I AM NOT ONE WORD

First, a "don't pull the trigger" warning!

Please be advised the following subjects are included: Homophobia - Mental distress - Bullying.

I am fifty-one years old, and today my life was reduced to just one word. Gay.

Eighteen thousand, seven hundred, and four days reduced to one word. Four hundred and forty-eight thousand, nine hundred and eleven hours of my life, described and expressed by a stranger as a three-letter word. We are not living in the world you think we are, the tolerent society, and the "allies outrage" you think is ever present in our society is not. Maybe things are better; maybe they are worse. But those words are still here, and they have the same power they always did.

When I was a child growing up on a Northamptonshire cattle farm, I was an unknown to myself. I knew I was a variation of other children, but I didn't know what that meant. I didn’t feel different, because I didn’t know what "same" felt like. I just understood I had yet to understand who I was to become. Something deep inside my genetic code was whispering, but I couldn’t hear it, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know what it was saying anyway.

Today, as a 51-yyear-old man, my life was assessed by a young, bright, educated teenage boy, and after a very brief consideration of my entire existence on his part, he just mockingly referred to me as "Gay" as I walked past.

Words have so much more power than any of us realize.

As I passed the children at the school bus stop situated outside my own home, I had been vacant-minded. My mind was drifting due to other troubling events I was dealing with, and I was unaware of any potential threat.

Threat is an interesting word; it suggests violence, anger, rage, hurt, pain, and altercation. These are all things I have lived with for many years, but these are not the things I am frightened of anymore. The biggest fear I face at fifty-one is being erased.

I look back now and consider a lot of my life I have experienced as merely a bystander. Feeling almost unable to sway events, as if watching some pre-recorded television drama unfold. My existence, that of a ghost in my own life, or an invisible presence that could be wiped away with a damp cloth.

I am often asked, “When did you know you were gay?" to which I have always replied, “I am not sure really, when did you know you were straight?”. No one ever has an answer to that.

The truth is, I never knew. There wasn’t a parade or some intimate moment with an all-knowing God. It just evolved in me like every other part. At some point I knew, but I can’t tell you when, and why should that matter, as I say, ‘When did you know you were straight?”.

But on this journey, half knowing and half ignoring my own internal whispers, I starred to encounter homophobia. I didn’t know what that was either. The word "homophobia" wasn't commonly used in late nineteen-eighties Britain. But I existed, and I was more than just one word then. Now before we go on, times were different, people were uneducated, the world was smaller, and you don’t get much smaller than where I grew up. I was the only boy in my year group all through primary school; my entire school had about twenty children—think about that.

It was a different time; different rules applied, but some of the same words were said.

Comments and words that carried disgust and ridicule with them started to creep into my world, and for the first time I was made to feel insignificant. No intent to hurt or harm was behind them—no malice to me, I mean—but a lack of understanding and acceptance, along with a fear of the unknown, turned a low tide of uncertainty into a tidal wave of self-disgust as I grew up to my teens. I learned exactly what people were saying. That I was minimal. Easily categorised. Gay.

I remember "Top of the Pops" on the TV in our house once and the excitement of the opening music whilst you pressed “record” on the VHS player. I found those thirty minutes intoxicating, like a starship had landed, and they were gifting the human race joy, fun, and music.

My mother has been the biggest influence in my life regarding music. Today, I thank her so much for that. She loved everything at its own level and embraced "modern" music with all she had. Often reminiscing about sixties icon "Donovan," she would drift back to her own teenage years while we both listened to a record on the player. She would let me brush her hair as we sang “Oh Carol” in harmony together.

But most importantly, she was the only mom in the school yard who had Whitesnakes new album and loved Guns & Roses. She would always come back from a shopping trip with a music magazine for me, usually "Smash Hits," and as I got older, she would be the person who handed me a seven-inch copy of "I Should Be So Lucky" by “that girl off neighbors." Maybe she already knew more about who I was becoming than I did?

Another evening, as I sat in front of the TV with my mom and dad, "Top of the Pops" featured a new number one single, "Karma Chameleon" by "Culture Club." The band, fronted by Boy George, of course, a perfect showperson, sparked a heated discussion between my parents. As I sat in the middle of them both, I tried to comprehend the meaning and purpose of the debate.

