Mum sat me down for “the talk.” Her 17-year-old son was taking his teenage rage a tad too far – frequent late nights, sometimes disappearing for whole weekends, and this time, rolling into the home with a hickey on his neck.
“I know you’re at the age where you’re starting to have sex. I had the same conversation with your brother at his age. I just want to make sure you’re using protection,” she calmly advised. I suspected this was her attempt to obtain the truth of my activities, and orientation, and responded in kind. “What if I told you I like boys instead of girls?” Her face froze and almost lengthened in anguish. “What?” she replied in the faintest of voices, hoping what I said was a mistake of her hearing. I repeated my question, slowly so there was no disputing the fact.
What ensued was a rampage – a tirade of insults and inconsolable wailing. My two sisters rushed into the living room at the sound of my mother’s emotional breakdown, but none of our attempts to calm her down had any impact. I feared she would tell my father, who was conveniently still at work. I hurriedly gathered what belongings I could, and had my sisters drop me off where I had arranged to meet a gay friend, who had allowed me to stay while the ordeal unfolded. My sisters and I exchanged hugs – none of us knew what would be the outcome once my father found out. We all had the same expression of worry in our eyes, but I was assured of their support.
In the meantime, I called my brother, who was living in Canberra, and informed him of the volcano that had erupted in the family home. I came out to my siblings at 15; in a way we were all preparing for this day. I asked him to return to Melbourne and help insulate me from Dad’s reaction. It would take him several days to arrange time. As the eldest child, and male, my brother’s voice yielded significant weight in this patriarchal Australian-Lebanese family. I had to weather the storm a few days until he arrived.
I heard nothing from my parents or sisters that night. The following morning, I received a call from my aunt – my father’s sister – saying she was coming to pick me up. Great, I thought, not even 24 hours has passed, and the entire family knows. “I always knew,” my aunt said in the car ride home, “I just didn’t want to believe it.”
I walked into my home, gasping. I had no idea what awaited me, my mind had prepared for the worst: eviction. My gay friend the previous night assured me I had a place to stay if it came to that, having experienced the difficulty of coming out to his own parents.
It was a family circus – my father’s youngest brother was also there, as well as my mother and sisters. It was clear that they all beseeched my father to try to approach the matter calmly. Whatever pretension he was trying to maintain didn’t last for long. He wanted to have a chat, and took me into his bedroom, my mother and aunt followed. “Don’t be afraid,” he said, as I sat on the edge of the bed, him towering above. I couldn’t look him in the eyes. I was afraid. “What are you?” he asked. I didn’t respond. He repeated. Still no response, no eye contact. He ramped up the pressure, and I began to buckle. He kept repeating the question, insisting, elevating his voice, I broke down. He knew. He kept asking the question, this time with a hysterical cry. “I’m a faggot,” I replied, submerged in shame. He stormed out of the room in tears.
Moments passed. We had calmed. At the urging of the other family members, Dad attempted to “negotiate” a deal that would keep me at home. “Try to be straight for a year – no gay friends, no gay bars, no gay anything. If you’re still gay after a year, I’ll accept you.” The alternative was I pack my bags. Did I have a choice, despite how ludicrous and impossible the offer was? I was in no position to bargain, and they were in no position to listen. “OK,” I said.
Of course I didn’t give up my gay friends. They had become my backbone, my main source of support and freedom at a time of homophobia and exclusion at home and school. We were that for each other, young LGBT folks supporting each other through this insufferable rite of passage.
Several days passed, and then my father had caught me on the phone talking to a gay friend. The volcano erupted for a second time. My father called his brother, he came over within minutes. Heated words were exchanged. I attempted to pre-empt my father’s rage, and became enraged at him. It didn’t work. “Look at all the pain you’re causing your parents,” my uncle faulted me. Dad turned to his brother, “I can’t live with this … faggot,” the final word mumbled under his breath but I heard it.
