Our road, in the general direction of Damascus

I have to say, my partner was always sceptical. He experienced, first hand, the sheer awfulness of the church as a gay teenager. He says he will forever be scarred by it and he can never again go under the banner of Christian.

When we adopted our first child, a debate arose between us and our Muslim social worker, about what religion we intended bringing up our children in. Our initial instinct was to say none – and she would not have minded – she made that quite clear. But it was I who blinked.

I suggested to Leon, and he agreed, that faith, of whatever kind, is an important human thing to experience. It matters not if it gets rejected – that is irrelevant. But you can’t teach a child faith. You have to experience it, contradictions and all, for yourself.

A friend of mine told us at the time about her experience of bringing up her children athiests. She said it seemed fine for a while, but she had noticed their loneliness when things went bad, or wrong. They seemed to have no one to turn to, not even an imaginary friend. How lonely indeed.

So, we found a church. It had splendid music and some sense of liturgy and decorum. We were welcomed there and no-one seemed to make any fuss. Whatever stir one middle aged white man, a younger man and two black babies caused, was well managed. And the children would have been none the wiser.

Spurred on by baptism and early communion our boys have therefore, for several years now, attended church. I have been the one to take them, mostly. Leon would come with us on the odd occasion, and then would attend to the needs of his Blackberry during the service. Our eldest son Gabriel became a server while Joshua went through the motions in a good-spirited sort of way, but would much rather have been playing some computer game.

That was how it was for years. The church we attended in Cape Town was spikey, with lots of prancing around and doffing of birettas and a congregation whose attention was focussed forwards in the direction of the choir and the altar, rather than communal - so that suited me perfectly. Sermons were short, incidental and easily ignored. The music was good. The language was the austere beauty of the King James, which could either serve a comedic purpose or else lull one into a sense of quiet comfort.

Then came the attack. I happened to be looking for the address of one of the Bishops on the internet, when I came across an article in a blog relating to a priest, who has, for other reasons, been relieved of his licence to operate as a priest. In it, my name was mentioned, together with a list of statements about me, which amounted to an extraordinary and vicious attack. I knew I had to take action immediately.

I withdrew Gabriel from the server's guild and indicated to the parish priest the nature of the attack and the fact that we would not be returning to the church unless we could be afforded some measure of protection from this man. Silence was the response.

I approached the Bishops and the Archbishop, asking the latter for an interview. Again, silence was the response and no interview was granted. Instead, the Archbishop suggested through his Provincial Officer that I be urged to "pray" for the perpetrator of the attack. In general, bar one or two notable exceptions, silence has been the response of the parish priest and parish as well.

Now, I venture to suggest, had this attack been a racial attack, or a xenophobic attack, or even an attack against a woman - the response would have been markedly different. It would have been immediate and it would have come from the highest levels of the church. But in this instance, clear sustained homophobia, there has been silence, except for a short statement given out by the office of the archbishop, which in the end I offered to help draft.

The clear and distinct impression we have been given, as a family, is that we are not wanted. This despite mouthings to the contrary elsewhere. Homosexual people are supposedly welcome - (but more singly, than in pairs, it seems). Homosexual priests are not welcome - that is very clear indeed - (again, despite mouthings to the contrary). And homosexual priests with a heathen partner and two adopted children seem to deserve no protection from homophobic attacks by another priest - within the ranks of the church - and who is quite obviously in need of psychological care.

I withdrew immediately from the church, and as I had guessed, this priest came looking for me on Sunday mornings at Mass. Had I and my children been there, there would have been, I am quite sure, no protection from him. It was not a risk I was willing to take and certainly not one I was willing to expose my children to.

At the start of this whole situation, Leon had asked a fundamental question. He asked "What kind of an institution is this, that we are exposing our children to?" And I had to admit, it was not a safe one for them, or us. Now, it is doubtless true that they will be exposed to a whole range of issues and problems throughout their lives. They will doubtless encounter homophobia in their schools, on the sports fields, etcetera etcetera. But that does not mean that we should be actually seeking out places for them to be abused? The church is clearly one such place. It is not a safe place for them, or for us. But more than this, the church is an environment where gay and lesbian people are second-class citizens and that is intolerable.

From the perspective of faith, well, that is something one must mould for oneself in any case. And my life is not, and never has been one which depends on a faith in God for its goodness. I have not quite worked out how we will be explaining to the children why we don't go to church anymore - but I guess the truth won't hurt them. I might just say this to them - that the church just wasn't a safe place for us. We can do much better elsewhere.

Return to Gay Eden

For the first time in a very, very, very, long time, I went to what was known in the 1970’s and 1980’s as a “Gay Bar” on Friday night. (I suppose, more correctly, it would be true to say that I went to a Gay Bar on Friday night that fairly closely approximates what I had experienced in the 1970’s and 1980’s). It was the Amsterdam Bar in Cobern Street, in the Cairp Tahn City centre.