My dad, a traditional, working-class farmer (black and white; call a spade a spade) father, insisted that it was a woman singing. My mom informed him that she had read in the paper that it was a man. Dad's counterargument was, “But she is wearing a dress; she has long hair, with ribbons in, you silly woman." He hastely added, "And she has make-up on!”.

Mom's reply was swift and comforting. “It's a boy, and I really like him. I think he’s quite fanciable.”.

I forgot to mention earlier that my mother had a passion for Marc Bolan of the glamrock band "T-REX.".

The gender politics of our time had no place there in 1980's England, but as the singer was "different" to my father's expectations of a man, he saw it his duty to place them back in an appropriate and comfortable pigeonhole.

My mother's defense was also acceptance, and both their opinions lingered in my head for many years after. Neither of my parents ever looked at me with disgust, horror, or shame because I was gay. In fact, like many of us, I did not understand how much my father really cared until one day, years later, the two of us alone, and with me recently separated from my husband, I watched my father breakdown in tears for the only time in my life. I had never seen him cry, not ever. Shout, yes! Complain, definitely! Feel disappointed in me? Every day! But that day he cried, and it was because he was worried, as many parents did at the time, that gay men lived their lives in sanctuary, mostly alone.

“I just don’t ever want you to be lonely," he said as he cried.

My heart broke for him, and it still does sometimes. Especially when I am lonely.

My mom has always been my greatest ally. Her most thoughtful moment, which could be seen as extremely homophobic these days, was to rally the entire family together and make them watch a film about a gay man dying of AIDS. Yes, when they all finally "guessed" that the boy I had moved in with wasn't just any boy, my mom insisted that the family sit through the movie "Philadelphia" in order to understand gay men.

This action was intended with such joyous, loving, supportive bliss that I will never allow anyone to think of it negatively. I did not then either; I was amazed. Shocked, but welcomed it as support. How wonderful is that? We have never discussed this; even when she told me that they had gone to the cinema, she never told me why, but I knew what she was doing and that the effort was there to try to understand and experience a lifestyle they had no knowledge of.

But she wasn’t all "gold stars" on the LGBT+ front. I find the following so laughably silly now that it greatly amuses me. My mother once commented on the news story, apparently "outing" "Rock Hudson," the movie star. I have no idea where this information came from in her head, but I have to admit, it got stuck in my thoughts for some time after I heard her say it.

“I don’t think he’s a queer," she said in a low, calm tone as she continued on adding a level of "deviant" to her next statement, "You can always tell if they are; they have funny mouths.”.

Make of that what you will, but I can tell you, twelve-year-old me spent that summer in the bathroom, starring in the mirror, and trying to change my mouth shape in case anyone realized I fancied Jason Donovan, more than Kylie Minogue.

Homophobia takes you to dark places, old places, the past.

My oldest sister and I do not speak. We have never really gotten along, and many people say that is because we are too similar. I disagree. My father did too. About ten years ago now, we stopped communicating all together after horrific grief and tragedy rocked our family and removed the final bands that had kept us together. We all struggled to cope, my sister particularly, as she got lost herself in anger and pain, and understandably so. But she wasn’t nice at all; she wasn’t kind, and she was very homophobic. Not stupid homophobia, like my mother's comedy nonsense; this was nasty, and I had already experienced it for some years. 

When I was around fifteen years old, maybe younger, there was an argument between us that started a process in me. As the silly "tit-for-tat" argument got more and more heated, I remember my parents laughing at the venomous words we were using, egging us on, and applauding when one of us scored a point against the other. We were kids, and I’d wager a bet that all four of us siblings felt a little unseen by our mother and father. Getting approval for anything was high currency in our house, so the stakes were raised when they noticed you.

I am to this day ashamed of what I said to my sister, and to be fair, I did not know what effect it could have on another human being's self-respect, but I understood the meaning of it. I knew it was a derogatory word that was used to make women feel bad about themselves. Slut shaming is a horrible, vile attempt to put people down. Usually they are female, and you want to degrade their sexuality as not their own to explore, reminding them that it belongs to a man, and only he can decide her choices. In my own experiences, it's been used to describe me several times because I have lived a life as a gay man who has been single several times and unashamed of enjoying his body. Even those gay men who came out late in life, probably missing out on sewing their own oatmeal, have used it against me. Internalized homophobia perhaps, but nevertheless, my mind, my body, not your business.

