Confessions of a Fairy's Daughter Page 17

  Excerpt from a draft of an unfinished letter from my father, handwritten on blue airmail paper

  Munich, 23.4.80

  Dear Tom,

  … My life all seems to be such a hopeless tangle—though I agree with Daniel Martin* that it is hard to have sympathy for one who has such an inordinate share of the world’s riches—both material and, at least to outside observers, emotional—though you know some of the reality of the latter. I had hoped that one of the insights of this trip might be a clearer idea of where I am going. That may, by some miracle, still come. But so far, it has served only to reinforce my feelings about you—how much I simply enjoy being with you—which, somehow, in Toronto I can take in stride, but which, here, is more difficult to cope with.…

  I am sitting on the edge of a vast German beer hall, while a Bavarian band plays “Roll Out the Barrel” and German Fraüleins laugh hysterically—oh, world!

  As far as Anne and the kids are concerned, the 3,000-mile perspective has changed very little there either—so far. They have to know that I am not your standard Daddy/husband—and I hope to hell to keep their respect and love in this gradual unveiling process, but I know that I can’t and don’t want to keep up the pretence of the last 15+ years. I think, ultimately, it is up to them to decide what they can accept.

  On every count (i.e., not just Anne and the kids), I know I have to have patience if I am going to achieve any kind of solution, but that has been and remains difficult. I think back to that evening in Wagstaff’s apartment when you played some Elgar and I became very nostalgic and commented that, after all, perhaps each of us is really alone—and that seems to be one of the few things that doesn’t get easier to bear as we get older. I also have this perhaps naive faith that we don’t have to be quite as alone as we so often force ourselves to be—though one might think that by 43 I should know better.

  I hope you won’t think me unkind if I say that you are more worldly experienced than I (the Daniel Martin side) and I may simply be naive when I say that two souls rarely touch, as ours have, in one’s lifetime. At the very least, our friendship or whatever it is has helped me enormously in wanting to make Anne and the kids aware of my minority sexual orientation—I will always be grateful to you for that dinner with Alison and Anne and the picnic with Flip because I see these occasions as a few hesitant initial steps of the sort which I shall have to take further if I am going to bring my life once again into some kind of harmonious whole, if indeed this is possible.

  Beyond that, if I am right about our mutuality (and time could still prove me/us wrong), I would hope that somehow, sometime, we could seize the opportunity provided. In the meantime, I think it means also that each of us has a rather awesome responsibility to the other—and not, in some misguided way, to be kind, but to be honest. So I thank you for your honesty.

  This has been heavy and not too easy to write, but has helped me to get back to some sort of equilibrium.

  Handwritten notes on airmail paper

  Munich, 23.4.80

  .… Anne is a person whom I like and respect enormously and she has shared more of my life experiences than anyone.… she can’t be kept in the dark any longer.… I haven’t had any mail from her, in spite of regular letters from this end and a couple of telephone calls. She has never been a great letter writer, but I find this ominous.

  For me, life is very much about close personal relationships and I know I have been neglecting these while chasing will-o’-the-wisps in Toronto. I want to take some time with those close personal relationships this summer and I suppose it will be revealing to see the reaction to my “story.”

  White pages, manual typewriter: “My Story,” written at the suggestion of the Gay Fathers support group

  Today, I want to write “My Story,” because it seems I know where I’m at. Tomorrow, I may be less certain; yesterday I was quite confused. In reality I am probably not quite as much at cross-purposes as my introduction would indicate, because I know that, even in the face of dramatic changes externally, there are still many constants in one’s life.

  The public facts are that I am married to an intelligent, attractive, personable woman; we have three lovely children, a comfortable house in a spacious residential section of the small city where we live; I am successful in my profession; both my wife and I are active and well-known in various community organizations; and two years ago, I acknowledged, finally, that I was a homosexual.

  That aspect of my story has much in common with the stories of so many other men—the teenage friendships in which the element of sexual infatuation was kept severely in check and tightly closeted, the terror of the tell-tale erection in changing rooms and swimming pools, and the horror of admitting, even to myself, that I might be “queer.” I wanted to be like my peers, playing team sports (which I secretly hated) and dating girls (which I certainly preferred to team sports). My talents and achievements, however, were much more considerable in the area of intellectual and artistic endeavours. I can remember being teased about not filling masculine prescriptions very well, but that made me only more determined to succumb to all the pressures to conform.

  Similar conforming pressures also came from the moral-religious precepts of my parents and family. I grew up in a happy, upper-middle-class environment, where there was always lots of talking, arguing, laughing and, occasionally, some emotion and tears. My father, especially, was a stalwart churchman. He certainly preached Victorian sexual morality and, I assume, practised it. I accepted all this without difficulty—with conviction, in fact, because I saw the family of my childhood as a happy proof of the rightness of these ideals.

  As I came into my mid-teens, I started to date girls, just as all my friends did, and I hoped that I would eventually be the father in a family like the one I grew up in. I have always liked female company, perhaps because, after my father died, I felt closest to the female members of my family.