This time I ran to my high school best friend’s home around the corner. Her family kindly extended support, and offered me a home should the worst come to fruition. The phone rang; my sister called me to come home for “family meeting to decide my fate” number two. I didn’t want to go alone, my best friend accompanied me for support.
Walking in the door, I noticed the crowd had expanded – my aunt and uncle were there again, as were my parents and sisters. The family doctor, also Australian-Lebanese, was there to treat my mother who had fainted prior to my arrival – the stress of her son’s homosexuality was taking its toll. And to my great relief, my brother. “Thank God,” I felt. With his presence, my father would surely be constrained.
The trial had begun. The doctor served as the mediator. Each person was asked what they thought about my sexuality. Dad searched desperately for any explanation to condemn me, and found himself increasingly isolated. The doctor tried to reason and explain to him that homosexuality, as reprehensible as it may be, was “not a choice.” It was a bitter pill for Dad to swallow.
It was then the turn of my sisters to voice their opinions. “Even your sisters are against it,” Dad said. I turned to them, they sat stunned and silenced, my father – the patriarch – had bullied them into, at the very least, not contradicting his position. My best friend, who owed no loyalty to anyone in my family, was not afraid to weigh in. “I will love him no matter what,” when asked of her thoughts. My dad tried to dismiss her viewpoint, “of course she’d say that, she’s his friend.”
He dodged and weaved every attempt to disprove his impossible position. And then it came to my brother – only his word could challenge my father’s, as the laws of patriarchy dictate. “If you kick him out, you’ll lose me too.” That was it. The killer blow. Silence filled the room, my parents froze. They had no response. They could not disown or evict me.
Dad uttered a few more complaints but now in resignation. He had been cornered. My uncle threw Dad a lifeline, “Well if you’re going to support your brother, I’m going to support mine.” But it was in vain. Dad would not challenge my brother. Throughout this entire process, I sat calm and in silence, almost as a spectator to this grand debate about my life. “I’m amazed that you’ve just sat there completely calm,” the doctor said to me. I smirked confidently. None of these opinions mattered – this was my life, and I will decide who plays a part in it.
My father is a man of few words and little emotion – a mould of his patriarchal, hyper-masculine upbringing in rural Lebanon. In the 15 years since my coming out, we have only spoken once about my sexuality. It was at my brother’s 30th birthday, six years later. My French partner at the time, with whom I was living, was present at the party. It was the second family gathering my partner had attended – my cousin’s engagement the previous encounter. It had caused a stir. My father and uncle occupied a corner in protest – not to me, of course, but to my mother. Mum and my aunt had since shifted their positions. Mum adored my partner, two cooks who would exchange cake recipes. My aunt would host us on a fortnightly basis for dinner.
Even my grandmother, my father’s mum who speaks no English and received little education in 1940s Lebanon, had extended her embrace. “Is there any way you can change?” she once asked me in Arabic. “If I could, I would. Do you think I would’ve chosen to be gay? This is how God made me,” I replied. “Well, if that’s how God made you, I have to accept His will.”
Dad was under immense family pressure to accept my sexuality. The family issue was no longer my homosexuality, but his homophobia. In keeping with his patriarchal worldview, however, he stubbornly refused. Each time my partner and I would visit the family home, he’d hop in the car and leave. At my brother’s birthday, however, he had no choice but to withstand my partner’s presence. After a few glasses of wine in both our systems, I opened up to him. “I know I’m not what you wanted me to be.” He nodded, with a slight smile. “I just want you to make sure you look after yourself.” They’re the only words he has muttered on the matter since I came out.
Mum quickly turned into my greatest supporter, frequently jumping to my defence when other family members spoke ill of me. Once she overcame her own opposition to my homosexuality, she resumed her role as mother and protector. When my uncle complained at the presence of my partner at my cousin’s engagement, she fiercely rebuked, “So what? They’re human too.”
