by Benjamin Law
Well, at least that’s what I led my mother to believe.
Once the permission slip was signed, it quickly met with the guts of one of the rubbish bins at the school’s unfenced perimeters the next day. I had (and still have) wiry, noodle arms that can’t tear open most forms of plastic packaging, let alone wield oars against resistance to transport a carbon-fibre shell full of humans down a river. The whole rowing thing was an elaborate ruse. I had zero interest in this kind of sport, but it was the decoy I selected, a plausible front.
I was actually making weekly excursions down the Frankston line to a secret house tucked away two blocks from Edithvale Beach. It was double-storey, corrugated-iron shed meets ’70s-style brick beach house. Our hideaway. Click-clack, click-clack. Always a stopping-all-stations train. It would take over an hour from the clang of the final school bell before we arrived and put the key in the door. Not an actual front door, but a sliding door with a rusted locking mechanism that would stick, and threaten to snap the key. Sometimes we would spend ten minutes trying to get in.
Inside it smelt of old mothballs, and there were racquets, balls, towels, chairs and mattresses shelved in the corners. There was a great stillness about the place, as if it were suspended in time. The contents of each room told the story of a large extended family, lots of cousins around the same age coming together over the summer. Very Tim Winton.
It was very unfamiliar for someone with only a theoretical knowledge of holiday houses. My own family moved around a lot, and so the concept of feeling at home would constantly and often abruptly shift. My parents came to Australia in the midst of the Tiananmen Square massacre, granted humanitarian visas by Bob Hawke in the late ’80s. Like many other first-generation migrants, they had to rebuild their life on new territory from nothing. Dad went from being a trained doctor in China to twisting lids onto toothpaste bottles in a factory. Mum was a chemical scientist, but now she couldn’t read the labels in shops. The notion of holiday houses just seemed to me like props, decorations for the coastline, glossy images in magazines. During school holidays my dad would ‘treat’ my sisters and me by driving us to St Georges Road in Toorak to stare at the mansions from our car windows, crawling along at ten kilometres per hour.
The Edithvale hideaway was a parallel universe, a room of our own away from the prying eyes of the rest of the world. Sixty minutes on the timer before we had to leave to meet curfew. One hour stripped of self-consciousness, knowing it was just us. No labels, fear or danger. Just two sixteen-year-olds falling in love, deeply, and for the first time. Most weeks, we would make this journey on Mondays. She would find a strategy to obtain the key from family members, and I would talk to my mum about rowing techniques to keep up the ruse. We knew this couldn’t last, though we never said it out loud. The illusion would have to shatter, but not yet. Canaries in a crystal cage.
ii. The catch is where the blade of the oar slices into the water.
When I was twelve, I would press my nose up against the bathroom mirror, willing the black beads of my pupils to fix on their reflection. Look at yourself and say it. I dare you. I eyed myself like an opponent, locked in a stare, perfectly still. I realised I couldn’t say it out loud. Up to that point, I had definitely never used the word for it before. Let alone put it into a sentence.
Lesbian. Lezzz . . . bee-yan. I knew at a gut level that in the Chinese vernacular translation, tong xing lian, were connotations of eroticism, moral offence and pathology. I’d say it on the count of one . . . two . . . even as a muted thought, it seemed both dangerous and wild. It did not feel like a safe word to say. My throat clamped around the ‘le-’ and my tongue curled away from the next syllable into silence. In the end I scrawled ‘I am a lesbian’ onto a piece of scrap paper. It was barely legible, shrunken and looked like it was trying not to take up space. I ripped that piece of paper into tiny square pieces.
I’ve always felt different, like I was in hand-me-down clothes that never seemed to fit just right. The more I learnt about myself, the more I realised that who I was did not fit into the conventional moulds. Female, Chinese, a bit of a tomboy, painfully shy, not very popular, and now queer – albeit closeted. There’s a saying in East Asian societies: the nail that sticks out gets hammered in.