  At university, I apparently acquired a certain reputation for playing the field (I was teased again about that just a short time ago); but I preferred to date girls who were lots of fun and didn’t put me under any sexual pressure. Sometimes, I worried about not “knowing how” to neck and I remember one painful double-date, which my friend and mentor recommended as essential to my education. After a movie, we parked in a secluded spot. The sounds from the back seat indicated that my friend was using his considerable charm and skills to good effect; in the front seat, my date and I both sat nervously, while I attempted to go through the motions which my friend had told me to make. It was with immense relief that we finally terminated the evening and I didn’t try that sort of thing again for a long time. Of course, I could draw comfort from the fact that I was abiding by the precepts of my Victorian upbringing and avoiding the possible disasters of premarital sex about which I had been warned. What I only dimly realized then was that these principles of sexual morality were endangered far more by the emotions which my male friends aroused in me. It was easy to be a good boy as far as girls were concerned.

  It wasn’t until graduate school that I began to consider that homosexuality might be anything other than an utterly distasteful, immoral lifestyle. I fell completely in love with a fellow student who was my closest friend through graduate school. We travelled together, eventually lived together, and always talked endlessly. We even discussed homosexuality, but he believed the theory that homosexuality was something one grew out of.

  I still thought homosexuality was morally wrong, although there were certainly times when I would have surrendered with relief to the consuming sexual longing which I felt for my friend. We came very close to doing something about this attraction, which, I think, was mutual; but one or the other always held back. Also, a number of women shared the passion I felt for my undoubtedly attractive friend and I suspect—we have never discussed it frankly—that he may have been an example himself of someone who did grow into heterosexuality. Undoubtedly there was also a certain causal link between this and my coming bac
k to the notion, finally, that a Christian marriage, after all, was best. The brain had won the day—even if other parts of the body felt differently.

  By this time, I admitted to myself that I had homosexual “tendencies,” but I believed that self-discipline could successfully overcome them. I had worked hard to achieve other things—why not that as well? Besides, I convinced myself that, because I had never actually had a homosexual experience, I was not really a homosexual and would outgrow these “tendencies” anyway.

  I read two novels which made a profound impression on me: Advise and Consent and Brideshead Revisited. The first was recommended by a tutor as one of the best insights into how the Congressional system in Washington really worked. One of the main characters, Senator Brigham Anderson, was homosexual and that was exciting, but when the truth about his past was about to come out, he committed suicide. That was a blunt, horrific warning. The first part of Brideshead takes place at Oxford and the two main characters, Charles and Sebastian, have what may be a homosexual relationship. But it fizzles out and the principal character outgrows his homosexual infatuation and goes on to fall in love with his boyfriend’s sister. That confirmed the theory that homosexual attraction was merely a stage in the maturing process that one grew out of, just as the boys at English boarding schools went on to normal heterosexual relationships after they left school.

  Fortunately, I had met an attractive, highly intelligent, talented woman for whom I had very warm feelings of affection (and still do) and, after a punctiliously correct Victorian courtship, we were married. She is the only woman I have ever really wanted to marry—not that I felt a powerful sexual attraction, but at least the idea of sex was not repellent, which frankly was the case with virtually all the others.

  Things did not go badly at first. I was captivated with the idea of the marriage bed, though I remember wondering, with apprehension, if one was expected to go through this sort of thing every night. In our case, one wasn’t. For a number of years, illness, pregnancy and childbirth effectively eliminated sex for months at a time. After that, sex became occasional. Even simple physical contact never became a significant part of our marriage and I often found her in the morning asleep in another room. I missed physical contact desperately and felt rejected and angry at times, but found, eventually, that I could accept the situation stoically.

  Sex became occasional and perfunctory, even anxious, and I have to admit that I was just as often relieved to be turned down. We joked about sex, but didn’t really discuss it, and in spite of everything, we became closer over the years simply as two people who lived together and achieved a kind of unspoken modus vivendi, even a warm comradeship which arose from many shared interests—our children, house, friends, and various artistic pursuits. In our social lives, we have never been dependent on each other; we go our separate ways as often as we do things together.

  I don’t remember when my homosexual “tendencies” revived or whether they ever disappeared completely, except that within a few years of being married I can remember deluding myself into thinking that I could admire certain men in a platonic way and even harbour secret fantasies of being seduced. For many years, I felt that I had achieved a kind of sexual equilibrium—I was aware of being physically attracted to various men who often became good friends.

  Music, too, was a terribly important outlet. I think I am probably a reasonably self-disciplined person; but certainly at heart I am very romantic and for years my most sensual experiences came from the music of Chopin, Brahms, Wagner, Verdi, Elgar.

  Gradually, though, I came to realize that I had to experience physical male love. Looking back over the years since I was a teenager, I realize that one of the constants in my life has been the necessity of having at least one male friend who excited me intellectually, emotionally and physically. (Those friendships are mostly still important. The object of my early teen infatuation still raises those nice warm feelings, though I may see him only once a year.) Through all those friendships, though, I was always frustrated at being unable to act out the physical attraction.