Her greatest hour came during my devastating breakup with my French partner. He had returned to France, and had been hassling me for his belongings. It had fallen on me, thus, to rummage through our belongings – box after box. I had stored them in my parents’ home, and had no desire to re-open them. But at his insistence, I finally reneged, and opened each box in the kitchen, where Mum was busy preparing food. The pain of going through our belongings was overwhelming, and I broke down.
Despite my parents accepting my relationship, my personal affairs remained private. I rarely shared the intimate details of my relationships, largely because I knew they wouldn’t want to hear them, even if I was in need of emotional support. Accepting the fact that I’m gay was one thing, but actively engaging or expressing an interest beyond the superficial gestures in my personal relationships was an entirely different field. It was a silent agreement between my parents and I that I would keep my private affairs to myself. And no matter how deeply in love I was with my partner, my same-sex relationships would always, at least in their eyes, appear insignificant compared to the heterosexual relationships of my siblings.
But I could no longer hide the pain of my breakup. And Mum knew it, she could feel it. Upon seeing me break down in the kitchen, without uttering a word, she came over and embraced me. Through my broken heart, Mum saw that same-sex love was genuine and fully deserving of recognition.
It’s been 15 years since my parents almost disowned me, and today my sexuality is the butt of jokes between Mum and I. Occasionally her deep-seated concerns about my homosexuality will surface, such as her constant reminder that “you’re going to die alone.” I understand for many of my parents’ generation, homosexuality is associated with promiscuity, disease and egotism, and sits outside the family nucleus. They, admittedly, remain the worries of my mother. The marriage equality debate has served as an opportunity to dispel those myths, and demonstrate that LGBT people too can establish families.
It is undoubtedly her wish for me, which is perhaps why on the phone last week, when I asked Mum how she voted, she replied, “You’ll be happy.” But it was her next remark that surprised me the most … “so did your father.” I couldn’t believe it. The same dad who threatened to disown me, twice, and who has only said one line to me about it in the 15 years since? The patriarchal man of few words, and all deeds, indeed.
By Antoun Issa/ theguardian.com
“I know you’re at the age where you’re starting to have sex. I had the same conversation with your brother at his age. I just want to make sure you’re using protection,” she calmly advised. I suspected this was her attempt to obtain the truth of my activities, and orientation, and responded in kind. “What if I told you I like boys instead of girls?” Her face froze and almost lengthened in anguish. “What?” she replied in the faintest of voices, hoping what I said was a mistake of her hearing. I repeated my question, slowly so there was no disputing the fact.
What ensued was a rampage – a tirade of insults and inconsolable wailing. My two sisters rushed into the living room at the sound of my mother’s emotional breakdown, but none of our attempts to calm her down had any impact. I feared she would tell my father, who was conveniently still at work. I hurriedly gathered what belongings I could, and had my sisters drop me off where I had arranged to meet a gay friend, who had allowed me to stay while the ordeal unfolded. My sisters and I exchanged hugs – none of us knew what would be the outcome once my father found out. We all had the same expression of worry in our eyes, but I was assured of their support.
In the meantime, I called my brother, who was living in Canberra, and informed him of the volcano that had erupted in the family home. I came out to my siblings at 15; in a way we were all preparing for this day. I asked him to return to Melbourne and help insulate me from Dad’s reaction. It would take him several days to arrange time. As the eldest child, and male, my brother’s voice yielded significant weight in this patriarchal Australian-Lebanese family. I had to weather the storm a few days until he arrived.
I heard nothing from my parents or sisters that night. The following morning, I received a call from my aunt – my father’s sister – saying she was coming to pick me up. Great, I thought, not even 24 hours has passed, and the entire family knows. “I always knew,” my aunt said in the car ride home, “I just didn’t want to believe it.”
I walked into my home, gasping. I had no idea what awaited me, my mind had prepared for the worst: eviction. My gay friend the previous night assured me I had a place to stay if it came to that, having experienced the difficulty of coming out to his own parents.