Johannesburg in the 1970’s was a fairly difficult place for a Gay teenager to explore sexual orientation. Mostly because there was so little to explore! One heard whisperings of a bar which operated in Hillbrow, called the Butterfly Bar, in the Harrison Reef Hotel (I think by my time, it had been renamed the Skyline Bar). Entering the Amsterdam Bar, the other night made me remember my first experience of the Skyline Bar.

Of course, we are talking here from the hindsight and not inconsiderable experience of some 35 years or so – so I didn’t walk around the block for 15 times, too scared to go in. I wasn’t sweating profusely and wondering whether or not my paisley shirt with fashionably long collar and skin tight light green bellbottoms with a big zip in the front would have the desired impact. No, I just parked outside and went in, taking in the strange drapery on the outside of the building and the gold angel-hair curtain one needed to go through to get inside.

The moment I stepped inside, memories came flooding back to me. Because here, like so many other places I experience in Cairp Tahn, was like walking into a time warp. I remembered the absolute relief I first felt, when entering the Butterfly Bar, all those years ago. To see gay men, in numbers – not just isolated camp queens walking down a street every now again – but clumps of them, gaggles of them sitting around tables, smoking and drinking, laughing carelessly, being at home with themselves. That was a huge and fabulous relief.

The person I went with was a school friend and a regular at the bar. I was jealous of how many people he knew. He waved to this one over there. Told me conspiratorially that that one over on the other side of the bar was trying to “camp him up”. Kissed (dear God, that was a revelation and a half!) another one, who was mincing around in extremely tight pants which showed off every asset he had below his naked belly button.

I was jealous of my friend but extremely relieved for myself. Because at last, after what seemed like years (all 18 of them!) in the wilderness, I had come to a place which I could call my erotic home. And believe me, never a Saturday night would go by, after that, without me being there for at least some portion of it.

The Anaconda Bar, which was, as I remember it, near the Drill Hall, was a far seedier place – and in many ways more outrightly sexual. There was Disco music playing extremely loudly. The place was very dark. The corners all occupied with writhing couples in various states of undress. There was even an outside area where you could get a breath of smokeless air every now and again. It only opened late in the evening, which meant that the crowd would start at the Butterfly Bar and then migrate to the Anaconda.

It was, naturally under Apartheid, a very white world. Yes, it was occasionally raided by the police and these raids were spoken about in hushed tones (as several businessmen blanched and then hastily swallowed their drinks and fled). But generally, it was a fairly safe environment. Or at least, that was my experience of it.

Stepping into the Amsterdam Bar the other night, made me feel like I was back in Hillbrow in the late 1970s for all sorts of reasons. Firstly, the clientele is almost totally white. Secondly, no-one seems to find that fact in any way strange! Thirdly, and this was something I have to say I really enjoyed, there is a real sexual mix of people – I am talking of within the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgendered and (possibly even the Intersex community).

There were a good couple of Drag queens there; Lesbians of various shapes and forms; Leather boys; Fems; Butch boys; Muscle boys – you name it, they were there. Missing were the black boys and girls. And the Coloured boys and girls. And that is a strange, but not untypical thing, in this racially divided city in which I live.

I was told by a much younger nephew, many years ago, that I was really out of date, when I asked airily one day, what had happened to all the gay bars. He said that it was almost as though the distinction had fallen away and that no-one cared anymore whether you were gay or straight. So everyone went everywhere and you danced with who you wanted to dance with. And you kissed whoever you wanted to kiss. I was astonished by this and listened in be-wonderment. How the world has changed, I thought!

Well, I am not sure what clubs or bars he went to, but I would think what he was describing has never really become the norm. Homophobia continues everywhere. And there remains a real need for spaces where gay and lesbian people can just get on with what they do naturally, without having to constantly justify themselves to the hetero-dominant universe. I think we need our own spaces, just like the black management forum needs theirs. And what we do in those spaces has bugger–all to do with anyone else.

Gay-friendly fairy stories

Some years back, I went to fetch my son, Gabriel, from his school for a doctor’s appointment. Now let me explain – Gabriel is adopted. He is black. I am white. The school he went to then was almost completely black, barring most of the teachers.

So, I arrived. My younger son, Joshua the extrovert (at the same school, also black, also adopted and, I suspect closely related to Osama bin Laden) rushed up to greet me. Gabriel is much more reserved. He was not unpleased to see me, but concerned, I think, to look in control of the situation. He sauntered up to me, case in hand, and as we left, I heard one of the children shout “Joshua and Gabriel’s daddie is white!”

