Lo que os voy a decir

My speech from tonight:

I only have a few minutes to squish in ten years worth of history and experience... So what I’m going to do is tell you a little of my story and give you some of my thoughts on life as a gay Catholic man and on how GLBT Catholics fit into the church. I’m not a theologian; I don’t know much about theology and I’m not that well versed in the Bible. And to be honest, a lot of what I believe originally comes from the minds of others that I’ve taken on board myself... But what I do know is God. And God is love; it’s as simple as that.

Growing up, we didn’t go to Mass regularly and I went to public school so it’s not like I had the whole Catholic School upbringing thing. But my mother’s parents are both European immigrants and we have the fairly stereotypical Catholic immigrant family, so we were taught about the Church and God, Jesus and the Pope, Mary and the Saints and all those wonderful people. So I have always believed in God since the cradle pretty much... I had a very happy childhood, my parents were (and are) wonderful parents, and although sometimes it was like World War III with my sister, we did get on most of the time.

So there was nothing remarkable about my childhood. Except that from a very young age, I started to look at other boys. When I was five, I had a crush on the male school captain of my primary school, though it was very innocent at the time, and I thought nothing of it because I figured everyone else had the same feelings. But as I got older I realised—as clichéd as it sounds—that I wasn’t like the other boys. I started to look at the other boys in the same way that the other boys looked at girls. At home, I was taught that homosexuality isn’t normal, though my parents have thankfully changed their tune on that one, so I pretty much denied my feelings even existed for all of my childhood and my teenage years.

I went to a Catholic youth group when I was 15 and it was then that I started a real faith in God, as distinct from a belief in Him. My faith deepened, and so did my preoccupation with being abnormal. I was hearing things like “being gay isn’t normal, you’ll never be happy, it’s wrong and it’s not good for you” in one ear, yet I still thought that guy looked hot in his swimming suit. I didn’t acknowledge I was gay at all—in fact I didn’t even use the word “gay” in reference to myself until in my twenties—but I used to pray for hours on end that I would be normal because I felt so dirty. They was something like “God, don’t let me be... ‘like that’... I just want to be normal”. I even tried to deny God for a while; I guess I figured that if I had to be gay, it would be much easier without God breathing down my back. But neither worked because in the back of mind I always knew the truth.

Nonetheless, while I still believed in the existence of God, I tried to put as much distance between him and me as I could, since I felt so dirty and sinful, so I stopped going to Mass when I was 18 and did my best to forget about the whole thing. After a long time I realised that my teenage prayers were answered: I’d prayed to be normal and I was normal. If I’d ever prayed not to be gay, and I don’t remember using that word but you never know, then the answer I got was a “no”. God will always answer your prayers, doesn’t mean you’ll like the answer. I was pissed off at this for a while... I had to get my head around it, I had to learn that it was ok to be myself ... to be gay.

I finally admitted being gay when I was 21, though I didn’t really tell anyone until I was 22, when I told some close friends and a few of my cousins. The first person I told was a close friend. She said “I know”. So I said “Well why didn’t you say anything then!?” “How do you start that conversation?” she asked. Slowly I started telling people in my life, and eventually I told my parents in March last year. It was your typical “Mum, Dad, sit down, I have something to tell you, I’m gay” kind of scenario. Dad said, almost immediately, “I don’t give a shit if you’re gay. You’re my son and I love you.” Mum took a little time to get used to the idea but they’ve both really supportive now. I told my sister in May last year. That didn’t go so well; we didn’t really speak about it for nine months but after a long night conversation we’ve reached a point where we can agree to disagree.

Anyway, last year some time, long after the whole coming out journey had begun, I reached a really interesting point... I had spent the previous ten or so years coming to terms with being gay and now I was ok with it and then suddenly I found myself in a spot where I had to come to terms with being Catholic. I started going to Mass again, because I really felt a yearning to go back, and although I didn’t feel dirty or sinful anymore, I wasn’t quite sure how I fit in, or how it all fit together. I started reading up on a few things, a few websites and books whose names I have now forgotten, and I started to piece things together

Friends often ask me why I keep going to Mass and participating in Church life, given the Church’s teachings on homosexuality... I don’t need to go over them too much, you all know what I’m talking about I’m sure. But the reason is this: I can separate my faith in God from the Church’s mistakes. I do believe the Church to be the representative of Christ on Earth, but being human-made, it’s flawed. It is, however, the best we’ve got. I guess I have a pretty simple way of looking at things. For me, religion isn’t about the rituals or the hierarchy. For me, it’s more spiritual: a connection between your deepest self and your Creator, not a bunch of rigid rules... “The Church” isn’t so much the hierarchy... the Pope, Bishops, Priests—who all have an important role to play don’t get me wrong—but “the Church” is the people who form the body of Christ... I go to Mass and participate in the Church to connect with God and with Christ, and with fellow believers.

Anyway this is how I see things... I believe we’re all created in God’s image. He made me exactly the way He wanted to make me. He made me gay. He also made me right-handed... and about a million other things. I believe that, since I was created this way, my sexuality is a gift, just like the other gifts I’ve been given. I don’t understand why God created me, or any of us, gay or why He created others straight, but who am I to question Him? I believe we all have the right to love and be loved in return, whether that’s a man or a woman or whoever. I believe that love is love, regardless of the gender of the people involved.

Being gay and Catholic is tricky... everyone seems to have an opinion... But ultimately, it doesn’t matter to me what anyone thinks of me or the way I live, the only thing that matters is what God thinks. My salvation, my hope, my life, my happiness—they don’t depend on any person but they’re all fully dependent on God. It isn’t anyone’s business what I do with my life, whether it’s who I’m attracted to, or who I sleep with; it’s between me and God... no one else.

I believe that God is a God of inclusion. Jesus ate with the tax collectors, He called the little children to Him, He said that “in my Father’s house are many rooms”. This is what tells me there is definitely a place in the Church for gay & lesbian, bisexual, transgender children of God. A priest joked in his homily once that God cannot count... because we are all number one in His eyes. He went on to say that Jesus told us that in Heaven, the last will be first and the first will be last. “Surely”, he said, “Jesus was talking about minority groups like us that are persecuted just for being ourselves, just for being different. This isn’t how it is supposed to be, we are all a part of this Church, flawed though it sometimes is.” I strongly believe that. It seems sometimes to me that “the Church” doesn’t want me or other queer Catholics around... but then I remember that God is a God of inclusion and of love... and I see that everyone has a place in the Church.

I believe that God is love. The Bible says that in black and white. So how could God possibly deny people who are, among a very long list of attributes, gay? Or lesbian? Or bi? Or transgender? That isn’t my God. God is love.

And love gives worth to all things... and it always wins in the end.

Conservatives and doctrinal extremists need only apply

For the last three months I have been fighting an uphill battle to get the WYD sexuality forum happening. Cardinal Pell has done his level best to silence us and stop the forum. I’ve avoided venting about it on my blog because I didn’t want the two connected; I didn’t want to give Pell and his lackies any ammunition to use against us should the link be made. But now I don’t care. Now I’ve had enough of this theocratic censorship.

