my dad

Doctor Funfrock

A few months shy of my eighteenth birthday I was rejoicing to discover that I was gay. I can’t remember if I was still in college or was working in the internet cafe: my first job. Excited, I started telling people. Running into somebody I knew from gonzaga or michaels, it was the first thing out of my mouth. One fellow did let me know that not only was I violating some sort of biological Prime Directive but I was also headed toward the fiery pit where the worm dieth not. (And a few months ago he discovered my weblog and let me know he’d outgrown his youth. One of the happiest surprises from my years of writing about myself online.)

Mostly there wasn’t any visible reaction. In my very large school I’d emerged as the school weirdo. On and off since primary school my teachers would tell me that I was the smartest kid they’d ever taught (since I’ve never done anything to set mankind on its collective ears I’m hoping this doesn’t sound like braggadocio). Some people laughed at me. Peculiarly the muckers were always very friendly, greeting me like an old pal in the halls. Kind hellos from strangers were odd. Everything I know about secondary school status networks I got years later from bad films and TV programs. Perhaps by sheer oddity I was bastardized school celebrity. To most people I must’ve been a ‘nerd.’ Perhaps to others I was unclassified or my teachers respect made them cautious. It wouldn’t be until years after I’d left Dublin I started wondering. Leaving me with only over elaborate speculations. Visible reaction or not, the word that I was a fag must’ve gone round. My confession was the last I’d see of them. They weren’t friends, there wasn’t the faintest sense of loss.
Mrs. O’Shea was happy for me I think. Possibly the only teacher that appreciated more than my intelligence and saw that I was troubled without thinking that I was ****ed up. She’d been my third year English teacher; I visited her at school to tell her.

Dr. Wolfe, the counseller that the school had forced my parents to send me to asked if it bothered me. I said no and we went on to other things. Being someone I could bitch about my father was probably the only therapeutic quality of my visits to Dr. Wolfe. Mostly I remember him for introducing me to Danny boyle. I’m sure eamonn, a Christian bible basher tosser, was deeply shocked. Poor guy, his mother wouldn’t let him go more than two blocks from his house. He lived in real heterosexual hell: he liked girls but was too awkward to talk to any. Fairly good-looking he’d never been on a date. If he married it was probably to some Pentecostal cow his mam forced on him. Picture a small-minded, demonically intolerant, tightly controlling mucker woman and you have eamonn’s mother. eamonn loved rock music but eventually burned his records fearing they were the Devil’s music.

During the interregnum between Victor’s leaving and returning to Dublin my best friend was rob. We spent every Saturday together talking about vampires, comic books, sundry. Rob had accompanied me into agnosticism. His parents were kindly but belonged to a stringent protestant sect that didn’t allow even a piano to be played in Church. His upbringing betrayed him and he’d come to believe that he’d blasphemed the Holy Ghost, committed the unpardonable sin and no act of his could ever save him from eternal pain. When I came out to him I can’t remember his response. Nothing hostile, possibly he was baffled, even hurt. My confession had come at a time when his mind was splintering. Regardless of my sexuality our lives were following different paths; our friendship expired. Last I knew of him he was taking business classes in college. Probably at his insurance salesman father’s urging. He’d have never chosen them himself.

When I told Mam she said she knew something had happened but had assumed I’d gotten a girl pregnant. She was worried, not angry. My gay uncle’s fate probably scared her. She’d known a few gay men and they’d seemed miserable, bitter.
Not much later I ran into one of those bitter gay men. I grew up knowing Alan Porter. He’d been our landlord in the early sixties. Years earlier he’d known my Dad in Cork. Alan had a passion for my Dad. He’d devolved into a pissy old. Discovering that I was gay was a source of spiteful satisfaction. Alan had never recovered from his youthful infatuation. My sexuality for him was a revenge on my father.
There was never any question but that my father could’ve beaten me up. He was strong and violent. When he’d point out some female he thought sexy I’d feel a bit queasy (a joke on me). I was too scared of being hurt or killed to confront him with my sexuality.

Finally he asked. And exploded. If I was starving in the gutter or dying in the hospital he wouldn’t care or want to know. Never, ever think I could come back to his home. He was a “man’s man” and I was a “man for man.” (I did like the second formulation, summed it up nicely.) He gave me some money and told he to leave in the morning and never come back. My father was a mean, brutal ****er. but love me he did. Eventually visited my parents in Dublin. He didn’t talk about girls (or boys). I’d always thought if I didn’t bother my hair it wouldn’t bother me. (Until I discovered that keeping it no more than five or so inches long would get me more sex I let the locks run untrammeled.)
To make Mam happy I consented to a haircut. Found myself back at the classy barber I’d gone to for years (complete with manicurist). My haircut was worthy of a presbyuterian. When Daddy got home I cursed the haircut violently. He looked at me with surprise and said that I wasn’t really “that way.” I’d said it only to piss him off.

It took me some time to untangle his words and realize he’d decided that I wasn’t gay. I couldn’t be if I hated a haircut that my Mam wanted. Knowing defeat and preferring peace I didn’t try to educate him. As I type I can think of the best reason. My mother never told me what he’d said the night I’d come out. She wouldn’t. There’s no doubt that he’d spent weeks loudly damning her for turning me into a '****'.

Not telling my father until he asked and lying about it were my two experiences of the closet. I can see how my silence with my father can make me look like a hypocrite. I didn’t tell him I was an atheist until he asked. I never told him anything. When I was living at home I contrived to take a shower just before dinner so I wouldn’t have to sit at the table with him (years later he’d let me knew he’d discerned the pattern). I’m so confused

Boston

sounds like your father loves you, and is trying to deal with the situation the only way he knows how. Its possible he's had unpleasant experiences with homosexuals in the past and this has altered his view point to an extreme. Not going to go into it but abuse in religious institutions was widely known in the 50's and 60's, and that's what that generation often associated with homosexuals.

That said I like your writing style, it was a nice read.

swiss

You know, my father doesn't know about my sexuality, and I'm not going to tell him. It doesn't bother me in the least. He has his life, I have mine. I know he wouldn't approve, belonging as he does to the generation where more traditional values predominate. Frankly, I am happy to let him think whatever he wishes.

You might want to explain yourself to your father, to try to persuade him that being gay is not as bad as he makes it out to be. Personally, I wouldn't bother. I know he is your father but if he is unwilling to accept a basic truth about his own son, then since he doesn't know who you are, it seems somewhat pointless to try to educate him.

Boston

Do you not think you're keeping a major part of your life from you'r father swiss, and that it will only serve to distance you two. Something you iwll probably regret when he is gone. Maybe he won't accept you for what you are, but others have had to learn to come to terms with these things. You are his son after all, he raised you and a large portion of the person you are is because of him. That said you know the situtation better then most.

He probably knows anyway.