However, in the case of this argument, frustration got the better of me, and I shouted out, "Everyone thinks you're a slag!" to my eighteen-year-old sister.

Disgusting, revolting, untrue, a lie—I made up with absolutely nothing behind it. No one ever talked about my sister to me, unless to ask at school, “Are you Sharon's brother?" and then give me a look like they were going to be watching me.

The room fell silent, my parents no longer laughing, and suddenly I felt like things had gone too far. My sister replied quickly. She replied probably with the truth, unlike my attack on her, which didn't even have rumors behind it. She let me know what I now consider people were saying about me at the time; she wasn’t saying anything, but what she had heard, and it was a true statement.

“Well, everyone thinks you're a queer!”.

It was like the heavens opened in that second, and Jesus himself scorned me. They know, boy, they all know; they have seen your funny mouth, and now they know you get a flutter in your heart and in your groin when "Timothy Riley" walks into your science class. They all saw it the day he smiled at you and laughed at one of your jokes in the playground. They know you're queer now, and this is the start. You are noted, your life is decided; you are a word. That hurt, and it began the fear that stayed with me forever. I was now noted and observed.

When a sibling is homophobic, it is a difficult situation to resolve. Supposed family bonds and shared histories are not enough to make it tolerable sometimes.

When my boyfriend and I decided to "marry," using the 1990s civil partnership law, I remember telling my sister, expecting joy and supportive words. Looking back, I am not sure why. She made her thoughts very clear, and these comments led us, maybe ten or fifteen years later, to never speak again, not even at my father's funeral.

She said to me, with not a care in the world, “I don’t mind if gay men get married (how generous of you!), but don’t adopt children; that’s just wrong!”. She later added the comment, “I’m alright with gay men doing it (marriage one assumes!), but not two women, that’s disgusting!”.

There were many reasons why we finally stopped communicating, but for me, this ground-shifting moment in our relationship was the crack that opened into the abyss. I felt like nothing after that, for years; maybe even to this day I feel it sometimes. She did not know how much love was in my relationship. She was happy to leave her kids with me when she wanted a babysitter, but don’t have your own, she said. The implication being that would involve us having children in the house overnight, and of course, all gay men abuse children, don't they? She was clearly a misogynist, whilst claiming to be a feminist—a "no-no" to us gays! Lesbians are just women in love; I simply don’t get the issue here. Empower women, but don’t let them make their own choices!

Insight often comes in moments that are quiet.

About five years ago, I had to meet my dad in a car park, just before Christmas, to exchange some gifts for the family. We chatted briefly, and I handed over my wrapped boxes and bags, explaining that these were for my sisters. Dad was a man of very few helpful or loving words. But now that he's gone, I finally understand how much love he had for me and that he observed and considered so much more than he ever said.

“I wish she was more like you," he said. I was gobsmacked.

My sister was always a daddies girl, and he had always protected her, even when he knew she was the problem. My place in the family had always been that of "Black Sheep." I was a skinny, campy teenage boy who liked Kylie and drawing pictures of men in leather (Batman). I hated getting my hands dirty and the outdoors. Smelly, dirty cars and engines did nothing for me, and my dad was a farmer—you do the math! We hardly had a single piece of common ground in our lives.

I asked him to explain what he had meant when he said, "More like you." He told me that I was patient and kind and that I could let things go more than she did. That she held grudges for all time, and it wasn’t healthy for her. He wanted me to know that he wasn’t saying I was better than her, but that she was faltering and living in negativity. I loved him for that moment. We never spoke like that any other time; we never had that moment again. He passed away in 2020, and I'd wish for a thousand more conversations with him, like that, every single day, if I thought it would help.

But back to today, when I was reduced to one word, "gay.".

I have lived 51 years. I have loved greatly. I have been hurt badly. I have created great things that will live on, long after I die, and provided experiences that made memories and gave happiness to others. People loved me, and I hurt some people who did. I have passed through the Carpathian mountains in Transylvania and watched the sun rise over the red sea. I campaigned for equality, and I have given homeless people food many times. I held a friend's hand through her miscarriage, and I was betrayed by her days later.

I am not a word.

My life can't be boiled down to just that.

It is not anyone's to erase and cleanse, down to just three letters. I should not be disrespected just because you have not been educated. That’s your shame, not mine.

It is you that is defined by one action, one word, one moment—not me.