What has stuck out during all this is that it’s so sad that the church powers-that-be need to resort to such extreme measures to get its message across rather than letting them rest on their own merits.

First, the cardinal instructed our host to cancel the event, forcing us to find a new venue. Next, I started a group on the “official” networking site, www.xt3.com, for gay Catholic youth. Apparently it offended someone out there in xt3-land because in 48 hours it was deleted for being a “protest” group and anti-church with no warning and no explanation. I’m not that surprised, considering reports that the site has stifled debate on homosexuality in its forums. In one particular thread I read, every second post had been deleted so the entire “discussion” was just a one-sided anti-gay diatribe by the same few people.

What is the church afraid of? That its members have their own ideas? Make their own decisions? Have a grown-up discussion that might just contravene church doctrine? It seems to be the case that only conservatives and doctrinal extremists need try to participate in World Youth Day or the church. How sad is that?

The Letter

On the one year anniversary of coming out to Sister, I received a letter from her... it contained a two page hand-written letter and a printout. The letter covered many topics, but the one that was most salient, considering the date, and most upsetting was this:

I have enclosed the reading which I told you about—email correspondence between Fr P [her parish priest in Melbourne] and a same-sex attracted Catholic woman—give it a read and pray about it, and maybe if there’s further questions more than answers speak to [our home parish priest].

The printout was an eleven page collection of emails, back and forth between Fr P and this woman; he explained Church teaching, she argued it, he replied to the arguments with more teachings and she replied to the extra teachings with more arguments. No resolution, no moral, just a back and forth argument between two people.

To say I was upset would be understating it in a big way. I wrote a reply to the letter that night, but I kept it aside for a few days because I didn’t want to send something off in anger and the letter was very raw. I wrote a second letter, while stoned, but decided against sending that one because it was very angry. A few days after that, I wrote the third and final reply and, feeling a little like Goldilocks (this letter is too raw, this letter is too angry, this letter is just right) I mailed it to her. Here are some excerpts of the letter I finally sent:

Hey Sister...

I got your letter on Tuesday but I couldn’t talk about it on the phone. It’s not that I don’t have things to say, it’s that I don’t know how to say them, or if I even want to say them, at least not verbally...

So here’s the thing. I thought we’d reached a détente, like an agreement to disagree or something. I know full well what you believe and you know what I think. Fr P’s emails won’t change that... I actually checked out his website and found another page of his about homosexuality so I know what he thinks about it all. Frankly I don’t see what the big deal is. I mean, why are so many Catholics hellbent on demonising, curbing and “fixing” homosexuality? What did gay people ever do to them? Is it any wonder our young gay Catholics are either leaving the church or worse still, committing suicide?...

You [and Fr P] don’t know anything about being gay, or the gay community, or the homophobia, hate and prejudice that we face each day. So it’s like all these people are talking, but they don’t know what they’re talking about...

The point of this letter is that I don’t want to fight. I don’t have the time, energy or strength. You will always win because you’re stronger than me, and I always hold back and let you [win] a little because I love you more than I hate your homophobic beliefs. I don’t think you realise the power you have over me. You’re one of a very small group whose “approval” (for want of a better word) means the world to me. Everyone else can go fuck themselves for all I care but it you that matters to me... I don’t want us to devolve into one of those siblings that never speak... but I can see it happening unless we come to some kind of accord...

This has to stop. I love you Sister. Despite what you think of me, and of what I do or believe. And I know you love me just as much as I love you. But I’m never going to be the man you want me to be, I can’t, so you’re going to have to love me as I am, for WHO I am and WHAT I am... I’m gay, Sister, just like God made me. Please try to accept that.

Te quiero,
Daniel.

It will be intersting to see what comes next.

Juggling

It’s been a strange week. Sometimes, when people ask you “How was your week?” you can answer quickly, confidently, “My week has been great thanks, and yours?” or “Fucked. Shithouse. Don’t ask.” This week has not been one of those weeks. This week has been the kind of week where, when asked “How was your week?”, you have to consider your answer before speaking, weighing up the good and bad of the week before giving an answer. This week I have felt overwhelmingly that I am juggling all these glass balls are up in the air, watching them hovering, threatening to come crashing down at any moment as I cling on and try to cope.

Ball #1: pain
This week I have managed the dubious achievement of having every part of my body in pain at some stage. Last Thursday, where this missive begins, I fell down the fucking stairs. I had ducked upstairs to go to the toilet and in my haste, as I was quite literally going to wet myself if I didn’t go to the toilet that instant, I left my stick in my bedroom and took the stairs on my own. On the sixth step from the bottom I misjudged the distance and placed my foot right on the edge of the step, my centre of gravity on the wrong side of that edge. Down I tumbled. My arms instinctively reached out to break my fall: one gripped the banister tighter as I slithered down the stairs, the other went to my side, attempting to act like a brake against the carpet. Both had little effect. As I slid down the stairs I started laughing, maniacally, thinking about the spectacle I must look.

On Monday I had a killer migraine, on the fucking train no less, that saw me lying down across the long seat all the way to the city. I got a taxi home, took a caffergot (100mg of caffeine… just like a punch in the heart) and a sedative and collapsed into bed. Then I puked. I slept for four hours, waking at 8pm, in time for a very nutritious dinner of just-add-water-style noodles, before going to bed shortly after.

And then there’s the perpetual, and totally inexplicable, pain in my back and legs. While it is true that my legs have bothered me considerably less of late, they are still painful on the odd occasion. This fact would be greeted joyously if it weren’t for my back’s total overcompensation in the pain department. What’s worse is that it’s so fucking inconsistent. On Tuesday night it hurt so much that I had tears in my eyes, on the verge of a full-on cry, and no amount of any drug would do anything to dull the pain. Wednesday, on the other hand, was pretty much pain free. Today was pretty good too, still sore but bearable. WHAT THE FUCK IS UP WITH THAT!?

Ball #2: depression
That segues nicely into the second ball, depression and its associated fun extras. As the back situation trundles forth into the land of the unknown, depression is creeping back into my life, ever so slowly. It is not the big bad blanket of despair that once it was; it’s a little more subtle than that. I have very little motivation to get work done, something I cannot afford to do since my workable time is so limited with my fucking back dictating when I can and cannot work. I often feel an overwhelming feeling of helplessness, which is then replaced by an overwhelming irritability in which I can’t fucking stand anyone’s shit and really only want to talk to or otherwise communicate with a handful of close friends.

The worst part of this ball is that in the last fortnight or so I have had the temptation to cut myself again. It hasn’t been particularly strong, but it is there nonetheless, and that scares the shit out of me. I haven’t picked up a knife or a razor, and very soon after the temptation crosses my mind I dismiss it as ridiculous, but it scares me.

Ball #3: existential angst
As I lay in bed, meditating, with the electric blanket on full and a hot water bottle over my chest, my mind wanders to such questions as “Why me?”, “What have I done to deserve this?”, “When will it end?”, “How will it end?”, “Where is God in all of this?”, “Does He care?”. I can’t feel God anymore. Maybe it’s because I’m a perpetually drug-fucked state, maybe it’s something else, but this is getting very lonely.

