A Note Amongst Change

Like so many LGBT folk, I have seemingly thousands of coming out stories. While some people are likely to have a particularly significant story, for better or worse, it is probably going to be just one of many.

I first realised I was probably gay when I decided at 15 that the crush I'd had on my best friend, for the best part of four years, was probably more than a crush. That girl was the first person I came out to, awkwardly and afraid to expressive exactly what was happening in my head and in my heart. Over the next two years I came out to a few friends, some family members and some strangers (via the 'safety' of internet chat rooms). Sandwiched in the middle of these stories, many of which had led to harsh words, anxiety and tears, is the story which still warms my heart almost 14 years later.

On Saturdays I worked at a great street market and would spend three hours covering the lunch rush at a stall which served an odd combination of quick and easy Asian takeaway dishes, hot chips, dagwood dogs and cinnamon donuts. I had been working at the market for almost a year when I started coming out to some of those closest to me and while, in their own way, some of these people possibly tried to be supportive, their words and facial expressions often said otherwise. At the time I had a girlfriend, who I was madly in love with, and when we were ‘outed’ at school our Monday to Friday life became quite unbearable.

For the three hours I worked at the market, on Saturdays, I was pretty happy. I literally watched the world go by, with tourists frequenting the area and people from all walks of life coming along to buy food, clothes, jewellery and crafts from the stalls around me. Over the time I worked there, I became familiar with many regular customers. It was a lovely feeling to be able to share a smile and a few words with a stranger as I fixed their order without them having to even ask, as time went on.

Two young women were among these regular customers and would often arrive at the stall holding hands or with their arms around each other and, as they became familiar, I spent every shift looking forward to their arrival. My girlfriend and I didn't know any other gay people, so the sight of these women outwardly showing affection for each other was wonderful to me. Some weeks they didn’t come by at all and on those weeks I would leave the market feeling a little dejected as though we’d had a standing arrangement and they had let me down. On the weeks they did arrive, I found myself looking at them and in my mind I would be screaming I’M GAY TOO and hoping desperately that they would hear me.

After a couple of particularly harrowing weeks at school, in which the bullies had formed new strategies and our supporters had further dwindled, I made a decision to write these women a letter. I can’t remember all of my words exactly, but I do remember describing the difficult time my girlfriend and I were experiencing and then writing 'I just want to know if it gets better'. Part-way through my shift I saw the women approaching our stall and they had a friend with them who I’d seen a few times before. I worked the stall with three other people, but hurried with the customers I was serving in order to ensure that I would be the one to serve the women.
They placed their usual order and, heart racing, I prepared their food. I handed one of the women the food, the other handed over some money and I’d never been so relieved to have to work out change. It meant they hadn’t just walked away. I dipped my hand into the coin drawer and then, holding it in my left, I reached my right hand into my pocket and pulled out the note.

“Can I just give you this too?” I'm sure my voice would have wavered as I spoke to her and offered out my hand, the change sitting with the note I had written.

I still recall the kind, but puzzled smile she offered me and the second smile I received as she glanced over her shoulder, sliding the note into the back pocket of her jeans as they walked away. I spent the next few minutes buzzing from the same anxious excitement I had felt after writing the note the night before. Glancing around the market trying to locate the women, my gaze soon caught them sitting under a tree in the distance. They were reading the letter as I watched. After a couple of minutes, the three stood up from their spot, the woman slipped the note back into her pocket and they walked away. I don’t know what I had expected them to do after reading the letter, but I felt somewhat disappointed that nothing had happened at all.

The following Saturday, the woman who I’d handed the note to came along by herself. She ordered the same food as she always did and, this time, when I handed her the change she handed me a note. I don’t know if the smile on my face was a big as it felt on the inside, but what I do know is that note burnt a hole in my pocket for the remainder of my shift. I couldn't wait to open it up and read her response.

The only things I now recall about her letter were her writing that she felt I was brave and providing her phone number. There was so much more in it, but those two things are the two which stood out. She was praising me for saying the words everyone else frowned upon, and she was offering her support. Those two things alone would be enough for this story to continue to warm my heart, but it gets better.

Over the following year, this woman and her girlfriend offered me, and my girlfriend, advice and support at every turn. They invited us into their home and allowed me to phone them when I needed someone to talk to. They put us in touch with other people and organisations which could offer support. They supported us when my girlfriend took too many pills, on purpose, and visited her in the psych ward at the hospital. They supported us the first time we broke up and the first time we got back together. Knowing we had the support of these two women was one of the only things that got me through my final year of Catholic school. The following year they moved interstate and I kept in touch with them sporadically over the next few years.