It was a family circus – my father’s youngest brother was also there, as well as my mother and sisters. It was clear that they all beseeched my father to try to approach the matter calmly. Whatever pretension he was trying to maintain didn’t last for long. He wanted to have a chat, and took me into his bedroom, my mother and aunt followed. “Don’t be afraid,” he said, as I sat on the edge of the bed, him towering above. I couldn’t look him in the eyes. I was afraid. “What are you?” he asked. I didn’t respond. He repeated. Still no response, no eye contact. He ramped up the pressure, and I began to buckle. He kept repeating the question, insisting, elevating his voice, I broke down. He knew. He kept asking the question, this time with a hysterical cry. “I’m a faggot,” I replied, submerged in shame. He stormed out of the room in tears.
Moments passed. We had calmed. At the urging of the other family members, Dad attempted to “negotiate” a deal that would keep me at home. “Try to be straight for a year – no gay friends, no gay bars, no gay anything. If you’re still gay after a year, I’ll accept you.” The alternative was I pack my bags. Did I have a choice, despite how ludicrous and impossible the offer was? I was in no position to bargain, and they were in no position to listen. “OK,” I said.
Of course I didn’t give up my gay friends. They had become my backbone, my main source of support and freedom at a time of homophobia and exclusion at home and school. We were that for each other, young LGBT folks supporting each other through this insufferable rite of passage.
Several days passed, and then my father had caught me on the phone talking to a gay friend. The volcano erupted for a second time. My father called his brother, he came over within minutes. Heated words were exchanged. I attempted to pre-empt my father’s rage, and became enraged at him. It didn’t work. “Look at all the pain you’re causing your parents,” my uncle faulted me. Dad turned to his brother, “I can’t live with this … faggot,” the final word mumbled under his breath but I heard it.
This time I ran to my high school best friend’s home around the corner. Her family kindly extended support, and offered me a home should the worst come to fruition. The phone rang; my sister called me to come home for “family meeting to decide my fate” number two. I didn’t want to go alone, my best friend accompanied me for support.
Walking in the door, I noticed the crowd had expanded – my aunt and uncle were there again, as were my parents and sisters. The family doctor, also Australian-Lebanese, was there to treat my mother who had fainted prior to my arrival – the stress of her son’s homosexuality was taking its toll. And to my great relief, my brother. “Thank God,” I felt. With his presence, my father would surely be constrained.
The trial had begun. The doctor served as the mediator. Each person was asked what they thought about my sexuality. Dad searched desperately for any explanation to condemn me, and found himself increasingly isolated. The doctor tried to reason and explain to him that homosexuality, as reprehensible as it may be, was “not a choice.” It was a bitter pill for Dad to swallow.
It was then the turn of my sisters to voice their opinions. “Even your sisters are against it,” Dad said. I turned to them, they sat stunned and silenced, my father – the patriarch – had bullied them into, at the very least, not contradicting his position. My best friend, who owed no loyalty to anyone in my family, was not afraid to weigh in. “I will love him no matter what,” when asked of her thoughts. My dad tried to dismiss her viewpoint, “of course she’d say that, she’s his friend.”
He dodged and weaved every attempt to disprove his impossible position. And then it came to my brother – only his word could challenge my father’s, as the laws of patriarchy dictate. “If you kick him out, you’ll lose me too.” That was it. The killer blow. Silence filled the room, my parents froze. They had no response. They could not disown or evict me.
Dad uttered a few more complaints but now in resignation. He had been cornered. My uncle threw Dad a lifeline, “Well if you’re going to support your brother, I’m going to support mine.” But it was in vain. Dad would not challenge my brother. Throughout this entire process, I sat calm and in silence, almost as a spectator to this grand debate about my life. “I’m amazed that you’ve just sat there completely calm,” the doctor said to me. I smirked confidently. None of these opinions mattered – this was my life, and I will decide who plays a part in it.
