Cue the Sun

The Black Sheep is Pink

A few months ago, I moved back to Melbourne. The decision came unexpectedly for many, but then it was as sudden and unanticipated as my move to Canberra, my efforts to move to Spain, and my trip to Perú. The reasons for it were as unknown even to those closest to me, as every other thing I’ve done in my life. I’ve always been the black sheep of the family, you see.

After nearly three years away from Melbourne I still feel an uneasy sense of familiarity with the city, and I’ve found myself questioning my decision to return here. With my move to Canberra in 2005, I felt I’d finally broken out of the rut I was in and latched onto a chance to get away from the broken dreams of the past and start again. The money I was saving as a result of the job at the ATO was going to at least partially finance my travels in Latin America for the next 18–24 months. Life seemed good.

Nearly three years have passed since then and it’s been something of a whirlwind. I’ve still not made it to Latin America beyond a four-week sojourn in Perú, and the money I’d saved for my epic journey has instead lined the pockets of the Spanish descendants of those who invaded the Americas. I leapt from the breach but found myself back at the beginning, and in more than just a few ways, I’m beginning to feel like George Bailey.

But I digress. On Saturday (the 1st December, not the one prior to me writing this), I flew to Sydney to meet a flight coming in from Lima, Perú via Santiago de Chile. It was the same flight that had brought me back from Perú a month earlier, except this one was to change the direction of my life substantially.

After finding each other in the arrivals hall, we boarded our plane back to Melbourne, and from Tullamarine, drove back to our place in Northcote in a hire car. We’d been waiting a year for this. It was a year to the day since I’d arrived home from Spain, alone, wondering if we’d see each other again in our lifetimes. As we parted company in Madrid, we vowed to do everything we could to be together again, even though at the time we didn’t know if it would be possible, and even though at the time, we knew there was a very real possibility we’d never see each other again.

I realise I’ve switched tense and then back again here, but you’ll have to forgive me—in changing one’s life from I to we, there is often some turbulence and confusion.

I had three letters I’d agonised over during the past few weeks, modifying them numerous times and still refining each of them slightly as I went through the final drafts. They were letters I had once hoped to send from a place in Spain, on the other side of the world and far away from any recriminations that may come my way. Life has never been so lenient on me however, and I should’ve guessed that it would force my hand when I was but a few hours up the road, where I would have to face whatever was coming at me. I don’t mean to be a coward about these things, but when you’re climbing the mountain you can’t see the summit, and it feels oh-so-much-harder than when you’re coming back down. From where I was standing, it felt it would be so much easier to simply hide from the truth as I’ve always done.

I posted the letters that afternoon and calculated that with Australia Post at it’s best, they would arrive on Tuesday, and at it’s worst, the letters would start arriving on Wednesday or Thursday.

On Tuesday, I was at work. My mobile phone started buzzing and I saw it was my sister. She never called me on my mobile, so I could only guess that Australia Post had indeed gone like Elvis and delivered the letters at a staggeringly efficient speed. The problem was, I couldn’t take her call at work. It wouldn’t matter how she was taking the news, I was not in the appropriate place to listen, defend myself or cry down the phone line with her. I couldn’t even talk about it here. So I watched her call ring out and get diverted to my voicemail.

Thirty minutes later and she rang again. Now I was certain she’d received the letter. I hoped that she would settle down and I’d be able to call her that evening. When I got home, I found she’d left a message on my voicemail there, and as I listened to her voice start the message, I found myself laughing out loud. My sister is a shopper, a bargain hunter if ever there was one. It turned out there was a special offer at Target for baby booster seats, except the one in Warrnambool had sold out, and she was desperately trying to get hold of me to grab one for her from one of the Melbourne stores. I couldn’t share the comedy of my panic with her when I did eventually call her back, as clearly, Australia Post had been living down to my expectations after all. The lack of contact from my parents at that point should’ve been the key.

The following day was back to the drudgery of dreading that undeniable proof they’d received the letter, and at lunchtime it arrived in the form of a short email from my parents. At that point, there was no sign they were struggling with it, and I felt some relief that they seemed to have taken the news in the way I’d imagined and hoped they would. A day later an email arrived from my sister to acknowledge receipt of my letter. In the second week, my brother emailed me to tell me he’d got my letter.

Since my teens I’ve been very closed off to anyone who attempted to get close. During the years of my secondary schooling my parents tried numerous times to get me to open up, but the more they tried, the more I retreated. When I moved out of home, my personal life became completely closed off to everyone unless I wanted them to know about it. My aunt Helen was the first I remember referring to me as the black sheep of the family, and it was a label I was quite happy to be branded with.

What happened beyond the receipt of those letters is something I’ll keep between my family and I for now. It’s simply part of my nature to be private about my private life and I’m not about to start sharing everything now. I’ve revealed a large chunk of my life to them, and it took some time for them to digest. All I will say is that I had a few weeks where I regretted coming out, but since then things have largely gone back to normal.

Over the last ten years I’ve become less uncomfortable about my sexuality, though I’ve never told anyone about it until now. Growing up in a rural community, with at least part of my schooling being subjected to religious dogma, and in a society that is geared towards shunning those who are different (regardless of what the difference actually is), makes it hard to accept you are something you’ve been taught all your life is wrong. It was a conflicted situation I’ve taken a long time to accept. Perhaps one day I’ll even resolve it.

Edgard’s arrival in Australia made it difficult to avoid disclosing the news any longer; though we’d agreed to tell our families when the time came for us to be together, I doubt it was something I’d ever have been quite prepared for. We (my family and I) are now at the point I’d hoped to be at, but it’s only been through regular contact and dialogue. Had I dropped the information on them and run away, I doubt we’d have progressed very far. They know about me, they’ve accepted it (outwardly at least), and they’ve accepted Edgard. My siblings especially have taught me volumes about the bonds blood holds, and I’m grateful my parents taught us the personal ethics of being true (and thruthful) to ourselves, that made it difficult for me to keep this from them for too long. I’m also glad that they all reached acceptance quickly. I know from the various stories I’ve read online, the results could’ve been very different.

I’ve known a number of people over the years who on coming out, have changed their lifestyles dramatically; they’ve become screaming queens, coloured their hair or got pretentious hair cuts, or suddenly decided it was totally appropriate for them to make obscene gestures and jokes, just because they’re “queer”. I guess I could be like Bania and his conversion to Judaism, and embrace this new lifestyle “just for the jokes”, but then I’d just be living another lie, as that’s not who I am. This experience has confirmed for me that a person’s sexuality is integral to who they are, but it doesn’t define them. The fact that other people know about it shouldn’t make any difference to their behaviour if they’re being honest with themselves.

In one capacity at least, I’m no longer such a black sheep. But I’m not pink either. Not my colour.