Ball #4: school work
Since I have missed so many classes and lectures, I am now a little behind in my subjects. Not only that, I have a 2000 word English essay due in a little over a fortnight. That I haven’t started. With my haphazard ability to walk or sit up comfortably, coupled with my occasional blue-tinted worldview, the likelihood of my writing a winning essay is pretty fucking slim.

Ball #5: I have no time for a breakdown
With all this shit happening, I just don’t have time for this. I have things to do, people to see, places to go, essays to write. I think I need a good hug and a cry. But as I am not one to cry at the drop of a walking stick, this is much easier said than done.

So many people have said that they admire my strength, but I don’t feel particularly strong. I guess I must have some strength or I would have given up long ago, but the truth is that at the moment I don’t have much choice in the matter… I either hang on any way I can or I end it all. And I don’t want to die, I want to live, which actually makes this harder because I really do have no other option. But this isn’t much of a life. If it hasn’t cleared up by the end of the exam period I am considering Drastic Measures. Like demanding an MRI. Or heroin. Somehow I will get through this… I just have no idea how.

Dinner

On Wednesday night, the night after The Talk, I had dinner with the parish priest. It wasn’t as a result of The Talk, it was actually organised just before Easter. Despite some disagreements on some fairly fundamental things, homosexuality chief among them, it was a great night.

He’s known me since I was fifteen; he has this uncanny and often totally inconvenient knack for being able to look at a person and surmise what is wrong and then manage to get them to spill all. And I cannot lie to the man. True, I cannot really lie convincingly to many people, but to him it’s impossible.

When I got in the car he asked how I was. “Frazzled.” I answered. Before I knew it I told him about the previous night’s confrontation. As I said the words I thought “What the fuck are you doing!!??” but he didn’t blink. I knew that whatever doctrinal issues he may have, he’d understand where I was coming from in terms of the overwhelming sensation of being sideswiped. “You know Dan,” he said “that whatever disagreements we have you know you can just say ‘I don’t want to talk about this further’ and we’ll move on to something else and it won’t affect our friendship.”

With that caveat in mind, we went over most of the issues that I had discussed with Sister and found, to nobody’s surprise, that he agreed with her on nearly all of them, yet strangely it was nowhere as hard to talk about it with him as it was with Sister. The one disagreement between his view and hers was that Fr said that being gay in and of itself is morally neutral and that any kind of sex (straight or not) outside of marriage is wrong, whereas Sister referred to being gay as a “sickness”.

All in all he seemed to treat me much more gently than Sister, and certainly with much much more of a sense of humour about things. But then he already knew; he knew I was gay before I did. I asked him, point blank, “you knew back then didn’t you?” He replied “Yes, I strongly suspected it. And I gave you so many opportunities to confide in me but you never fucken took any of them!” I laughed. The thing is I can remember a few occasions when I’d been on the cusp of telling him, but something always got in the way to prevent it. But what’s done is done.

Ultimately it was a very cathartic evening in which I was able to get off my chest a day’s worth of frenzied, pent-up frustrations. I was going to go into a bit more detail, but there isn’t really much point… it’s the same old topics, all of which I mentioned in the post about The Talk, so you can use your imaginations.

In the last week there have been some new developments which I’ll write about tomorrow...

The talk, part 2

And so the drama continues. This is the remaining part of the converstion I had with Sister on Wednesday night. As I said in the other post, I've basically constructed a dialogue based on memory fragments, so this isn't quite how it happened but it will give you the idea...

“Look, God created man and woman for each other… it’s a question of complementarity.” She said.

“Sister, honey, I don’t disagree.” He thought that perhaps he shouldn’t call her honey, since she would consider it a gay thing to do, but then he thought fuck it. “God created man and woman for each other, I totally agree, but as I was saying earlier Sister, don’t confuse normality for ‘the norm’.” He paused, then added, “You see marriage as a union designed for one man and one woman, they are the key players right?” She nodded. “I see it as love and commitment make a marriage, not a man and a woman.”

“Well yes, of course they do, but marriage is also about procreation,” she countered. He was happy she had gone down this path, in a way, because he had a smart answer. But he knew this battle would not be won using smart answers to nit-pick his way to the finish line.

“If procreation is a key element of marriage, then old people shouldn’t be allowed to marry if they’re over child-bearing age. Even younger couples who are known to be sterile shouldn’t be able to marry.”

She didn’t really have an answer to this, but he knew that in her mind he had only ‘won’ this round on a technicality.

“What shits me about the marriage debate,” he continued, “is the way everyone says it will destroy the family. I don’t understand why people don’t see that the family comes in different forms and that the nuclear family is but one of them.”

“I don’t deny that, but marriage is a special institution between a man and a woman. Gay couples are like heterosexual de facto couples.”

“But they’re not. In some ways they are, but the Human Rights Equal Opportunities Commission did a report that found fifty-eight federal laws that discriminate against same sex couples. Rudd promised to remove the discriminations as an election promise but the problem is he also appears to have promised the Christian lobby that gay marriage would not go through, yet the Marriage Act 2004 is one of the fifty-eight. Anyway the attorney general found another forty or so more so the Gay and Lesbian Rights Lobby and all kinds of organisations are fighting to have them all removed.”

She mentioned at this point that sometimes discrimination is acceptable, especially when it comes to matters of conscience. She brought up the case of a Catholic adoption agency in the UK that was forced to close because denying service to gay couples was now illegal under new anti-discrimination laws.

He lay dumfounded, croaking “Do you really think it’s better to close up shop and have all these children not receiving placement than to give a child to a gay couple.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Right.”

“Lets move on shall we? There’s no point discussing politics tonight, it’s not what you came here to talk about.”

She asked him if he had ever sought counselling with the parish priest. He said no, but he was a part of a group for gay Catholics. She asked about their doctrinal beliefs, whether or not they were at odds with the Church’s teachings. He said they were and explained he had found out about them because he’d seen them marching in the Mardi Gras parade.

Her eyes widened. “You went to the Mardi Gras?”

“Yes and no… I went to a friend’s place on Oxford St and watched the parade from his balcony. So I was there, I watched the parade, but I wasn’t down on the street with all the punters. I’d never have survived; I’ve never seen so many drunken people in one place.”

“What did you think of the whole thing?”

“It was amazing… so many people, so much positive energy. And yes, lots of drugs, lots of alcohol.”

“What kind of people were there?” she asked.

“You mean who was marching?”

“Yes.”

“Well there were ten thousand people marching… Each group or float has however many marchers, sizes change, but there were community organisations, political organisations, religious ones, PFLAG and all that… just about everything.”

“There were no, like, paedophile groups marching were there?” she asked, wincing a little. He couldn’t be sure if she winced because she was thinking about paedophiles or because he looked like he was about to hit her.