Today, outside my own front door, in modern Britain, on an average street, a young teenager found it perfectly acceptable to consider me "just gay." I assume he felt this was an accurate assessment because if I loved men in my life, I wasn't worthy of respect or humanity. If I'd loved women instead, he would have said nothing as I passed by. I loved, isn’t that enough?

One word, said by one teenager, destroyed me today.

I was just wallking in the street, but already distressed from the constant anxiety, PTSD, and hypervigilance symptoms I was suffering. I was trying to get to the safety of my house, and he stood amongst the ten people waiting for the bus near by. There was no chatter as I approached; all stood quietly looking at their phones, but as I walked past, this teenage boy loudly "coughed" in fakery and then said, “Er, Gay!" and sniggering as I walked past them all. Every one of them must have heard it, but everyone stayed silent. It was loud enough so that they all could not have had a single doubt that I had also heard it. They did not care.

That was the intention of the comment—that I should know they think of me as weak, frightened, ashamed, disgusting, wrong, unsupported, and that I am fair game to mock. Well, I am not those things either; no one word can define me or my life.

In the split seconds that followed, every single homophobic comment I had been exposed to in fifty years came flooding back to me. Every drink thrown from passing cars, every nasty insult, every disgusting name I had been called, and all the times strangers had spat at me. I again felt the pain from each time I had been assaulted, mocked, shouted at, chased, and threatened, just because I felt love for men. They all flooded back like a tsunami, but when it hit me, it didn’t put my fire out. More alarmingly, it fanned the flames of anger.

I had no control; I had no ability to reason; I forgot all I knew.

I am ashamed, and I am guilty of not trying to solve the problem, but it was freeing, and it felt bloody good for a few moments.

I turned around and put my fifty-one-year-old face, the face that was covered in lines and creases that showed all the nights I had cried myself to sleep, all my worry lines that had joined them when I could not pay my bills, and flexed the frown mark I had gained from surviving every goddamn day of this shit. Right up to now, I put my face in his face.

I wanted him to know, on some level, that I was hurt, damaged, and in pain, but that didn’t make me weak. I wanted the world to know; I think I wanted you all to understand what I have been through, and like most LGBQT+ humans, I am a good person who loves and gives more than she takes. I wanted to scream it out until I was hoarse.

I found a voice I rarely exercise, and with the defiance of absolute self-respect, I said to him, “Did you say something to me?”.

He replied, with a cocky, "No!”. 

It is important that you know I am not proud of my next thoughts and decisions. I don’t think it's the right way to deal with the issue, and it was not educational for the boy, but for once, in fifty-one years, it was for me that I spoke, and not for "the cause.".

I raised my voice further and deeper still. I challenged him again, “What, Did You, Fucking, Say?”.

I was less than an inch from his face. I was so enraged at this point, I need to be honest. I was shocked at how out of control this had made me. I was both excited and horrified that my mind had briefly suggested shoving this child into the road, into the traffic. That was the extent of my rage. Isn’t that awful that I felt that was the solution? Actually, no. Because I didn’t put that in my head, he did, and the silent society around him who had helped the attempt to erase my humanity.

I didn’t shove him, of course, but I did use "that voice" to educate him. I told him it was a pathetic comment, that I wasn’t afraid of him or what he said. I informed him that it had no power, provided no fear to me, and that he needed to grow up. I looked around angrily and reminded him that his friends and family would be ashamed of him and that it was not a joke.

“Do you hear the silence I asked?”. It was him and his comment that was being erased now.

Not fun, not banter, not a laugh, and no one around you is laughing with you or coming to defend what you said. 

It wasn’t the right thing to do, but it was the only thing I could do for me. I walked into my home afterwards, and I collapsed onto the floor, weeping like a baby for hours. I am not one word. I am not just "gay," and I am so goddamn tired of living like this. I am not disposable.

Often, I laugh it off; you have to, but not that day.

I have been erased by so many others recently. My career was erased, some of my friends erased me, and my finances erased themselves. My ex-partner's recent final remarks to me as he left were harsh and cruel. This was a man I loved with a devotion rare in this world. Those words are still echoing around my head six months later. “I don’t want anything from the house; I’d rather start afresh. I don't want you to know where I am living; I don't want anyone to give you my new number. I don't want to have any contact ever again."

I am erased from everything I knew, it seems, and his life story too.

I didn’t happen.

Maybe I am just "gay" to him too.