London, during this year 2009, four queer men are murdered. All of them are middle aged or elderly. Greenwich, Bromley, Woolwich, Trafalgar Square. One of them hounded till death in his own home. Beaten to death in his sittingroom by ‘youths’.
When I am old, how will I defend myself against homophobic attack? I have done a valiant job so far. But if I am old how will I defend myself? Skinny wrists. Unable to call out for help. My glasses kicked to the curb. Paper skin torn from my old face.
Being old and Queer. There must be a different strategy for survival. One that does not include hiding or suicide. I have always been a big man. People have said on many occasions that I scared them. And so be it. Whilst other, slighter, more effeminate friends have had to deal more regularly with homophobia-I have not. Indeed, if I get a whiff of anything resembling homophobia I will rip your fucking balls off. I am that kind of guy.
I grew up in a working class fishing town on the North Kent coast. When I first acknowledged my desire for men; I told them straight. I told them what I wanted and refused to be shamed. I was genuinely astonished that they found my love of men so distasteful. The very same men who scorned me were the first to show me the way. At night, I kissed them on the lips. A little bit drunk, men shouting above the music inside the pub. The Two Brewers. Boys kissing in the misty guinnels between the red brick terraced houses. Smell the coal burning. Christmas tree lights glittering amongst the tinsel. My cold fingers warmed under his heavy coat.
Of course the locals let me know how much they disapproved of me but I didn’t care. I wasn’t going to let a bunch of thugs get under my skin. I was fucking fearless. Billy Stankovich tried to hit me. Paul Stromberg shielded me. I was less lucky at boarding school with nowhere to run.
Growing up being true to who you are means growing up with violence. Growing up desiring men and flaunting my ‘perversion’ meant learning how to avoid hate in peoples’ eyes or an unsuspected blow. I became adept at the evil bon mot. Words. Watch them shrivel. Words: more violent than a good kicking.
My friend and lover Justin, beaten by men in Camberwell commits suicide. They crushed his soul! He was 23 years old. Most young gay men who kill themselves do it before others can. It is too overwhelming for them. Simple boys who want to be with other boys. I was that simple boy but I chose to live! I wanted to live and faced their sneering, their snickering. Men and women. Women can be worse than men. Why? They have more to lose.
We queers are not alone. Tonight an asian man, a black woman, an aboriginal, a transgender will all die for the same reason. Because they are devalued in the eyes of the murderer.
This weekend there will be vigil in the heart of London for one of the murdered gay men. His name was Ian (56) and he made a critical mistake. He thought he could reason with fools. He was kicked to death amongst the bronze lions of Trafalgar Square.
Tell me what to do next? How do I save myself?
You must be fearless! Shameless!
Try holding your lovers hand in the street. Look into their faces. Kiss him on the cheek. I think, ‘I wish we were invisible now’. My darling, I wish I was not ready at all times to defend us from them. I hold my lovers hand. I hold his hand. I hold another mans hand. Why is that so repulsive to you? Why do you want to kill us?
I give it no thought until I hear that a man is dead. Another man struck down by their hand or his own. And I say:
I will not be shamed by you or your government or your church. I will not be shamed for wearing colour, a splash of make up, a bright smile, a predisposition for Judy Garland, Lady Ga Ga or holding my lovers hand on the street where I live.
Hi Duncan, I saw you on Joy Behar and became intrigued about who you were, so, thought I’d check out your blog. I was amazed by this particular entry because so much of it hits home for me. In the early ’90s, I proudly and defiantly held hands frequently in public with a boyfriend at the time and then once or twice with another guy I was dating. I remember at the time feeling so empowered – nervous, a bit trepidatious and wary at times, but overall empowered and so alive. I felt so strong and proud of who I was.
Flash forward fifteen years later, and twice in the past month I’ve seen guys holding hands – both times in nontraditionally “gay” areas – one on a college campus; the other on a hiking trail in the suburbs. Both times I was surprised that my first thought was of concern of what people would think and then, secondly, would I be able to do that now at 46 – would I hold hands with another man? It bothered me that I had to think about it- that these were my initial thoughts.
Reading your entry and the descriptions of the hate crimes made me relive those feelings of why I held hands with another man years ago – it was an affirmation on one hand of who I was and my right to express my feelings, but also an acknowledgment of the fact that there were a lot of people out there who hated me, and that I would only fuel their power if I gave in out of fear and did not do what made me happy. In other words, fuck ’em.
I also think about the fact that when I was young and living in the city, and was a strong, street-savvy six-footer, I was wary, but not scared and I was kind of cocky about it. I knew how to handle myself if I was ever faced with homophobia – verbally and physically. Now, being 46, living in the suburbs, I wonder about being vulnerable to attack. The concern I feel is similar to the feeling I had when I saw the young men holding hands. Is it real fear, or is it just I need to get back in touch with that person I used to be, that is essentially who I still am – maybe it’s just that I’ve been away from it for so long that it’s unfamiliar, uncomfortable to me right now, but, it’s still there and I just need to bring it out.
The one word that sticks out in your entry is “shame.” It’s such a jarring word for so many reasons. And it jars me when I think of the possibility of me allowing myself to be “shamed.” I will not. No matter what. I may not be as “tough” and confident as I used to be, but, I am only who I am today because I stayed true to who I was…and am.
Totally shameless.
I wish I was truly courageous. I wish I was “totally shameless”
I was beaten down for so many stupid things in my youth. I now beat myself down for so many things as an adult. I embrace my secrets.
As a veteran I have and will risk my life so all people can live in safety. For all the wars that my family has fought in and for the separation that it currently brings my marriage I still cave in on myself with relentless shame.
I am sad to read of the events you mentioned and about your fears on remaining safe as you age. I am angry to hear that you are afraid and to see that I am still a coward when it comes to defending myself. I look to my son with honesty and I do not hide the fact about his relatives that are gay. I do not hide the fact that my mother is multiracial even as my grandmother happily boasted that I “Pass” as fully white. I hope that as you and I age his generation will protect us. Fail that, as Texan as this is to say, “I am keeping my nine mill till I die.”