That Irish Silence

gawker

I was 12. I was scared. During lunch break, I overheard a classmate boast to his friends that he got to touch a girls boob. “Damn”, I thought. I actually felt sort of jealous. I felt a sense of being wronged, a twisted sort of jealousy. You see, I really liked him. It wasn’t fair – she got there before me. I should have expressed myself to him before she had the chance to, but alas I didn’t have the emotional intelligence. Nah, I would have messed things up somehow – embarrassed myself, turning the moment into an awkward mess. Some day though, some day I would get the opportunity to show him how I feel. Some day he would boast about me. Some day it would be okay – I just had to wait. Little did I know how long the waiting would last.

I remember there being a story in our religion book about God not giving the crab the most convenient form. In hindsight, this story didn’t keep in line with the Catholic ethos of the school – I’m sure it is no longer used. Anyway, the point was, the crab couldn’t walk very well. Apparently this was because it was how God wanted things. The crab should just have gotten over it and made do with what it had. Instead it wallowed in its failings. It wanted to be able to walk better and wasn’t going to be happy until it did so. It begged and begged, but God just kind of ignored it. Eventually, the crab accepted and embraced itself. All was good. Perhaps I was like the crab. I just needed acceptance. I needed to realize this was how God made me and this is how I should be.

Some months later I saw an opportunity to ask God about how he formed me. Well, He Himself has never made himself available to me in person, so I settled for the next best thing. My local priest – he knew God. He was quite close with him actually, as he was often keen to explain on the occasions he popped into our class to share tales. I was having confirmation prior to my first communion.

“Father”… Damn. I couldn’t remember the ritualistic words they had reminded us to say upon entering the booth. It was something to do with saying I had sinned, so I could bluff it. I tried. I probably failed. However, it was not important. I was about to tell the Priest something I had not told anybody. “I like boys…erm…I mean I like boys”. There was a bit of a silence, not an eerie one, more of a mundane one. “I see,” he replied in a monotone voice. I thought that the revelation might have spiked his interest a bit more – maybe even garnered my some sort of sympathy. He seemed quite disinterested actually. I stared at the darkness, listening for his commands. I was to say a few verses of the Hail Mary. Not as many as somebody who stole or assaulted. Just a handful of them. I left the booth both relieved and disappointed. I was hoping for affirmation – I had never told anyone this before. Instead, I received a half-hearted condemnation. He didn’t really care at all. He was just going through his daily duties, my confession being one of many. Most of the kids were just telling him they had stole sweets or fought with their siblings though. I thought what I had to say may have been more important, but it wasn’t. It was bad, but not bad enough to warrant much of a response. I was gay, it was sort of bad. Perhaps I should keep quiet about it for the time-being.

“The time-being” quickly turned into almost a decade. I didn’t tell my parents that I was gay until I was 20. It reminded me a lot of the confessional booth. My mother was sitting across from me. She had known for a long time I wasn’t telling her something. We actually came close to this moment before, agonizingly close. I remember on my J1 she sat across from me after dad had gone to the bathroom, we were in a hotel lounge in Seattle. “Is there anything you have to tell me?” she asked. Our eyes caught one another’s and we both knew exactly what the question really meant. “Nope”, I replied, “Nothing, everything is fine.”

This time, I told her outright. Just like I told the priest. “I’m gay”. She stared at me, unlike the priest I could see what her reaction was, his was hidden by a panel – perhaps a symbol of the importance of hiding emotions in the Church. She smiled. She seemed relieved. She got up out of her seat, hugged me, and started to cry. I cried too. The relief in the room was just indescribable. It had been a long journey for both of us, one where we both knew what was going on but we never seemed to get to the right place at the right time to share the truth. Perhaps I had being avoiding that place in truth, and at times perhaps she had been too. The next morning my father popped into my room – he had been out working the night before. “Mam told me what you told her”, he said, “and that’s okay.” He didn’t say the word, he was never trained how to. I accepted his sentiment, we nodded and then talked about plans for the day. It didn’t matter to him and that made me so happy. That was exactly what I had hoped for.

I wondered at that moment where the priest was. Was he still living in a world where emotions were hidden behind panels? Did he ever have a chance to share his emotions? Us Irish, you see, we grow up in a country where emotions are to be bottled and stored. They should be hidden from view to avoid some sort of social anarchy. We need absolute right and wrongs and those of us who cannot share in those absolutes must keep their differences to themselves. The priest, to me, symbolized perhaps the greater leader and implementer of that kind of mentality as well as the greatest victim.

I truly hope that anybody who reads this who is bottling things up comes out. I spent so long avoiding it, and now look back at a teenage life spent depressed, looking in at the fun world I should have being enjoying. Now, a couple of years later, I am able to hope to meet the guy of my dreams. Before, I could only hope for acceptance. One moment of bravery, of risk-taking, can pay the dividends of an open life. An open life will always be a happier one.

deasyd

What a fantastically written post. Great story!

Well done and best of luck for the future

ninty9er

We could do with more people like you in the world

gawker

Thanks for the compliments!

I wrote it because I have being thinking about why I bottled it in for so long. I am currently living in Sweden and gay people here usually have stories of normal teenage lives - repression-free by all regards. It contrasted alot with "the Irish experience" many GLBT folk go through back home that involves a lot of hiding and emptional guilt. I can't help but think that reality is intertwined with our Catholic upbringing. That may seem like an easy thing to say, but I really cannot understand why else Swedish kids (for example) have it so much easier than Irish kids. Of course, I am speaking in general terms and understand there are exceptions on both sides.

Hotblack Desiato

Great post OP. I was searching for something else entirely (honest! :pac: ) when that very intriguing thread title came up. Good for you.

I get the impression you're rather younger than I am (40) and in previous decades, it wasn't just homosexuality that was repressed in Ireland but sexuality in general. I had parents the same age as some of my peers grandparents so perhaps I had it worse than many, but it felt like one almost had to come out as straight, and therefore disappoint one's parents that perpetual virginity and the priesthood/nunnery wasn't a runner... Sexuality in general was something not discussed and somewhat shameful. In an atmosphere like that, it's hard for me to imagine what having to come out as gay would have been like (but I was bullied at school for supposedly being gay, I wasn't gay, just shy, and going to an all-boys school didn't help there.)

I'm not at all surprised that someone growing up in Sweden in 90s/00s would have had a very different experience than someone growing up in Ireland 80s/90s, but I think we're catching up

I can identify with the wasted teen years thing for sure. I was far too busy studying when I should've been figuring out booze and the desired sex. Took me until my 30s to make up for lost time. I'm with my life partner 8 years now. When you find the right person you just know. Good luck.

ninty9er

Could I reprint that OP?

gawker

ninja900 wrote: »

it felt like one almost had to come out as straight, and therefore disappoint one's parents that perpetual virginity and the priesthood/nunnery wasn't a runner... Sexuality in general was something not discussed and somewhat shameful.

Good point. Shame and sexuality went hand-in-hand in Ireland until recently from what I can tell, regardless of orientation. I do think we are making incredible progress now though. Here's hoping that continues and eventually there is full equality and no stigma for gay people to live with.

ninty9er wrote: »

Could I reprint that OP?

Of course!