Hi. Not sure how you got here, but hi! This post is a little long, and quite personal. I wrote it when I was sick, so my editing is woeful, as is my ability to discern what I should and shouldn't put in. Some may consider these two things to be the same; in this case, they are not. There is a subtle difference. I ask one thing. If you are going to battle through this post, please imagine you are sitting in a small theatre, and I am delivering this on an empty stage, as a monologue. There is a point at the end of the next paragraph where you are given the option to leave without going on. If you are not up to “hearing” three thousand words after that point, leave. If you decide to remain, I ask that you sit through the rest without leaving, or throwing Jaffas. It will take you fifteen minutes, tops. The fact that I am naked on stage may further influence your decision. If it's any consolation, the only way I'm going to make it through this monologue is to imagine that you are too. Are we sitting comfortably? Then let's begin.
It has been quite some time since I have written in my “very occasional” blog, but there has been something that I have felt a need to share since attending a local college performance of Patricia Cornelius' You Still Here?, which centres around young people in Tasmania in the Eighties as they consider their employment opportunities, life, and sense of home within our island state. It was a great performance, and perhaps especially resonated with me, as the Eighties in Tasmania were MY teenage years. Also, being in such an intimate theatre that Elizabeth College is blessed (and, perhaps, cursed) with, I couldn’t help but be caught up in a nostalgia trip of the the whole vibrant “thespianity” (it's a word; honest!) of it all. For it was in those teen years also that, to use a terrible cliché, I developed a love of the smell of the greasepaint, the sound of first night opening curtains, and the glare of stage light. So there was an almost overwhelming flood of memories and emotions that night; some wonderful nostalgia, but also the surfacing of deeply-buried memories and guilt-ridden regret. It was hammered home even more by the role that was played by the friend I went to watch; I expressed to him afterwards how impressed I was with the dignity he brought to the character (which could easily have become an overplayed caricature), and that I might explain to him one day how gutsy and important a role it was, and why it resonated with me so much. Upon reflection I felt the need to go a little further; to put this on public record and maybe seek a little redemption also. It may be picking at old scabs, and like watching a slow motion train wreck, so if you find life squeamish, Look Away, Look Away! For this all may seem a series of unfortunate events.
In the play, my friend had the challenge of portraying a gay teen, contemplating his future in a State of Australia where homosexuality was still a crime. It is an uncanny coincidence that, on the day I write this, Tasmania is celebrating the twentieth anniversary of its decriminalisation, in 1997. Only two years before my eldest child was born. It seems incredulous. While I incredule(!) over it, I should also point out that, no, this is not a “coming out of the closet” manifesto; that revelation may have halved the few remaining readers who have struggled this far, but in many ways this story is -dare I say queerer?- than that!
The events I refer to are muddied by time; I'm almost forty-nine as I write this, and I was only sixteen when the following transpired. The memories have been reformatted and re-photocopied in my head many times. I shall make every effort not to over-sensationalize things, but any “quotes” I may use will certainly not be verbatim, but instead, dramatic reconstructions. I also have a habit of excessive use of punctuation; I especially like the subtle curves of the semi-colon, and seem to use them 100 percent more than I should.
Looking way back then, I can’t help but regurgitate, with thanks to Dickens, another now-cliché: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way...”
High School in Tasmania covers years seven to ten, with college covering years 11, 12, and if you're pacing yourself (or really have a tough/lazy/crazy time of those two years) also year 13. I attended a high school out of area, and as such only knew a handful of people there in the transition from primary school. It was a fresh start, and, not being a great maker of friends, quite a daunting task. I was twelve, and surprisingly very quickly developed a firm friendship with a great, funny, talented guy; basically a great mate. What I did not know was that he had been labelled in his previous school by the kinds of kids who like to do such things, and because those kids followed him to highschool, he wasn't able to shake that label off. And so, being friends with him, I inherited the label too. At twelve years of age, I became a “poofter”. I use that word, much as I find it loathsome and disgusting, because that was the label that was used. “Gay” came later. Grade seven? I was a dirty poofter.
Even after a string of girlfriends those first few terms (my friend and I seemed to play tag-team there; what was it with that?), to a certain influential segment of that year group we were gay, with everything that that, with their overactive imaginations, entailed. It was incredibly incongruous having somehow developed the label of “Casanova” at home, but at school be the opposite! Even after that mate (in the very Aussie sense only) moved away after that year (which, most confusingly amongst all of this, just absolutely broke my heart), I was stuck holding the label. All my school shirts seemed to have it embroidered across the breast pocket in eighties-pastel-pink. I think I managed to deflect it from the few other friends I had in high school, but it was one that I never managed to shake.
On my grade ten central Australia school trip, early in the year, we spent a night underground in an opal mine in Coober Pedy. It was in the pitchest of pitch black that I heard the taunts of familiar voices whispering threats of “the poofter is in for an uncomfortable night tonight!”; they probably slept well that night, but every rustling sound of a sleeping bag had me flinching.