During break times at school, my best and only friend, Ava, and I would roam the yard, pretending to be the hosts of a TV show. The Cindy and Ava Show. It had its own theme tune and featured special guests (any unsuspecting passer-by who we could interrogate). He played the role of the bombastic, extravagant host, and I would nod along and record sound reels on my portable tape recorder. We didn’t really belong in any spaces in the yard – the playground, sandpit, sports courts and oval consisted of impervious cliques, friendship circles that were closed off to outsiders. We were outcasts through no fault of our own. We hung out in the narrow gap behind the tin sports shed and the metal wiring, literally sitting in the gutter. We talked about everything under the sun: books, music, philosophy, science – everything except for sexuality. He was different too. It’s funny how it sometimes works out that way. At the time, it just felt like we didn’t have the words for it. Funny, also, since we seemed to have the words for everything else. I remember wondering why that was.
iii. The extraction is the release of the oar as it resurfaces.
‘Your mother and I want to talk to you.’
My dad closes the door behind me, motioning for me to sit across the table from him in the ‘office’, which is really just a table and chairs in the middle of my sisters’ shared bedroom. Its bright-red three-legged vinyl chairs have been carted from house to house, and nobody ever sits in them. The backing stops halfway up the spine and imprints red marks onto my back. I hate these chairs, though I don’t dare move to relieve my discomfort, especially when I see Leviticus 18:22 from the Old Testament laid out on the table.
Dad clears his throat to make way for the Gospel, his finger trailing along like it’s finding a pulse: ‘You shall not lie with a male as with a woman; it is an abomination. If a man lies with a male as with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination; they shall surely be put to death; their blood is upon them.’
I’m numb, grinding my spine against the chair as the deluge continues. I know better than to break the torrent of abuse, so I absorb it, letting their vitriol and my shame drown me.
‘We know what you’ve been doing and it’s evil . . . It is a sin . . . You are not our daughter . . . Disgusting and a disgrace . . . Whatever “it” is, it is not normal . . .’
I wonder how they found out, whether they stalked us or pried into my diary. Maybe they read my text messages, or listened in to our phone calls.
‘. . . go to hell. She’s the devil and she’s brainwashing you . . . You will have no future . . . It’s sick . . . It’s just a phase . . .’
Two weeks after this interrogation I will come home to find that our two pet budgerigars have been pecked to death through their cage by a hawk that has been attacking wildlife in the area. My father will blame me, using the same language – will say that I am sent from the devil and that I am truly evil.
‘Nobody can know that this has ever happened. What will they think at school? What kind of life are you going to have? You know what they call people like that? Like her?’
They will never say her name out loud. They malign it, twist it, and then, they expect the unthinkable: ‘You are to break it off with her.’
‘How could you?’ That’s all my mum can say. During what ends up being a two-hour ordeal, she doesn’t look at me once. So much for their precious little girl. I am Medusa, with writhing snakes sprouting from my head, my skin putrid green. I hear only static; it feels like the roof is collapsing. Will they disown me? Where would I go? My mouth is viced shut. I have been plunged into a cave with bats circling above, ready to swoop.
They instruct me to end the relationship the next day, and not to speak to her again. Not to tell anybody. Put on a happy face. After all, it is m
y youngest sister’s ninth birthday that day.
When their scare campaign fails, my dad confronts me again. He slams down some paper and demands I write a letter telling her that I hate her, that I hate us being together, and that our relationship means nothing. He will stamp this declaration of renunciation and then there is to be nothing further. Also, I am moving back to my previous school, effective from the next week. Tomorrow I am to ask for the exit form. We aren’t waiting until the end of the term. I will not tell anyone the reason, and no one shall know I am leaving until after the matter has been wrapped up and tied together with a nice neat bow. I will disappear. Total erasure. I will love going back to my old school. I will not leave my room without permission out of school hours or over the holidays. My parents will bolt-lock my windows to ensure I can’t leave.
