I never planned on coming out to my parents. We haven’t lived in the same city for over ten years, so it never felt quite necessary. Oh, and there’s also the tiny, insignificant fact that they are devout Catholics who still believe being gay is a sin.
I’d hinted at it several times, but never explicitly told them. They would ask if I’d met any nice boys lately. I’d mention meeting lots of nice girls. They’d change the subject, and we’d go on like this. This is not an uncommon practice in my family. My parents opted for the ‘ignorance is bliss’ parenting style, which has worked quite well for me. They’re home in Australia and I’m in London living a life that they have only an inkling about – for our collective benefit – and we maintain a positive relationship.
My parents are good people. At eighty and seventy-five years old, they’re products of their time who did the best with the tools they had. During my childhood, they would take in what us kids referred to as “strays” – people who were kicked out of home or had nowhere else to go. Not an easy feat when you have nine children of your own. They instilled in me empathy for others, courage to express my beliefs, and a fire in my belly that burns when I perceive injustice. They’re generous people who see the good in others and strive to live out their Christian ideals. It’s just a shame that Christian ideals blend into bigotry on topics like abortion rights or, of course, queerness.
During an ordinary phone call, I mentioned what a lovely time I’d had recently at London Trans+ Pride. I knew the topic would ruffle dad’s feathers, because we enjoy poking at each other like bleeding scabs, and he made a comment about my “new lifestyle”. I quipped back that firstly, it’s not a lifestyle and secondly, it was hardly new, as I’ve been (knowingly) bisexual for at least eight years. My dad said that made him sad which, even at the time, I knew was coming from a place of love, rather than malice. But it still picked at my little scab, so I asked him why. He replied, “It makes me sad because that means you have Objective Disorder.” My mum, for her part, said nothing. I hung up.
Blissful ignorance goes both ways. Somehow, despite being raised in a house where the rosary was enforced nightly and church every Sunday, I had never actually encountered “Objective Disorder”. It’s the Catholic church’s term for homosexuality – an ‘unnatural’ mental disorder afflicted on gays that must not be acted on if the individual is to be ‘blessed’. As far as disorders go, it doesn’t sound too bad to me. My dad was genuinely saddened to hear that I suffer from this affliction though, because it means I can’t be accepted into heaven – another phrase concocted by Christianity that, from what I gather, refers to a boring post-death garden party frequented by the likes of Mother Teresa.
We didn’t speak for over a month. Siblings approached him about his comments, noting both his homophobia and stigmatising of mental illness. He doubled down, remarking that the “truth hurts” and he was just the only one brave enough in the family to say it (actually, my eight straight siblings are all supportive of me and were disappointed, but not surprised, by his reaction). I doubled down on my part too, joking to friends about moulding my entire personality around my sexuality to spite him and rebranding as a writer of dirty lesbian smut and dirty lesbian smut only (incoming).
Despite the jokes, I was hurt. I’d dedicated a large portion of my life to doing the exact opposite of whatever my parents said, but deep down I still wanted them to accept me for who I am. It saddened me to feel I had been right to avoid coming out to them for so long. It cemented my understanding of why I’d resorted to compulsory heterosexual relationships in the past, why my queerness had only been celebrated amongst those close to me. I wanted to live peacefully as myself, not go to war over it.
As an atheist who prides herself on independent thought, I was most disappointed to realise I’d still been hoodwinked into believing my parents could maybe love me more than their God. That when their beliefs were questioned personally, rather than conceptually, they might choose me. Yet I also understood that, in my dad’s eyes, he hadn’t even made a choice. What he said was an act of love. He believed what his patriarchal religion had promised was true, and he was trying to save me from the eternal damnation that was my fate, should he not intervene. It was always love. I could acknowledge that, even forgive it from afar, but the stubbornness he imparted on me meant that I would not engage.
Then, he apologised.
I was shocked at his message containing the words “I love you” three times; the most I’m sure he’s ever said in a single instance. The text did not annul his beliefs – he mentioned that he was praying for me and still hoped for me to be blessed – but he acknowledged that I am “a grown woman free to make [my] own decisions in life”. Sweetly, he expressed kinship with my character, noting that in some ways, he saw his younger self in me – read into that as you will.
I felt a surge of pride for this eighty-year-old man who was able to recognise and acknowledge that he had hurt his daughter. It doesn’t sound revolutionary, but to me it is. In a patriarchal society where families rarely communicate, let alone apologise, such an instance is nothing short of extraordinary. I’d been sure his stubbornness would prevail, or that at the very least, he would attempt to contact me in a few months as if nothing had happened – our usual pattern. I hadn’t expected an apology.
Coming out over the phone protected by thousands of miles of ocean doesn’t exactly feel brave, but maybe I’m holding myself to unachievable standards. While there wasn’t any immediate danger, I still risked my peace. I risked dismantling the standards I held for my parents who, despite being my antithesis, I still saw the best in. I risked years of conflict, unacceptance and estrangement. Maybe my dad realised he’d risked the same, and that’s why he apologised. Maybe he just missed me.
Either way, to find out that people have the capacity to surprise you – no matter their age, beliefs or role in your life – is a beautiful, delightful thing. It is hope. My parents won’t change, and I won’t change. But I believe there’s a path forward where our entities can coexist. It might not feel very different to before; in fact, I can guarantee it won’t be harmonious. But maybe that’s okay. We can diverge when needed and find each other again. In the meantime, they’ll pray for me, and I’ll go out meeting lots of nice girls and boys and other sexy people.
BIO: Elise Tyson (she/her) is an Australian writer and filmmaker living in London. Her favourite thing in the world is the colour green.www.elisetyson.com
The Queerness 