Near the end of the same trip, as we reached the outskirts of Adelaide, there was a mass exodus of guys from the coach to use the roadstop restroom; it had been discovered at previous roadstops that dispensers of the condom variety were common in such places. There were now only a few nights left on the tour for chances, real or imagined, to make use of them, so these guys wanted to be ready. Or seen to be ready. Or seen to be macho enough to be seen to be buying them! I thought little as I could about it, until that evening at that night’s camp spot. I was in the shower block alone; showering, strangely. There was suddenly a bustle of activity outside the stalls, as a gang of “yearmates” came in. The ringleader immediately called my name from outside. I have no idea how they knew I was in there, but was thankful that my clothes and towel were in the locked double cubicle with me, as they were the usual targets in scenarios like this in the school change-rooms back home. Unfortunately there was a big gap between the top of the cubicle and the roof. “Tell me what this is, ya poofta!”, the ringleader called over the wall. I ignored him, as the others cried “he probably doesn't even know!”, and various other taunts. And then he called out again, “Tell me what this is, or I'm climbing over that wall and I'm going to use it on you!” I was naked, the shower still running, absolutely terrified at what this thug of a man (although I was around 6” by this time, this creature towered over me) was about to use on me in my exposed state!
I looked over the top of the stall, quickly identifying the half-dozen usual suspects that I would have no hope of running the gauntlet against, and then looked at what Biff (yes, names changed etc.) held aloft. It was a small, square, shiny packet.
Oh (whatever expletive my “closeted potty-mouth” brain was using in my head in those days)!
The laughs and taunts increased again, then fell, as Biff stepped close enough to look down at me over the top of the wall. This, I remember vividly: although completely naked, and having this thug stare down at me, I made no attempt to cover myself up. It was as if I felt that my dignity, whatever shred might be left of it, would be better maintained by not doing so, than by making some pathetically feeble fumble. That being said, he didn't look anywhere other than straight into my eyes. I have never been good at that; eye contact does my head in, but I think I was too scared to not do so here. I was fully convinced that the headspace this guy was in meant he was ready and capable of doing anything to me. He asked again, “Tell me what this is, or I'm coming in to use it!” “Yeah, except he'll probably enjoy it!”, spewed one of the brute squad. And then I told him; for the next thirty seconds or so I reeled off every name I'd ever heard for the humble condom, in quick succession. I don't think I could do it again, and I don't think I made any up, but I think I even used some names that they hadn't even heard of before! It seemed to catch Biff completely off-guard, but also gave him a convenient escape from any carry-through-of-threats. “You're lucky, you poof! I was saving this for (insert very unlikely girl's name here).”
And they left.
And I bawled. As quietly as I could.
A number of weeks later, back at school, one of the smaller members of the brute squad who was out on his own cornered me in the school yard and started his own taunts. It must have been a bad day because I suddenly lost it, grabbing him by the arms, swinging him around and slamming him repeatedly against the wall yelling “I. Have. Had. Enough. Of. THIS!!!” (And this was months before William Shatner did the same with his foot into Christopher Lloyd's face!) I might have hurt him a bit. I certainly hurt his pride. I immediately feared gang retaliation, but it didn't happen. I'm guessing he didn't tell. Pride? Guilt? Respect?! Who knows? But he certainly avoided eye-contact with me forever after that.
I never really understood the longevity of this box I lived in, nor was it something I thought I could really discuss with anyone else; not that I thought anyone could do anything about it anyway. I honestly don't think it was helped by my love of the performing arts; rightly or wrongly there seems to be a perceived correlation between the performing arts and a propensity for attraction to members of the same sex. Your mileage may vary. But it was this love that leads us (thankfully!) to the ending of this tedium.
At the end of August the school's major production was staged, over two nights. I scored one of the leading roles, and struggled desperately with learning the lines; I guess I managed better than the other guy who was supposed to be playing the same part on the other night, as I ended up playing both nights. (Bizarrely, the only lines I still remember from the entire three act play belonged to someone else!) The rest of the cast were predominantly in year ten like myself, with a few exceptions. One of those was an extremely flamboyant lad from grade eight. I use the word “lad” somewhat loosely, because if I recall correctly he could sprout facial hair on his top lip in a way that I would only come close to many years later. He was also (and at this point I risk identifying him fully, but hope he will understand, and forgive me) an absolute Boy George fanatic, as if the Culture had been Clubbed into him! He was effervescently larger than life. He was also teased and taunted mercilessly- for being gay. My biggest regret is that I have no recollection as to whether I actively participated in said bullying. I regret I have no recollection, because it makes me terribly afraid that I did; making me guilty of inflicting upon someone else the very hell I, myself, had had to endure. At the very least, I did nothing to stop it; and in that environment I think I may have been in a position to have actually done “something” about it. What I DO remember was being secretly jealous of this guy. He just oozed self-confidence on stage, and above all emanated an incredible impression that he was comfortable in his own skin, and wasn't going to let anyone change that. He was fourteen then; I still haven't come close to achieving that! It may mean nothing to him, but if there is anyone who has read this far, and still knows him (and I think you'll know if you do) please pass him a link to this? I owe him some respect and an apology!