My father is a man of few words and little emotion – a mould of his patriarchal, hyper-masculine upbringing in rural Lebanon. In the 15 years since my coming out, we have only spoken once about my sexuality. It was at my brother’s 30th birthday, six years later. My French partner at the time, with whom I was living, was present at the party. It was the second family gathering my partner had attended – my cousin’s engagement the previous encounter. It had caused a stir. My father and uncle occupied a corner in protest – not to me, of course, but to my mother. Mum and my aunt had since shifted their positions. Mum adored my partner, two cooks who would exchange cake recipes. My aunt would host us on a fortnightly basis for dinner.
Even my grandmother, my father’s mum who speaks no English and received little education in 1940s Lebanon, had extended her embrace. “Is there any way you can change?” she once asked me in Arabic. “If I could, I would. Do you think I would’ve chosen to be gay? This is how God made me,” I replied. “Well, if that’s how God made you, I have to accept His will.”
Dad was under immense family pressure to accept my sexuality. The family issue was no longer my homosexuality, but his homophobia. In keeping with his patriarchal worldview, however, he stubbornly refused. Each time my partner and I would visit the family home, he’d hop in the car and leave. At my brother’s birthday, however, he had no choice but to withstand my partner’s presence. After a few glasses of wine in both our systems, I opened up to him. “I know I’m not what you wanted me to be.” He nodded, with a slight smile. “I just want you to make sure you look after yourself.” They’re the only words he has muttered on the matter since I came out.
Mum quickly turned into my greatest supporter, frequently jumping to my defence when other family members spoke ill of me. Once she overcame her own opposition to my homosexuality, she resumed her role as mother and protector. When my uncle complained at the presence of my partner at my cousin’s engagement, she fiercely rebuked, “So what? They’re human too.”
Her greatest hour came during my devastating breakup with my French partner. He had returned to France, and had been hassling me for his belongings. It had fallen on me, thus, to rummage through our belongings – box after box. I had stored them in my parents’ home, and had no desire to re-open them. But at his insistence, I finally reneged, and opened each box in the kitchen, where Mum was busy preparing food. The pain of going through our belongings was overwhelming, and I broke down.
Despite my parents accepting my relationship, my personal affairs remained private. I rarely shared the intimate details of my relationships, largely because I knew they wouldn’t want to hear them, even if I was in need of emotional support. Accepting the fact that I’m gay was one thing, but actively engaging or expressing an interest beyond the superficial gestures in my personal relationships was an entirely different field. It was a silent agreement between my parents and I that I would keep my private affairs to myself. And no matter how deeply in love I was with my partner, my same-sex relationships would always, at least in their eyes, appear insignificant compared to the heterosexual relationships of my siblings.
But I could no longer hide the pain of my breakup. And Mum knew it, she could feel it. Upon seeing me break down in the kitchen, without uttering a word, she came over and embraced me. Through my broken heart, Mum saw that same-sex love was genuine and fully deserving of recognition.
It’s been 15 years since my parents almost disowned me, and today my sexuality is the butt of jokes between Mum and I. Occasionally her deep-seated concerns about my homosexuality will surface, such as her constant reminder that “you’re going to die alone.” I understand for many of my parents’ generation, homosexuality is associated with promiscuity, disease and egotism, and sits outside the family nucleus. They, admittedly, remain the worries of my mother. The marriage equality debate has served as an opportunity to dispel those myths, and demonstrate that LGBT people too can establish families.
It is undoubtedly her wish for me, which is perhaps why on the phone last week, when I asked Mum how she voted, she replied, “You’ll be happy.” But it was her next remark that surprised me the most … “so did your father.” I couldn’t believe it. The same dad who threatened to disown me, twice, and who has only said one line to me about it in the 15 years since? The patriarchal man of few words, and all deeds, indeed.
By Antoun Issa/ theguardian.com
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