Now that, I suppose, is a fairly big issue, in an almost all black school. The good thing about them going there is that they consider us (my white partner and I) to be the strange ones. They, on the other hand, are very comfortable in their skin. On the question of my partner and I both being male, we had some nervousness initially, about the school, when one of the kids came home one day saying that they had been talking about families at school. We phoned the school first thing the next morning. We wanted to know whether there might be any difficulty with our situation. “Oh no!” Said the principal, “The class was talking about who had a daddy and who had a mommy and things like that. And Gabriel was pleased as punch, because he had two daddies and most people in his class had none!”

We have sometimes wondered how we should handle the matter, should it come up, with the kids. The other day it did. Joshua at dinner, one evening, suddenly started talking about his mommy. We all turned to him, wondering what he was going on about. On he went – his mommy this and his mommy that. His brother had been quietly considering him for some while. Suddenly he shouted at him “You don’t have a mommy! You have two daddies!” Joshua shut up and that, in a nutshell, was that!

I was interested to read, some time ago, about books which are now being introduced in UK schools, introducing children from as young as 4, to gay and lesbian issues – the so-called “No-outsiders” project, which ended in March 2009. Naturally, conservative religious groups and people are huffing and puffing. “It is tantamount to child abuse!” said one. “It is propaganda designed to warp children’s minds”, said another.

Now our connection with the project is, I admit, slight. But it was enough to make me read the article with some interest. My partner has been very concerned, from the beginning, that our children should grow up seeing themselves (and us) as normal - as indeed, we are! Our family is as “normal” and “ordinary” as you can get. The kids get up every morning, have their breakfast and go to school. When we get home from work, there is the usual stuff that happens in every home with children. Joshua "bin Laden" gets shouted at because he is breaking something; there is a fight over eating healthy things on their plates and bribes with ice-cream to follow if they do; there are demands for cooldrinks after the magic hour of 5pm, indeed there is extreme resistance to going to bed at 8.00pm - and so it goes and so it goes. Just because one of us doesn’t wear a dress as parents, doesn’t make the slightest difference to the sheer normality of the situation.

And there is the bed-time story. My partner scoured the internet and found several storybooks which we read to them, along with Cinderella and Jack-and-the-beanstalk and all the other usuals. One is called “And Tango makes three”, which is a sweet (apparently true) story about two male penguins in the New York zoo. The zookeeper notices that they don’t seem to like the girl penguins very much and instead seem to prefer each other. They set up a nest together. Together, they try to hatch an egg shaped rock unsuccessfully. The kindly zookeeper takes pity on them and puts a real egg in the nest which they made for themselves – which they successfully hatch this time and raise a healthy chick called Tango – because it takes two to tango.

Another is called “King and King”. An elderly Queen decides she has had enough with ruling and that her only son should take over. She arranged for all the likely Princesses in the land to process before him, so that he can choose a suitable Queen for himself. No-one seems to catch his fancy. Would-be Queen after would-be Queen comes and goes. The son and heir is bored to distraction. But one day, a young hopeful just happens to bring her brother with her for support, and it is love at first sight! They get married and everyone lives happily ever after. And everyone called them King and King!

The last one is called “The Sissy Duck” and it is about a male duckling who likes cooking, cleaning and art. Now, as I say, we read these to the children periodically, mixed in with all the other favourites. I can’t say that they leaped up and down with enthusiasm when we read these particular stories, but they each had their own favourites and prefered those to all others.

And the point of it all? Well, just that what we are doing, and the life we are living - feels terribly ordinary. Because that is what it is! And it is both a pity, and I would say ridiculous, that there isn’t a range of literature and other support mechanisms, which would help to support that ordinariness.

My partner recorded bits and pieces on the TV about the Ellen Generis marriage. We encouraged the children to watch - giving no comment. His point was that they need to see that who we are is not something odd or entirely unusual. There are other people in the world who are also engaged in the same kind of relationship that their parents are.

I had a discussion with the Gabriel, the oldest child, not so long ago. I asked him whether his friends at school ever ask him where his mother is? he said some did. I asked him what he answered them. he said "I tell them I don't know where she is". Isn't that brilliant?! Because he doesn't, and neither do we!

And that is why I think the UK Education department seems to have managed to get things right. I have no doubt we will get there in the long run, but it is a real pity that it seems to be taking so long. Because same-sex child rearing is hardly new – but it is going to become much more evident, now that marriage (or civil union) is legally permitted. That is just a very plain, simple, fact of life.

And the fears that people have of corrupting children through educating them to different lifestyles, is just plain irrational. What I fear, deeply and not irrationally, is the consequences of not educating children – because what happens then is bullying, hatred, teasing and hurt. All because they don’t know any better.

I am just waiting for the same-sex fairy story, which has children of a different race from their parents in it, to feel really covered!