These are the commands. Act like it never happened. If I don’t comply, there will be trouble: he knows where she lives; he isn’t afraid to tell her parents what has been going on. We aren’t going to be ‘just friends’; we are going to be ‘strangers’. I don’t know what might be real and what is a hollow threat aimed at bending me back into the mould they had intended for me.
iv. The drive is the sweeping of the oar as it skims just under the skin the water, until it breaks and resurfaces.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little
in there, I haven’t quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
Charles Bukowski
After my parents found me out, it took almost two years before I started coming out, this time on my own terms. First to the school counsellor concerned friends and teachers frogmarched me to see. What’s happened to you? I had turned zombie-like. They didn’t know the reason – that’s how calculatedly I had constructed and maintained my facade – but they definitely knew something was up. Thus began the first formal wave of support that helped me surface from being so soaked in shame.
On the walls of the counsellor’s office were empathic Leunig cartoons and sparks of Buddhist wisdom about self-compassion; there were also dreamcatchers hanging from the ceiling, mood flipcharts, self-help booklets and lots of tissue boxes. We’d meet regularly, and she’d make me hot Milos and let me lie in a foetal position on the couch in her office when I wanted, bundled up with soft toys and throw blankets. Gradually, we started to undo the knot that had tightened on itself.
Coming out for the first time – unforced, having to say it out loud to someone I cared about – was, quite frankly, terrifying. I instructed my new best friend to wash the dishes as loudly as she could while I lay supine on the floor of the living room, just hidden away under the kitchen counter.
‘I have something to tell you . . .’ The clamping-up process began, that sick feeling climbing my oesophagus. All of that internalised self-hatred – but with resolve, I began to fight it. ‘You know how I left my old school?’ I clenched my fists and stared at the fan. How do I say this?
‘What? Did you actually get kicked out? Did you set something on fire? Did you set the school on fire?’ Okay, she had no idea.
It took a few goes, and a lot of patience and fake dish-washing on her part, but I was able to get it out in a garble of words. ‘I was in a relationship . . . with a girl.’ I heard her pause and digest the information.
‘So . . . you’re a lesbian?’
‘I guess so.’ Another pause. My heartbeat was roaring in my ears.
‘But wait . . . we’ve known each other for five years, right?’
‘Yeah?’
‘And if you’re a lesbian . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, I’m pretty attractive. So, how come you never had a crush on me?’
I was stunned. ‘Um . . . you’re not really my type.’
And so the gates were opened for many confessions about who I really did have a crush on – whether I liked-liked Arizona Robbins from Grey’s Anatomy, or whether I wanted to be with rather than be Ellen Page. And always, the exaggerated raising of her eyebrows at me every single time Katy Perry’s ‘I Kissed a Girl’ came on.
It was this same best friend with whom, when we had both saved enough money, I embarked on the middle-class rite-of-passage trip to Europe a few years later. My uncle, who lives in Shenzhen, China, gushed, ‘You’re the first to be born overseas, the first to travel to Europe. Who cares about your cousin who’s a college professor? You’re the real winner!’ This was the first time I had the space to exercise my economic freedom, away from home. With sixty-five kilograms of belongings strapped to my back, I was ready to get away. Taking control of the itinerary, my best friend had a very queer ‘surprise’. We were going to Amsterdam in the first week of August, during Europe’s biggest pride week.
Throngs of people in pink, brownstone buildings draped in rainbow flags, streams of boats and floats down the Amstel river into the harbour – this was Queer with a capital Q. Dykes on Bikes, the Gay Games, Drags on the Drag. Reguliersdwarsstraat, Amsterdam’s renowned gay strip, and the streets and canals that stretch out from it form a gaybourhood. As a baby queer, I was simultaneously thrilled and overwhelmed. I felt like I had been dunked into an episode of The L Word without being given the script. Should I wear leather? Did I need to cut my hair? How do I walk? I oozed so much awkwardness that a woman I was dancing with asked me, ‘So, are you a lesbian, or . . . ?’ Yes, I am. Just a very shy one.
v. Then there is the recovery phase, where the rower pulls their body back and resets for the next stroke.
