Coming Out.
For as
long as your parents have told you they love you, society has told
you it hates you – you’re not quite right; you look like a
regular human, but you’re not really deserving of the same rights,
perks or privileges, or the same easy life granted to your straight
friends and family. Instead, you go through school carrying your
school bag, PE bag, art folder, and what seems like something you'll never tell anyone...
When
the word gay appears in an English text, you pray no one looks your
way, that no one’s going to pass comment or make a joke. Every jib,
joke and verbal salvo avoided is a personal victory. You watch as the effeminate
guys, and the boys whose voice has taken a little longer to break,
get called faggot or queer – you say nothing. You know they’re
not gay, they’re just unfortunate to be late bloomers, have little
interest in football, or have a naturally higher-pitched voice. Either
way it doesn’t matter, the attention isn’t focused on you. The
changing room after P.E. is a minefield, get in, get out, don’t
make eye-contact, don’t let your gaze linger on anything, foot,
towel or football boot, it doesn’t matter. If you aren’t facing
the wall, boring holes, they’ll know. Accidental eye-contact?
You’ve just outed yourself. They’ll know there’s a faggot in
the changing room; letters will be sent home to parents, you’ll
have to get changed somewhere else, for their own safety of course.
You
navigate your way through the day, mostly with ease, until you need
to take a particular corridor or stairwell, and at a time you’d rather
not. You missed any bother on your own lunch period, but now you need
the toilet and you’re stuck in a geography classroom at the
back of the school, and unlike the girls, you’ve gotta go alone –
that’s when you get the names, and the smugness – don’t bother
coming this way, we’ve got our backs firmly to the wall, so mince
on. It’s unpleasant, you think to yourself, but at least
it’s not physical, And at least you’re
alone – there are too many red faces when you’re with friends,
they're flush with embarrassment, you're scarlet with shame.
Despite
the odd name calling, you hide it well enough, you think. You’ve had
girlfriends for the early part of secondary school, but you only hold
hands and kiss, and go to the cinema, and debate buying one of them a
ring from the Argos catalogue. Eventually that stops as you come to
realise you can’t keep stringing girls along, it’s not fair, and
to be honest, you just can’t be bothered. You know eventually it’s
going to have to come out.
You
dance around the issue for a while- until you build up the courage to
tell your friends. I’ve got something to tell you
– and they reply, as
they wave invisible placards
- “Are you gay? We support you.”.
They laugh and smile and they
say it like they’re joking, but you know they mean it – they
already know. (They’ve
probably known a lot longer than you give them credit for
– but they’re your friends, and they’ve let you come round in
your own time.)
It’s
out, and suddenly you feel
lighter, it's a different sort of smile, a happiness that you can’t feign. And for what it's worth, it's one that belongs only to us. You don't get to smile with that sort of relief if you're straight. You’ve
made the first steps towards
coming out and the world still turns. Gradually you tell your other
friends, of course some try and make it about themselves,
“He went out with me/It’s my fault/I turned him gay”
but none have a problem with it – in fact, quite the opposite.
You’re the hottest new
accessory, thanks for Will & Grace. You’re the gay best friend,
and bonus points for being the socially acceptable Will. (Also great,
because being offended when someone says you’re more like
Jack...who needs that?)
It
becomes something of an open secret at
school, until one night you
meet your first ever real-life, fellow
gay. This isn’t chat over
Faceparty, or email, or MSN, this is real, in-the-flesh,
friend-of-a-friend gay. Of
course you kiss - you’re gay, he’s gay, it’s taken you 16 years
to meet one, who knows when the next one will come along. For
the first time you feel what it’s like to have teenage stubble rub
against your face and
bring to your face the red flush of excitement and rawness of
stubble rash. This of
course all happens
outside, behind a wall, near
school, on an Irish autumn
night – which is very much
like a harsh
English winter’s night;
it’s dark, and it’s very windy, and you’re both wearing awful
denim jackets that provide no insulation at all. But you can feel
the heat of a guy’s torso against your own for the very first time.
While
it’s taken you 16 years to
get your first real kiss, you
can only savour the
intimacy for an evening,
because the next day in school, everyone will
know. How? Who told them? Was
it not only friends there that night? Well, the genie’s out of
the closet
now and suddenly what used to be your favourite thing in the world –
suddenly becomes the worst. The history teacher wheels the tiny 24”
CRT TV
to the front of the room and makes a hasty retreat to the staff room
for a fag of his own. Suddenly,
something that never happens
in fourth period history - there’s an engaged and inquisitive
class, unfortunately the topic this week is Contemporary Homosexual History, very contemporary in fact.
You
try
to avoid the questions, pretend
you haven’t heard them, but
the colour of your face tells everyone you have. Your eyes dart
around the room, looking for an
ally. There
are none. You
don’t know how to respond until suddenly from across the room, like
late the entry of the USA into WWII, someone comes to your aid.
It’s the
girl who sits beside you in Spanish class, o-fucking-le, indeed. And
she’s right, it’s none of
their
fucking business, and so what if you
did kiss
a boy? I
wasn’t doing anyone any harm. And why are you so interested anyway?
Are you jealous? At least I
was getting some. Now turn round and shut the fuck up before she
makes you. The class goes wild, there is
laughter, there are cheers,
but most importantly, there is relief.
Gradually
you come to realise the whole world
isn’t against you, it just looks and feels that. You have friends
that support you, classmates who defend you, and parents of friends
who accept you.
You
slowly start to come around
to the idea of telling your own
parents, you painstakingly
start to build up the courage, to find a way to bring it up in
conversation, but you’re
ambushed! They ask
you – well, your mum does, dad doesn’t want to know the answer, or rather, he doesn’t
want it confirmed.
And
so you tell her, you tell your mother. And
you know what? You were right all those years ago, and still continue
to be right today.
They’re your parents, and they love you unconditionally. That’s
not to say coming out didn’t
have awkward conversations or hurtful, ignorant comments, you
may not have been allowed to work with children (!!) but
at least
you weren’t
disowned.
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