“What?” he stammered, incredulous. “No, Sister, there were no paedophiles, no necrophiles, nothing like that. How dare you lump me in the same box.”

“Well you know there are groups in Scandinavia that do that sort of thing. Sorry but I’ve never been before so how am I to know.”

“Use some fucken common sense.”

The conversation moved to the way in which he had told her he is gay. She resented the fact he had done it on the phone and basically dumped it on her while she was away at the leadership camp. She told him she was angry at him for a while for doing it that way, even though she understood why he did it. He explained that in hindsight, yes, could have been handled better but he had planned on doing it in person while she was home for the weekend but by the time he had psyched myself up for it the opportunity never presented itself.

“Did it really take that much psyching up?” she asked, sounding a little offended.

“Can you blame me?” he asked, gesturing around him. “Look I was scared of telling everyone, even the ones I knew would have no issues. But when I came out to Mum & Dad I always knew they’d never kick me out or anything horrible like that, and even though I was shitting myself about telling you I knew that you’d never stop loving me. Ever.”

“Oh good. I'm glad you know that.”

She asked how their parents had taken the news.

“Good. Dad didn’t give a shit, Mum took a little longer but it’s pretty good now I guess,” he answered.

“I don’t know if Mum is as ok with it as you think she is.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I dunno, I think she feels guilty… she’s made comments about whether she caused it or not.”

“But I don’t care if she caused it. What’s done is done. I mean I believe we’re born gay anyway, but you know what I mean.” He recounted the story of his discussion with their mother in which he told her that if she did feel guilty for not picking up on it, he was over the teen turmoil so there was no need to feel guilt anymore as it was no longer an issue.

“Well that’s important that you said that to her.”

Soon after this the summit ended: “It’s late, Sister, it’s like 4am and you have to be up in three and a half hours. We’re going to have to agree to disagree on this shit. You can send me the articles you mentioned if you want, and I have one to send you, and I’ll even read them with an open mind. But like I said it took me twenty one years to work it out and I don’t want to take steps backwards. Besides, I am about to piss myself.”

The talk, part 1

The following story happened to me late last night. It is not necessarily a true account of what happened or what was said; it is my interpretation of the drug-addled, sleepy memories of last night. It is not fiction; more an amalgamation of two hours’ worth of memory fragments, interpreted into narrative form.

The phone rang in the lounge room as Dan lay reading in his bed; he’d recently started a new novel and was finding it difficult to put down. He looked at his watch and read the time: half past one in the morning. He emerged from his room and hobbled to his parents’ room, knees aflame with pain, to check the call was not the herald of some horrible emergency. Sister joined him, sitting on his parents’ bed as their mother spoke on the phone. The call was for their father, who was away; a lady in the States who has miscalculated the time difference.

He returned to his room and resumed his novel. There was a small knock on the door.

“Yes...” he called out.

“Are you awake?” the knocker asked.

“Yeh, kinda.”

The door opened and Sister entered; her demeanour tentative and unsure. “Can we talk?”

“Umm...” Dan stalled, trying to decide if he wanted to talk to her at this late hour. He glanced at his watch and saw it was nearly two o’clock. “Fuck it, what’s on your mind?”

“I’m worried about you,” she stated, sitting on the edge of his bed. “I’m worried about you and I want to talk to you about it. We have been avoiding this for nearly a year now and I really think we should discuss it.”

“Is this a gay thing?” he asked wearily, “It’s two in the morning.”

“Yes,” she answered with a nervous laugh.

Dan sighed. “Ok then, shoot,” he said as he tried to get his knees comfortable. He took some pain killers and waited for her to continue. His mind was reeling. He’d been waiting for this conversation for ten months, rehearsing it in his head. He had done reading, formed arguments.

After years of internal turmoil they all fled his head in the wake of the advancing attack.

“Well,” she began, choosing her words carefully, “I guess I’m worried about you reading those novels and watching movies and TV shows that show homosexuality as normal. I’m afraid that it’s going to normalise it for you and that you’re going to ultimately end up unhappy.”

“Right. Tell me, what do you think of it? How do you think homosexuality, or any non-hetero sexuality for that matter, fits into reality?”

She exhaled. “I think that man and woman were created by God to marry, have children etc...” She took a breath. “I don’t like the word ‘gay’ anyway—”

“Well ‘gay’ is a political distinction, I’ll give you that, it’s more than attraction or orientation... it’s an affirmation of identity.”

“That’s what worries me about you. You’re reading these books and seeing it as normal, identifying as ‘gay’ and I don’t want you lead down the wrong path. I don’t think that being gay will ultimately make you happy and I don’t want you to end up unhappy.”

“It is normal, Sister.”

“But it’s not. Same sex attraction, which I think is a better term for it, it’s...” she thought for a second, “it’s intrinsically disordered. That’s what the Church teaches.”

His heart sank.

She explained her reasoning. Catholic teaching holds that having desires for the same sex is ‘disordered’, but that the simple fact of them isn’t sinful or morally wrong. Acting on them, on the other hand, is. He listened, trying to formulate a rebuttal, but the late night and the pain killers were wreaking their havoc on his ability to form a convincing argument. He lay there, nodding, as she spoke. When she finished there was a silence.

“It’s easy for you, Sister, to tell me that same sex attraction and being gay, or not being straight for that matter, is intrinsically disordered. You’ve never lived it. You’ve never thought you were dirty or sinful or wrong or disordered.” He took a breath and steadied his voice. “All I’m saying is that it’s easy for you to right me off as disordered and accept the Church’s prevailing wisdom in this area, but let me tell you about my life growing up...”

“Ok.”

“When I was five, I remember having a crush on the male school captain. It was a childish crush, it wasn’t overly sexual but I remember looking at boys and being attracted to them.”

“Yeh, but—”

“Please let me get this out in one go. It’s not easy to talk about so I just want to get it said.” She nodded and he continued. He explained that at age five, he didn’t think it was wrong (he used air quotes around the word) or right for that matter, it just was. By the time he was in upper primary school, everyone said he was gay and they were merciless in their taunting and bullying. He was called horrible names on a daily basis and it began to chip away at his self esteem. By the time he was in high school he was still being called a faggot on the playground. She winced at the word faggot but after all these years of being called faggot, the word didn’t phase him at all.

“I didn’t realise it was that bad.” She said, quietly.

He continued that in eighth grade he had a crush on a girl and his world of internal turmoil plunged further into chaos. Then he got sick. At the time, he thought it was some divine punishment for not being ‘normal’. All this time he never could admit the possibility of being gay... but deep down he knew he wasn’t normal, not like everyone else. He went to the Church youth group camp and his health went downhill really really quickly. He didn’t understand why he felt closer to God yet got sicker and sicker, and these feelings about boys didn’t go away. He got very depressed. It started out just a black depression, like nothing mattered and nothing would ever be fixed again. He developed a crush on a friend of his, a guy, and that confused him even more. He didn’t see it as a crush at the time but the benefit of hindsight is 20/20 vision, isn’t it?