The Australian Marriage Law Postal Survey, held from September to November 2017, coincided with my second year as a high-school teacher in Victoria’s wheat belt, in a rural town 400 kilometres from Melbourne. While I was just a ‘blow-in’, one of the countless transients who passed through, the townspeople were kind. People looked out for each other and had a common understanding forged through experiences of family connectedness, acute weather conditions from droughts to floods, and a passion for local competitions. I felt included but, also, always on high alert. My neighbours offered to set me up with a farmer (like the TV show!), and I had to invent pre-prepared lines to correct the constant misgendering of my ‘partner’. With a handful of people there was an unspoken ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy. To my surprise, this applied to my race and my sexuality. Among others, there was open handshaking: ‘You’re the fifth Chinese person to come to town. Ni hao!’ It was paradoxical and complex. My presence as a twofold minority allowed for more conversations – and a tangible movement towards compassion. At the same time, we were living in a political environment in which our federal member had the effrontery to liken same-sex relationships to rams in paddocks; every day I would take a deep breath before opening the local Herald and scanning for homophobic or transphobic tirades from ‘concerned’ community members. Mostly, I worried about the kids.
Every newspaper, pamphlet, interview, advertisement, poster, discussion, argument – either ‘for’ or ‘against’ – stung. Closeted and out teens in my classrooms were visibly burdened by the national debate, which they could neither escape nor cast a vote in; just below legal voting age, they were forced to watch the horror show unfold in all its grisly glory. They cried for help with desperate scrawlings in the margins of their workbooks, their bodies slumped as they circled the yard, their feet kicking at the concrete. I worried most on the days they weren’t there. Everyone had an opinion, but very rarely did the debate focus on the people whose lives were going to be most affected by it. Living rurally, these kids had a shortage of support options. The nearest queer-friendly doctor
was at least sixty kilometres away. Some were without phones to make emergency calls or find assistance on the internet. Driving to the next town wasn’t always an option. I think of the ones who haven’t made it, and it’s a hurt that will never go away.
In nearby towns, my fellow queer teachers were chalking up the footpaths with hearts and affirmations: ‘You are not alone’, ‘Love will always win’. It is our turn, the ones who have managed to pull through, to pass on the baton. How could we convey to these young people that things were going to be okay? That it would actually get better? In Horsham, the Wimmera Pride Project was firing up a compassionate response: offering young people spaces to attend meet-ups and seek counselling, and creating a roadshow to spread awareness about the importance of inclusion. The Horsham Arts Council production that year was RENT; audiences gasped, then whooped and cheered when Collins and Angel kissed. I realise now how much work educators do to form a silent safety net around vulnerable children, to keep them safe. Without them, I myself might not be here.
There is a mingling of pain and pride in being queer, and the former can still take hold. I think about how I, now twenty-four, have felt unable to ask my parents how they voted in that survey because I’m scared to hear the answer. My mum has come to accept that me being a lesbian is much like my youngest sister being left-handed: you seem to be born with it; it’s difficult, if not impossible, to change, and so why bother if that’s going to make you unhappy? With my father, things are silent on that front, I’m not going to lie; and yet, rather than seeing me as demonic, I’m pretty sure he just thinks of me as different, and he can accept that much. I can understand what it feels like to be scared, unsure, and in the dark.
I came out to my youngest sister last. Her response was simple: ‘Oh, why would I care? That would be so silly. Lots of people are gay!’ And then, in the next breath: ‘So, what subjects did you do in Year 9? I need help choosing.’ I now see students putting up rather than tearing down posters on acceptance and inclusion; these kids are driving all of us towards a better future. I have the privilege of a mental tally of young people who have come out to me – sooner, with so many more words than I had to say who they are. They have found ways and places to be who they are. And I know that there are those who still feel lost or alone, forging on nonetheless; I admire all of them.