Valley of the Trolley Dollies

The lovely Glen over at Glennalicious recently posted an interesting Moral Dilemma, which has been running around my head for a week. It’s prompted me to this slightly rambling reply.

In a nutshell, Glen’s problem was this: He went to visit his family, some of whom are anti-gay, anti-environment, anti-human rights sanctimonious and filled with bullshit. Also amongst his family are his dad and his 90 year old grandmother. His father asks him not to upset his grandmother (who, everyone believes, has no idea that Glen’s gay) by mentioning the fact within her hearing.

Glen sits through various bitchy comments from his relatives, and wonders, later, whether he’s sold out by, in order to keep his father happy and his grandmother blissfully ignorant, not standing up against the relatives.

Right, now let’s turn the spotlight on me, for a bit:

First off, let’s get this out of the way: I never wanted to be gay. I wanted to be tall and broad shouldered with an ability to eat anything I wanted without putting on a pound, and a penchant for building muscle mass with little or no effort. Oh, wait; maybe that’s the same thing…

Basically, I got stuck with what I got stuck with, and spent a long period of my life – school and the first few years of my adult life – trying to work out how to get rid of it, til I finally realised that I was looking at things the wrong way. All the kids at school who’d ever tormented me with ‘Queer’ or ‘Nancy’ or ‘Sissy,’ the kid (who had the biggest collection of Barbara Streisand vinyl I have, to this date, ever seen) who followed me home from school day after day throwing stones at me, and covering the back of my coat in green phlegm, and the teachers who would allow their glance to slide over me, disregard me with a blink, and carry on to the Basketball Kings, could not be right. They just couldn’t. I wasn’t gay. Wouldn’t be gay. Would NOT allow them the satisfaction of saying ‘Told you so.’

And, in trying to deny them the satisfaction of saying ‘Told you so,’ I very nearly ruined my life.

I still can’t remember what it was that made me decide to stop lying. I was having sex with men, but I wasn’t gay. I loved art and literature and music, but I wasn’t gay. Because – of course – you don’t need to be gay to love any of those things; apart from the sex with men thing. That’s a bit gay, whatever way you look at it. And if you’re looking up at it from a position on the restroom floor, it’s very gay.

But one day, I decided to try to make some friends. Some gay friends. ‘Cos making gay sex partners was easy. I’d worked that out before I’d worked out Euclidean Geometry. But maybe if I met some of these creatures in their natural habitat, I’d realise that we really did have nothing in common, or that we were very much alike. Either way, I’d know.

I came out to my parents at 21 years of age. It wasn’t entirely by choice, but it was the best thing I ever did. The reaction from my mother was as you’d expect: Tears, fears, remonstrations, terrified questions (it was the height of the AidsPanic ™), solid reassurances, and questions. Well, really, the same question, again and again: Why?

Why? Why not. I was tired of waiting for my life to begin. I was, as Jessica Rabbit might say, drawn that way, and I figured ( as I still do) that nothing in life is so cast in stone, no decision so irreversible, that you can’t ever say “Hmmm maybe not.”

But you know what? I don’t think I’ll be saying maybe not any time soon.

I work in Banking. Not the most gay-friendly profession. I came out to a select group of colleagues about a month after I came out to my family. I know how this industry works – it’s really just Hollywood with less pretty people. Same over inflated egos, same over inflated salaries at the top, same overworked and underpaid assistants at the bottom. And, above all, same gossip mill. Tell one, tell all, really.

But I didn’t stand up on a desk, ring a bell and make an announcement. I didn’t introduce myself as Derek the Homo. But I still remember the first time I was explicitly asked “So, what does your wife do?” by a broker who was schmoozing my team.

I opened my mouth, and heard “Oh, I’m not married.”

“Got a girlfriend?” Came the response

“No,” I answered, and then, before he could walk away, “I have a boyfriend, though. He works for the police.” The offer of a line was rescinded, less because he didn’t want to hang out in a stall in the mensroom with me than because he didn’t want me snitching him to my copper boyf*.

Ultimately, both companies that I have worked at since coming out were a little uncomfortable, to begin with, but both they and I learned to live with it. I gave as good as I got when it came to banter – much as I did at school, except this time there were no rocks, no spit-covered duffle coats. Some of the boys I’ve worked with – none of the women, surprisingly – have been obviously uncomfortable in my presence. That’s alright; I don’t much like them, considering them to be homophobic, sexist, (often) racist, bullying bigots. But you know what? I don’t have to like them. I don’t pretend to seek their approval, or to apologise or to ‘keep my distance.’ I have a job to do, as do they. We do it, and we go home. I would no more dream of worrying about what hideous colour they’ve painted their bedrooms than I would dream of allowing myself to think they might be worried about what shenanigans I get up to in mine. Of course, some of them might actually obsess about that, but fuck ‘em.

And I’m not doing too badly with that attitude.

 

So, to the issue that Glen brings up: Is it acceptable to stay silent about ones sexual orientation whilst relatives spew anti-gay bullshit?

I’d have to say a qualified ‘Yes.’ But then, to paraphrase Christine Keeler, I would say that, wouldn’t I?

But there’s the issue: Am I a bad gay ™ for not introducing myself as a card carrying dick smoker? I don’t think so. Anyone who’s interested can figure or find it out for themselves. If the conversation turns to hate-filled bullshit, I’d make my dissatisfaction known, but that’s easily done in a professional setting. Less so in a personal, family setting.

And that’s where my advice to Glen would be this: As a recovering Cathaholic, I’m used to the idea of “Giving something to the glory of—.” Normally, it means suffering something – a fast, or a looooooong novena or retreat, or making yourself walk to the station every day for a month. The idea is to suffer, and, in doing so, show how much you love, and bring ones self nearer to, God.

What Glen did, I’d argue (although he’ll probably hate me for it) is to offer his discomfort at having to endure this racist homophobic asshole to the people he loved: His Dad and his Grandma. “Here,” he said (explicitly to his dad, implicitly to the grandmother) “I love you so much I’m willing to endure this shit so as not to embarrass you.”

But now, having done that, I’d suggest letting his father know “I won’t do it again. Ever.” Love can only stretch so far.

*D, if you’re reading this, that bit’s sooooo fictional and designed purely for dramatic effect.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, April 17th, 2007 at 11:28 am and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.