The depression deepened until he just wanted to die. Death was so much more desirable than the confusing life he found himself stuck in...abused on the outside by people at school, and on the inside by himself. It got to the point where he cut his wrists and arms to bleed the sin and dirtiness out of himself. He didn’t want to bring up these things, they are not something he enjoys discussing, but he wanted her to know how desperate he was back then...to know that he thinks about these times every time he showers and sees his scars. Her calling same sex attraction ‘intrinsically disordered’ did not affect him, but others were saying it to him at the time, and he didn’t want her to be one of these other people to someone else.

He summed up by saying that by the age of twenty-one he realised it wasn’t sinful, nor dirty, and that God loved him... he had been desperate for God’s love and acceptance throughout his teenage years and had finally gained it.

“Yes but just because God loves you doesn’t mean that everything you do is acceptable.”

“I agree.” He said. “My point is, Sister, that it’s easy for you to tell me that my sexuality is intrinsically disordered because you’ve never had to deal with discovering the hard way that it isn’t.”

At this point in the proceedings, he explained his stance: that sexuality is a God given gift to us all, that homosexuality and bisexuality are natural permutations of human sexuality (and as such are not ‘disordered’), that just because something is not the norm does not mean it is not normal, that Jesus never said anything against homosexuality in the gospels, that the Church’s teaching is damaging to so many souls and that it has fed hatemongers’ discriminations and vile actions, that love between two men or two women has the potential to be just as deep and fulfilling as that between a man and a woman, that love and commitment make a marriage not the genders of the participants.

They argued the points in terms of the Church’s doctrines; he was tired and couldn’t form very convincing arguments to counter her points.

“Look Sister, it’s late. I have a better explanation than ‘it feels good therefore it’s ok but you’re going to have to wait until I am more awake, ok?”

She agreed and changed tack.

There is more to this story, but I am exhausted. Emotionally and physically, so it will have to wait for tomorrow.

Conversion therapy and other acts of lunacy

For the first time in a long time I looked at my counter’s stats this morning. What interests me about the stats is the search terms that bring punters to my blog. Usually I have a quick giggle at the weirder ones (such as “shorts pissings”, “why gay.com slows computer”, “4 foot fibre optic virgin mary”) or I sign over the ones that make me sad (“my life seems empty”, “sick of this s[h]it life”), but on occasion I find one that gets me really mad. And l found one such search term this morning, about three quarters down the page that got me intrigued, and a little bit mad: “conversion therapy places”. [I warn you now, this is a heavy post so if you’re in a light mood I recommend reading this another day.]

I followed the link to the search engine page and found that the link led to an entry from many months ago where I was talking about using two cross-over network cables together (which effectively makes one straight-through cable and renders them useless). Liz made the comment that you shouldn’t try to make things straight (thankfully her grandmother, who was in our presence, didn’t get the joke) and I said in the post that this proves conversion therapy is a crock of shit. Boom-boom, end of story.

I’ve actually done quite a lot of reading on the concept of “reparative” and “conversion” therapy. I use the quotes around the words because I think they only apply very loosely to the reality of conversion therapy and the misery it brings with it. Before I came out to Sister I looked into it because I thought there was a very real possibility of her insisting I seek out this kind of “help” to “cure” my homosexuality. I was lucky and she has never preached to me on the issue. I think it’s partly because she knows I have read so much on these things that she’d have a hell of a fight on her hands, but even so I do respect her for leaving me to live my own life, when it clearly goes against many of her beliefs.

I wasn’t so much angry that someone had come to my site hoping to find information on conversion therapy—they surely would have taken one look around and then left quick smart—but after seeing some of the other links on that search page, I was more pissed off at the mere existence of these lunatics. Ironically, my discussing it will only ensure it happens more often.

Five pages caught my eye, four (long) articles and a blog entry. The articles (for anyone who is interested) are: Mission Impossible: why reparative therapy and ex-gay ministries fail from the Human Rights Campaign, Conversion Therapy Revisited: parameters and rationale for ethical care by NARTH (National Association for Research & Therapy of Homosexuality, who set up their organisation under the guise of a reputable charity with the express purpose of promoting conversion and reparative therapy…a bunch of crap-merchants if I ever I saw one), Deconstructing Reparative Therapy: an examination of the processes involved when attempting to change sexual orientation from the Clinical Social Work Journal, and “Reparative” Therapy: whether parental attempts to change a child’s sexual orientation can legally constitute child abuse from the American University Law Review.

The blog entry was about a sixteen year old kid who had been sent to an ex-gay group called Love in Action against his will (another bunch of crap-merchants, you can tell straight away by the name; google them if you want a fun look at whacky fundamentalism), who published the rules of the organisation on his blog. The links to his blog are now dead, since this all happened in 2005, but I was able to track down a copy from elsewhere on the net, and I also found this really interesting blog post about Love In Action and how love and hate play out when it comes to these things. I also found a wholly annoying article outlining LIA’s stance on what homosexuality is and how it needs to be cured.

The last article boils being gay down to ineffectual upbringing and/or some kind of failure on the part of the father or mother. I didn’t read the entire article; I ended up skim-reading it because it made me so mad. The thing is though that the ineffectual upbringing outlined in painful detail in this article doesn’t fit in with my experience of growing up. My father wasn’t distant and was always there as a “male role model” in my life. My mother didn’t smother me or overdo it with her “feminine influence”. I don’t fit the mould of the religious-right’s definition of what makes a homosexual. That gives me hope. It gives me hope because it means there must be other exceptions to their “rules”, and after a point they will no longer be rules anymore.

So that’s all I’m going to say on it. I realise I haven actually said anything substantive, that I’ve merely given a list of files and articles to read, but I figure there isn’t much I can say on the subject that hasn’t been said in those articles I read this morning. If you’re in a hurry and don’t have time to read them, or if you don’t want to read them (which I totally understand cos they’re big and long and depressing), here’s the short version:

Being gay is not a choice, it is innate. As such conversion therapy is a false therapy peddled by the neo-con religious right which seeks to change a person (whom they believe is not innately gay, but an individual who suffers from same-sex attraction, which is seen as unnatural and due to an inadequate upbringing in some way) from being a homosexual to a heterosexual through dubious psychoanalysis, sheer will power and prayer. It is denounced by all major psychological bodies around the western world as being an inappropriate therapy in any circumstances.

Questions and answers

Campbell posted this in response to my post about God, Religion and Being Gay.

Be patient to all that is unsolved in your heart
Try to love the questions themselves
Do not seek for answers that cannot be given
Because you would not be able to live them
And the point is to live everything
Live the questions now
Perhaps you will then
Gradually
Without knowing it
Live along some distant day
Into the answers

Thank you, Campbell, it meant more than you can know.

I trust in God, it’s as simple as that

This post has been a long time coming. I haven’t spoken about God, the Catholic Church or my faith much on this blog (partly because I know that many readers don’t share that faith, partly because it is so private, and partly because I am still figuring it all out), but in light of recent events and some things I’ve read recently, I guess now is the time. So. I am Catholic. This is part of the reason it took me so long to come to terms with being gay, I don’t deny it.