  As I went into my mid-thirties, I more and more consciously began looking for a new friend, except that this time, he would be homosexual and would seduce me! At age 39, I thought I had found him. A somewhat younger man moved to town. I heard some promising gossip about him. I introduced myself and soon we became close friends. It was like another high school romance. He telephoned me every day and we saw each other constantly. He even mentioned being friends with a notoriously gay man in his profession—and then announced that he was going to be married. The same old story all over again!

  That experience, however, made me realize how desperately I wanted a gay friendship and that romance might still be possible at the ripe age of 39. So, I decided that if I couldn’t find a gay friendship within my closet, then I would have to try looking outside. But the alternative of walking into a gay establishment in Toronto terrified me. What if I met someone I knew?

  Then several things happened. First, I turned forty and decided I would soon be too old to try the gay option, if I didn’t now. Second, I read a newspaper article about a gay father, a professional man of about my age, and the first openly homosexual man with whom I could identify. Third, I attended a conference at the other end of the country where I was sure that I could go into a gay bar without meeting anyone I knew. But I did—the man in the newspaper article! I poured out my story and, for the first time, revealed my innermost secrets to another human being. I remember telling him that I had to find out if I was gay, but that it really would be much simpler if I discovered I wasn’t. Well, I did and I was. In fact, I was amazed at how natural—yes, natural—it all felt and how uninhibited I was. So much for Victorian prudery! And instead of the feelings of great guilt which I was sure I would feel afterwards, it was as if a great weight had been lifted off me. At last I knew who I was.

  For a period after that, I was ravenous, like a man who has just escaped from a prison diet of bread and water. I did things, like going to the baths, which I had thought quite out of keeping with my character. But gradually I came to realize that I am still the same person I have always been. I still like Brahms better than disco; I still admire a fine mind as much as a fine body. Indeed, now I can be myself with even fewer self-imposed constraints than before. (My straight friends, I know, would add that my behaviour has always been marked by a certain lack of inhibition.)

  Coming out has been a fascinating experience. The tremendous understanding and affection of gay friends, the chance encounters (whether sexual or not) with interesting, attractive men, the highly developed gay community structures—these are features of gay life which were unexpected and make me glad to be gay. And even the sudden realization that I am now a member of a misunderstood, harassed minority group has had the benefit of reawakening my sensitivity to issues of individual rights and freedoms. I still have trouble coping with what seems to be the roller coaster of gay life. My own emotions rise and fall with startling intensity, and so often after a pleasant brief exchange with someone, both of you are soon gone in opposite directions.

  Where am I now? My home life has been remarkably placid. I come and go as I feel I must and answer truthfully (if briefly) the few questions that are raised. My wife may or may not know. I have adopted the strategy of trying to make my family gradually aware that daddy is gay. At times, I long to tell my wife everything, but fear that conversation might be our last. As long as my home life continues peacefully, it seems unwise to provoke a dramatic change.

  I know, also, that I need regularly to have gay sex, to relax in a gay environment, and to be able to participate in gay social causes. Most of all, I need one or more close friends, like those I have had over the years, except that now we can allow our love to manifest itself in physical ways. I guess, after all, that there is a common thread to my story since that is what I said to my graduate school friend in an unguarded moment almost twenty years ago.

  But it didn’t hap
pen then and often seems as difficult to achieve now. Then, there was friendship and no sex. Now the sex is easy, but combining it with friendship is the difficult part, because the gay world seems to be rigidly divided into mutually exclusive categories: friends who do not have sex together; one-night stands between men who have no intention of getting to know each other; and all-consuming lovers.

  To pursue the goal of sexual gay friendship, while maintaining a heterosexual marriage without sex, makes the squaring of a circle look like child’s play by comparison. I confess to periodic bouts of melancholia over the prospects.

  I dread the possibility that I may lose my wife and family in exchange for an endless, cheerless round of bars and baths. Still, I have to face the fact that I cannot love my wife as a man should be able to love his wife, but I believe that I can love a man as some men love other men. My fantasy is ultimately to love and live with a man of similar age, interests and education (how bourgeois!) without having destroyed the bonds of affection which I feel for my wife and children, nor their respect for me. Perhaps, really, we are all like Camus’ doctor in The Plague—doing what we feel we must do, what is right for us, and not worrying too much about whether it is really possible or not.…

  For two brief months I had the sort of relationship that I had always longed for. While doing some work in Toronto, I met a man who was also working there for a time. From the moment we met, we both felt an instantaneous rapport—same profession, many shared interests, common acquaintances, some amazing coincidences in our respective careers—even to both growing up in two different cities on streets with the same name. And we had a very similar sense of the ridiculous, which we discovered on the occasion of our first night together—an almost impossible situation, which we both relished for its zany madness.