the hurt created a family rift.

Another friend, blessed by a supportive mother, has a brother who inexplicably stopped speaking to her. After helping her out of a crisis a while back, he vanished off the radar. A family emergency several years later prompted a reconnection. When she finally inquired as to what had happened to him in the intervening years, he was unapologetic: seems he'd been out of touch in order to protect his family from her "lifestyle."

Then there's the friend whose family just loves her and her partner but has a habit of undertaking big family outings without them. What's most amusing (or upsetting, depending on your point of view) is the choice of destination on these occasions: a Bette Midler concert and a performance of The Vagina Memologues, most recently. "You'd think they could use our lesbian expertise, at least for the vaginas," her partner joked to me. Even the greatest sense of humor, though, can go only so far in easing a sense of pain.

In all the talk of crafting new gay and lesbian families and processing our own nuclear families, we need to start mentioning the brothers and sisters with whom we were born and raised. Sure, I hate to imagine the slogans they might adopt for their support group: "Daddy Liked You Better" or "I'm Not Sure I Love My Queer Sister." But I think it's about time they get around to dealing. Since I became an orphan five years ago, my siblings are the only bio-family I have left. The same thing, I have a hunch, is going to happen to you someday. We better hope our sibs get their acts together soon.