But I’m getting ahead of myself here. Let’s start at the beginning. Sister and I were never dragged to church kicking and screaming as children like our parents were. We found God on our own. Despite not going to church as a child, I always considered myself Catholic, I just didn’t know what it entailed exactly.

Fast forward to 1999, the year I became ill, a year filled with uncertainty, depression and anxiety over my identity and place in the world. I was fifteen. I went to a lunch-time Christian group, ostensibly non-denominational but in practice fiercely Pentecostal (the friend I mentioned in the post “Insidious” also attended the group). One lunch time we were discussing differences between the denominations of Christianity and it turned into an open slather forum on what was wrong with Catholicism. As I didn’t know much about the church, I struggled to refute their accusations of heresy. My self-esteem and sense of self shattered, I decided to go to mass that weekend. At the mass there was an announcement about a weekend for youth that was being held at the parish in a month’s time. I put my name down. I went. I had a great time.

It was at this weekend that I “found God”. It wasn’t as glittery as Damascus, but it was sufficiently euphoric nonetheless. It was also at this weekend that I caught the flu, which ultimately lead to my ME/CFS.

Over the next two years, I went to mass and to the youth group and I learned about God, Jesus, Mary, John-Paul II and the whole crew. I was confirmed at 16 in 2000. It was around this time that the question of sexuality reared its ugly head. I knew I liked boys, I didn’t want to, but I did nonetheless. God knew I did, despite my best efforts to hide it from everyone, even Him. We were given a copy of the Catechism of the Catholic Church, which says this on the matter:

“Homosexuality refers to relations between men or between women who experience an exclusive or predominant sexual attraction toward persons of the same sex. It has taken a great variety of forms through the centuries and in different cultures. Its psychological genesis remains largely unexplained. Basing itself on Sacred Scripture, which presents homosexual acts as acts of grave depravity, tradition has always declared that "homosexual acts are intrinsically disordered." They are contrary to the natural law. They close the sexual act to the gift of life. They do not proceed from a genuine affective and sexual complementarity. Under no circumstances can they be approved.” (CCC 2357)

At this point, I was really confused.

After the watershed, I stopped going to mass. I felt unwanted and unvalued. Four years later I finally admitted I was gay. But I still didn’t know where this fit in with my faith in God and religion, so I did my best to ignore it. It didn’t work. I finally worked out that they are two separate issues: faith is private, religion is public. Two years later I’m still working it out.

So where does that leave me? I believe in the God of love, yet my religion continues its campaign of hate against my gay, lesbian, bi, transgender and intersex brothers and sisters. I read a recent interview with Anglican Archbishop Desmond Tutu:

He said the Anglican Church had seemed “extraordinarily homophobic” in its handling of the issue, and that he had felt “saddened” and “ashamed” of his church at the time.
Asked if he still felt ashamed, he said: “If we are going to not welcome or invite people because of sexual orientation, yes.”
“If God, as they say, is homophobic, I wouldn’t worship that God.”

The Catholic Church is much the same, maybe even more so. I agree with what Archbishop Tutu says. I do not worship a homophobic God.

I still don’t know how it all fits together, to be honest, but that is what faith is: belief despite doubt or trouble. At the moment I’m waiting to be put in touch with a friend of Kate’s who is a gay pastor; I’m hoping he can help me connect the seemingly unending string of contradictory connect-the-dots. But, the way I see it, we mere mortals can’t blame God because there are other homophobic mortals working for him, purporting to speak for him. I often think “it must be nice to be so assured” when I hear Sister and the “unknowing homophobes” spout their rubbish and hate. But the point is I believe in God’s love more than I reject the church’s hate.

I trust in God, it’s as simple as that.

Faith and reason...and a little bit of semantics

I was reading blogs yesterday when a link on Best Gay Blogs caught my eye. It read “ten arguments against gay marriage”. Intrigued, I followed the link to a post which outlined ten reasons why gay marriage is something to be feared and rejected. It occurred to me that anti gay marriage groups are fuelled not only by vicious right-wing rhetoric, malicious homophobia, and a penchant for complex and confusing sentences, but also by a serious case of irrational logic.

The post was a summary of an article on another site, No Gay Marriage (if you want a link, go to the post on Teresa Centric’s site; NGM aren’t getting a link from me). Teresa posted the summary to shoot them down, some were actually a little funny and most if not all were totally unrealistic anyway. It would have been amusing if it weren’t so appalling. I can’t say I was surprised—I’m way too jaded for that—but I was appalled nonetheless. Reading the article got me thinking about how faith and reason seem to be mutually exclusive on this issue and how semantics play a big part in its interpretation.

At this point, I should point out that I am Catholic. Increasingly, the term “gay Catholic”—and “gay Christian” or any “gay any-other-religion” for that matter—is becoming oxymoronic, from both sides of the fence; each thinks that you can’t be one if you are the other. But I disagree, strongly.

Obviously my conception of what it means to be a Catholic differs sharply from that of the anti-marriage lobby. Christian fundamentalism is constitutionally rule-governed; tradition and biblical “evidence” (I use the term lightly) always win out in their arguments. For me, religion is more spiritual: a connection between your deepest self and your Creator in which rules have little place or authority. Even on the question of morality, rules are fairly moot to my mind; if I followed the rules simply for the sake of avoiding punishment rather than for doing the right thing, am I really a good person? Or just a coward who doesn’t have the intestinal fortitude to do the right thing for its own sake?

God is love. The bible says this in plain black and white. So how could God possibly hate people who are, among a long list of other things, gay? If hate is the absence of love, then surely it must be impossible for God to hate. I’m not for a second saying that God is not angered at times, nor do I suggest that he blithely condones everything like some bearded grandfather figure sitting on a cloud while his angels play the hard, but I certainly don’t see how love between two people who happen to be of the same gender can be wrong. Love is amoral. It is neither good nor bad, morally speaking. It just is.

They argue that gay marriage will result in the end of the family—the building block of society—and as such must be stopped at any cost. But what is a family? Personally, I feel that family is a state of mind. I consider my close friends to be part of my family; I feel that a family composed of two dads or two mums with children to be of equal value to one with a mum, dad and children. Why should a family that does not conform to their notion of family be any less family-like? If each group is a family, then gay marriage will in fact help entrench the family unit into society more concretely because in each model the parents of the children will be bound together in matrimony. Even if one does not accept my assertion that same-sex couples with children constitute the hallowed family, why should their marriage affect any other family unit? Unless, of course, they want it to. Don’t like gay marriage? Don’t marry someone of your own sex and shut up.

You would think that any reasonable person could see these arguments for what they are, but in my experience reason has little to do with the arguments of the anti-marriage lobby. They are veiled in the rhetoric of biblical prohibition and moral superiority and few within the fundamentalist camp are willing to question such dire predictions when they are framed in the rhetoric of “traditional marriage”. They ignore, of course, the fact that until recently, historically speaking, the emphasis of the marriage contract has shifted from one of ownership (one in which the wife became property of the husband) to one of mutuality and commitment.