If you thought “Yay! He's achieved catharsis! AND- more importantly- that's the end!”, you haven't watched Aliens.
A few days following the final performance, I noticed a grade seven kid following me. I stopped walking. He stopped. I started again. He followed. I stopped again, and resisted the urge to continue the age-old tradition of picking him up and sitting him on top of a locker, as had happened to me as a year seven annoyance. “What!?”, I asked.
“Ummm, I just wanted to tell you what a great job you did in the play.”
“Heh?”
“Yeah, I don't know how you managed to learn all those lines!”
“Nah, I don't either! I mucked up a few.”
“Well, I thought you did great.”
“Thank you.”
I asked his name, we chatted a little, then it was a “see you around”, and I went on my way.
I did see him around. Quite a bit. He was a loner, and I guess I felt that a bit. I'd say “hi!”, and ask him how he was going. He was often evasive, but occasionally opened up, and I listened. He was a nice, shy, struggling kid. I guess I felt idolized a bit, and it felt strange. And good.
A few months (and a number of exams) later, the year tens were counting down the days to end of high school- a month earlier than the rest of school. It was a time of half-baked lessons (reports were already written), boat trips, and beach activities. During one of those half-baked lessons, it happened. A call came over the PA, for me to go to the vice-principal’s office immediately. I had managed to keep my head down fairly well for four years, so this was a bit of a shock to me(!), and, as reflected by the chorus of mocking “Ooooooh!!!”s, to the rest of the class. I went downstairs, and knocked on the VP’s office. As soon as he answered the door, I knew things weren't good. The look he gave me was one of smug disdain. This smugness continued in his voice as he asked me in, and told me to take a seat.
“Look, this is somewhat awkward, but I've just finished talking to a very upset grade seven student who I believe you know.”
For the love of all things bright and beautiful, I had no idea who or what he was talking about, and hoped the look on my face reflected that. What I got was a look of patronizing “oh, please!”
He named my little fan-boy. He then said, “he's really upset that you are leaving this week.”
“Oh. Wow.”
“Yes. (pause) So tell me, so I can better understand this all…” And then the puzzle-piece that explained everything; the attitude, the looks, the vocal tone. And the sudden, cynical raised eyebrow. “... what exactly is your relationship with this boy?”
And I suddenly found myself in an episode of a show I had been allowed to watch by my parent's a few years earlier- famous in my mind up until then as being the first time I'd ever seen a portrayal of two people (quite discreetly) making love. “To Serve Them All My Days”, a brilliant British drama about a shell-shocked WWI veteran from Wales returning to England and taking up a post as a teacher at a boarding school. It includes a scene where a crazed Headmaster commences a witch-hunt for older boys being “overly familiar” with younger boys in the dorms. I knew enough by then to understand what was going on in that show. I therefore also knew enough by then as to what my vice-principal was insinuating. In that moment I felt far more vulnerable, stark-naked exposed, and in “deer-in-the-headlights” danger than I did in that shower stall six months before.
Four years of living with the label by my peers, and to top it all off I'm copping it from the VP, but with far more serious, accusatory undertones. This was not a bullying taunt. It was a legal challenge.
I told him “what exactly” my relationship was, but by then I couldn't tell what he was thinking. I didn't have a lot of time to give it any thought anyway, because he looked at the clock on the wall, and said, “Well, there's fifteen minutes before this class period is out. He's sitting on the side of the soccer fields. Please, go speak to him.” He stood up, and strangely shook my hand as he let me out of the office. As I left, he said “Good luck.”
I wish I knew what I said to that boy (heh. I call him boy, but now realise at my current age how little difference three years makes!). I can't remember. I was still processing the conversation that I'd had with a “responsible adult, in authority” suggesting, albeit indirectly, that I was involved in an act that I knew was illegal in Tasmania. And all that that entailed. That's what was racing through my head.
But I do know this. I manned up at the end of whatever I said to him, and we embraced. Tears fell from my eyes onto the top of his head, as he sobbed into my chest. This was not a “gay” or “sexual” hug; it was the heart-rending embrace of two man-children heading into uncertain futures, in different directions.
Was he gay? I don't know, and now that he legally “can” be, I don’t care. So much. Because there's still an awful, terrifying divide between what is now legally accepted, and what is socially accepted. And that divide isn't closing anywhere near fast enough. Any of my peers that grew up “poofters” in the Eighties, I salute you. Especially those who stayed in Tasmania. I do not claim to have anywhere close to a full idea as to how it has been for you, but I think I have a small inkling. And for those teens struggling now with this label, whether imposed by others, or self identified- closeted or out- I salute you too, with a virtual man-child hug. I ache for your struggles.
Prior to You Still Here?’s opening night I jokingly asked, “I just hope there's no teenage angst in it…”
My friend's reply? “Well, a minimal amount”
Heh. He did good.