It seems to me that it often boils down to a different interpretation of “family” and of the nature of God. There isn’t much I can do about it—despite what I think, say or believe, the anti-gay-marriage lobby will continue spreading its message of hate. I just don’t see how they can justify such hatred and exclusion by invoking a God of love and inclusion.

El agua

I found this today while cleaning my room. When I first read it, it really resonated with me, having wanted to be someone else for most of my teenage years. The English translation is below.

El Agua

«Ya estoy cansada de ser fría y de correr río abajo. Dicen que soy necesaria, pero yo preferiría ser hermosa, encender con entusiasmo el corazón de los enamorados y ser roja y cálida. Dicen que purifico lo que toco, pero mas fuerza purificadora tiene el fuego. Quisiera ser fuego y llama.»

Así pensaba el agua del río de la montaña. Y, como quería ser fuego, decidió escribir una carta a Dios para pedir que cambiara su identidad: «Querido Dios: Tú me hiciste agua, pero quiero decirte que me he cansado de ser transparente. Prefiero el color rojo; desearía ser fuego. ¿Puede ser? Tú mismo, Señor, te identificaste con la zarza ardiente y dijiste que habías venido a poner fuego a la tierra. No recuerdo que te compararas con el agua. Por eso, creo que comprenderás mi deseo. No es un capricho. Yo necesito este cambio para mi realización personal».

El agua salía todas las mañanas a su orilla para ver si llegaba la respuesta de Dios. Una tarde pasó una lancha muy blanca y dejó caer al agua un sobre muy rojo. El agua lo abrió y leyó: «Querida hija: me apresuro a contestar tú carta. Parece que te has cansado de ser agua. Yo lo siento mucho, cielo, porque no eres una agua cualquiera. Tú abuela me bautizó en el Jordán, y te tengo destinada a caer sobre la cabeza de los niños. Tú preparas el camino del fuego; el agua siempre es primero que el fuego».

Mientras el agua estaba embobada leyendo, Dios bajó a su lado y la contempló en silencio. El agua se miró a sí misma y vio el rostro de Dios reflejado en ella. Dios seguía sonriendo esperando una respuesta. El agua comprendió que el privilegio de reflejar el rostro de Dios sólo lo tiene el agua limpia, suspiró y dijo: «Sí, Señor, seguiré siendo agua. Seguiré siendo tú espejo. Gracias».

Cuántas veces queremos ser otra persona diferente. Pero no nos damos cuenta que somos quiénes somos, y hacemos lo que hacemos, porque somos únicos y cada uno tiene un propósito en esta vida. Fuimos hechos con amor y todo lo que se hace con amor es perfecto.

---

The water

“I’m so tired of being cold and running downstream. They say I’m necessary, but I’d prefer to be beautiful, to ignite the hearts of lovers with enthusiasm and to be red and warm. They say that I purify what I touch, but an even stronger purifier is fire. I’d like to be fire and flame.”

That’s what the water that lived in the mountain river thought. And, since she wanted to be fire, she decided to write a letter to God, asking him to change her: “My dear Lord, You made me water, but I want to tell you that I’m getting tired of being transparent. I prefer the colour red; I’d much prefer being fire. Is that possible? You, Lord, identified yourself with the burning bush and you said that you had come to set fire to the earth. I don’t remember you comparing yourself with water. So I think you’ll understand my desire. This isn’t a whim; I need this change for my own self realisation”.

Every morning, the water went to the banks of the river to see if a response from God had arrived. One afternoon a brilliant white boat passed by, letting a deep red envelope fall into the water. The water opened the envelope and read: “My darling daughter, I wrote back to you as quickly as I could. It seems you’re sick of being water. I’m very sorry, my dear, but you aren’t any old water. Your grandmother baptised me in the Jordan, and I have you destined to fall on the foreheads of all children. You prepare the path for fire; water always comes before fire”.

While the water was reading, fascinated, God came down to her side and watched in silence. The water looked at herself and saw the face of God reflected in her. God continued smiling, awaiting a response. The water understood that the privilege of reflecting the face of God only came to clean water. She sighed and said “Yes, Lord, I will continue being water. I will continue being your mirror. Thank you”.

So many times we’ve wanted to be someone else. But we don’t realise that we are who we are, and we do what we do, because we are each unique and each of us has a purpose in life. We were made with love and everything that is made with love is perfect.

Reality and truth

This week I’ve been riding the wave of freedom that comes with finally unburdening one’s self. I’ve been reflecting on Reality and how Reality doesn’t seem real until one talks about it aloud.

About two years ago I had just admitted to myself that I am gay. I had admitted it was the Truth, but I certainly didn’t like the idea. I didn’t want to be a pansy, or a fag, or a homo, or a fudge-packer, or any other derogatory name you care to say. It was real but as I hadn’t told anyone, there was an element of plausible deniability; I could push thoughts about my aberrant sexuality to the back of my mind and pretend to be “normal”, whatever the fuck that is.

Sister called today for the first time since I dropped the bomb last Sunday. She spoke briefly to Mum and then asked to speak to me. I took the phone with a little trepidation and placed it to my ear.
“Hello?” I said.
“Hi” said Sister, “how are you?”
The usual pleasantries followed and I felt more at ease.

After telling Liz, Eryn, Lala and Cal, it got a little more complicated. I had finally begun to like the idea of being gay; being gay was, after some time, actually quite fun. Gone was the notion of plausible deniability, however; while I could walk around blissfully in denial, those four knew the Truth. There was no turning back and no hiding. The journey towards Truth and Reality had begun, however I hadn’t told my family, those closest to me (if not emotionally speaking, then at least geographically) so it was still rather unreal.

Tomorrow, Sister comes home. There is a special mass at the place where she’s staying, followed by dinner, and we have all be invited.
“So”, began Sister, “are you going to have communion at mass tomorrow?”

This took me totally by surprise. I always get communion at mass—I am Catholic after all. But it’s more than that—I don’t get communion because I have been programmed to do so by virtue of my being Catholic. I get communion because I believe it to be the Body of Christ. It is my right as a Catholic and I choose to accept it.

“Of course I am” I said, wary and confused.
“Do you think that’s a good idea?” she asked. I could see where this was going, although I didn’t quite know how it was going there.
“Ummmm, yes. Why not?”
“Well you haven’t been to confession lately, or to mass, and I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“So?”
“Well I just think its better if you don’t.”
“Sister, I’m not going to not get communion.”
“I just think it’s best if you don’t. Do it for me can you?”
“Fine. Bye.” I hung up.

After the good reactions from those closest to me (emotionally, not geographically), I felt more confident in telling other people. I was fearful of some macho display of homophobia so the fact that the guys (particularly) in the inner circle didn’t condemn me but told me “so what? I love you anyway” was a huge boost to my self-esteem and sense of identity. Slowly the list of “those who know” far outstripped “those who don’t”. When I began university last year I took the stance that I would tell people if asked outright. This proved to be unnecessary since most people worked it out anyway. I didn’t mind, and neither did they. At that time I reflected that I was living two lives—a gay one and a non-gay one (I won’t say straight because I’ve never been that straight anyway, but a non-gay one nonetheless). This dual reality wore on me, but I wasn’t ready to let my family in on my life so I put up with what I saw as the lesser of two uncomfortable situations.

“What did Sister want?” Mum asked after I hung up so abruptly.
“She wanted to ask me not to take communion tomorrow at mass” I replied, forlornly.
“Why not?” she asked, confused.
“Because I haven’t been to confession or mass lately, and she thought it would be ‘for the best’” I said, my forlornness suddenly replaced by wrath.
“So she thinks you’ve been out having gay sex and need to confess before communion?” Mum said.
“I guess so. It doesn’t matter, I’m not going.”
“But you haven’t done anything wrong!”
“I know.”

After telling Mum and Dad the Truth, Realty suddenly became more real. I felt a little exposed in those first few weeks, because suddenly they knew something so intimate about me that I had kept hidden for so long. But they were cool. Life was good. Now I just had to tell Sister and I could finally rest.

After hanging up I messaged Lala and asked her to call me as soon as she could. After half an hour the phone rang and upon my answering she said “what’s wrong sweetie?” I explained the situation, that Sister has presumed I’ve been out fucking random guys and as such was unworthy of communion. She commented that although Sister is attracted to guys, “she doesn’t go round fucking them, why should you?” We arranged part three of the great plan, The Exodus™. After The Chat™, which will take place on Monday, I should think, I now have the option of leaving here and staying with Lala and Cal, who have both told me separately that I am welcome there at any time at a moment’s notice.

I feel more at ease around the house, although nothing much has changed. I feel I could wave a rainbow flag proudly. Dad has refrained pointing out good looking girls when we’re driving, something that never bothered me to begin with, I think it’s kinda funny actually considering Dad is 52. Mum occasionally asks if I think some guy is good looking when he appears on the television but that’s about it.

I told Mum about The Exodus™ and while she understood why I was making such plans, she didn’t like it. “You are both part of this family, I won’t have one of you leaving because the other makes life difficult” she said. That touched me. She was not impressed with Sister’s insistence at my not having communion, “what business is it of hers what you do anyway?”.

Later in the evening, I asked her if she would drive me to the supermarket before they left in the afternoon.
She asked again if I would be going and I said no.
She asked why not? Why was I letting her dictate what I do?
I explained that it wasn’t a case of being dictated to, it was that if I went and received communion, Sister would get pissed. If I didn’t, then I would be pissed and I would sit through the entire service resenting her. I didn’t want to ruin what was, after all, her day, so I thought it best to avoid confrontation in public and let her have it when she gets home and asks why I didn’t come.

And now she knows. And it’s Real. And it’s True. And I’m being punished already. But I’m not being punished for something I’ve done, I’m being punished because of the stereotype of the fuck-happy fairy that Sister holds and applies to me. She should know me better. The reason for not telling her for so long was not because I’m ashamed to be gay, but because I thought that she would be.

Time will tell if I was right.

Who am I?

Maybe it’s the migraines, maybe it’s the pain killers, but I am feeling very introspective today. It occurred to me that my “about me” needed some updating so I started writing a list of things to describe who I am. By the time I got to number 46 or so, I thought I may as well go the whole hog and try for 100. I hope it isn’t as self-indulgent as these things can often be.

1. I pretend that it doesn’t matter to me, but the truth is I do care what people think of me.
2. I feel sorry for Aunt Agony and Rick; they seem so unhappy and it breaks my heart.
3. I enjoy helping people, but only if they are willing to help themselves.
4. If I could change one event in my life, I probably would do it; I just wouldn’t know which to change.
5. I genuinely don’t understand people who are threatened by love between two women or two men.
6. I enjoy smoking, but I regret having started.
7. I didn’t get the real meaning of ANZAC day until this year.
8. I don’t cry often, but when I do I really cry.
9. I yearn for independence, but I miss being a child.
10. I am more a cat-person than a dog-person.
11. I believe in love at first sight, simply because it has happened to people I know.
12. I had a crush on my (female) art teacher in year 9.
13. I am not scared of spiders, snakes, rodents or insects; they just piss me off.
14. I hate being treated like a child by Sister and my mother.
15. I think I look good in brown and blue.
16. I think I could pull off wearing a pink shirt, but I’m afraid to try.
17. I’ve never broken a bone in my life.
18. I genuinely don’t understand people who believe that same-sex relationship recognition is a “special right”.
19. I had two ingrown toenails removed when I was a teenager and had a panic attack each time.
20. I can go from being secure to being wildly insecure very quickly.
21. My favourite colour is bright blue, but more on the aqua side of blue.
22. I can’t help but hate pumpkin and green beans.
23. I like Tía’s pumpkin soup recipe better than my mother’s.
24. I like Grandma’s chicken livers.
25. I hate that people use “gay” as a derogatory term, but don’t often speak up when I hear it.
26. I was most afraid of coming out to my aunt, Tía, because I was afraid of her rejection more than anyone else’s.
27. When I was little, I wanted to be a “tattooist”.
28. I loved Astro Boy when I was a kid, but I rented it on video as an adult and thought it was lame.
29. I am a little scared of Sister’s reaction to my being gay, but not as much as I used to be.
30. When I was five, I thought the (male) school captain was hot.
31. Bad use of grammar infuriates me.
32. I love reading good poetry, and secretly wish that I could write good poetry too.
33. I generally believe myself to be a good writer.
34. I generally believe myself to be a good person.
35. I carry a photo of Luke, Sam and Zoe in my wallet.
36. I truly believe in marriage, just not as a political wedge or as an elite institution, yet I respect others’ decision not to get married.
37. I can’t help but believe in God.
38. I can’t help but believe in the Catholic Church.
39. I saw my first porno magazine at the age of 10.
40. I don’t drink much, but when I do I don’t know when to stop.
41. I had a crush on Cal when I first met him.
42. I hate it when people say things like “I’m not homophobic, I just hate gays”; I would much prefer that people owned their homophobic, racist or sexist ideas.
43. I feel like the black sheep of the family.
44. I believe in the concept of “the family” being important, even though I feel stifled by my own.
45. I hate Macs, if for no other reason that their mice only have one button.
46. I love reading a good novel on cold winter nights.
47. I can knit, and I’m pretty good at it.
48. I genuinely believe my mother had no idea that I was gay; I don’t understand how, but I believe it.
49. Even though I’m 23, I still have teddy bears on my bed.
50. I genuinely don’t understand people who think that God hates me, simply because I am gay.
51. A good male singer makes my knees weak.
52. I am generally attracted to blonde surfers or dark Latino men.
53. For the first year or so, I only looked at straight porn. It didn’t occur to me that gay porn existed (or that I would like it).
54. I often wonder what life would have been like, and what I would be like, if I wasn’t sick; I wonder if I’d like myself.
55. I prefer summer to winter.
56. Increasingly, I’m ashamed to be Australian.
57. I am &