My rocky relationship with that girl ended about three years later. A couple of girlfriends and a lifetime of experiences after this, I found myself crossing paths with these women once again.

My ‘new’ girlfriend and I had been together for about six years and she was pregnant with our first child when I heard that the two women were moving back home. They were expecting their first child also and, as it turned out, the babies were due at the same time.

We arranged to catch up and, at 28, I felt almost as nervous as I had done after arranging to meet them for the first time years before. We had lunch together and they both got along wonderfully with my girlfriend, one of them sharing the highs and lows of pregnancy with her while myself and the her girlfriend shared similar thoughts from a partners perspective.

Our children were born three weeks apart, a girl for us and a boy for them, and we now consider them to be some of our closest friends. The two children are now three years old and just at the age where they are communicating and playing well together and we are able to sit back and watch them while passing the baby, our second daughter, between us.

Last week we were at the park together and marveling at how quickly the 3 year olds can now climb well and play independently and I shared a smile with the woman I had given my letter to all those years ago. The smile itself was nothing unusual, but in moments like that it is comforting to know that she is aware of how significant it is that we are in each other’s lives and I am living on the better side she promised me I would see.

At 30 I am able to look back to 1998 and smile at the image of the awkward, anxious teenager at the food stall who spent over an hour checking her pocket, feeling for the note which would bring about so much change. 

Other People's Kids

Not one day passes where I am not acutely aware of the enormous task which is being responsible for the emotional and physical safety of other people’s kids. For six hours each school day for the past nine years I have been required to have my eyes in at least 25 places at once and listen to almost as many conversations at any one time.

Working in a primary school and spending time with the same group of students day in and day out, for at least a year at a time, it is impossible not to form strong connections with many. Teachers are unable to do their jobs properly without knowing the backgrounds of their students, understanding what triggers their emotions and knowing their strengths and weaknesses. Parents trust us to be a substitute for them during the hours they are away from their children and this is a role we take on willingly, despite its magnitude.

On a daily basis teachers make hundreds of split second decisions in order to maintain a sense of order and balance in the school classrooms and playground. Largely, we try to protect students from each other, from hurtful words and painful blows. While we are unable to protect all students 100% of the time, the majority are handed back into the care of their parents, essentially unscathed, around 3pm each day.

In December last year when a gunman made a choice to walk into a US school and take the lives of 26 people, 20 of whom were children, we were all affected. In Australia we could try to distance ourselves emotionally, due to the illusion created by geography, but in reality no empathetic human being could be untouched by this event.

When America’s Fridays are our Saturdays, our teachers were at home with their families and wouldn’t see their students for two days. I spent a large proportion of these two days envisaging the plan of action my school could take should such a threat become a reality for us.

I considered the fact that our school is the same size as Sandy Hook Elementary. Our kindergarten area is closest to the entrance of our school. Our external doors lock from the outside. I would need to go out, first, before I was able to lock us all in. Our school is largely glass. Glass walls between rooms, large windows and glass doors. There are very limited places to hide. Four out of every six classrooms have store cupboards of various sizes. Two out of every six rooms have no store cupboards at all.

Watching Glee tackle the subject of school shootings, in Shooting Star (4x18) was a heart wrenching experience for many. I watched the episode, as many did, with dread weighing heavily in my chest and tears in my eyes. I could try to distance myself from these feelings by saying, ‘it’s only television’, ‘this is an American show’, ‘those kids are in high school’, but I spent the entire episode thinking about the students I teach every day.

The episode was written and directed surprisingly well (I’m completely ignoring the portion in which a love song was dedicated to an obese cat) and the actors proved themselves worthy of their titles. I am sceptical, however, about whether or not any of the content of this episode will appear at any time throughout the rest of the season. It is very Glee to pat themselves on the back and say ‘okay so, teen suicide, we’ve done that’, as though sandwiching it between a couple of good song and dance routines serves that topic well.

As a real teacher, in a real school, I am constantly astounded by the fact that this show offers very few of its characters adequate support in times of trial and crisis. The most disturbing example of this occurred when Sue Sylvester showed her ‘support’ for the emotionally distressed Becky Jackson by helping to sweep the problem under a Glee emblazoned rug.

For me the final scenes, in which Sue is walking out of the school with 20 years of teaching in a cardboard box, are as disturbing as the final scenes of the 1999 film Arlington Road. Shifting blame to an innocent character certainly calms the waters. It gives people a visual representation of a crime and allows them to feel safe that the ‘problem’ has gone away. What Sue did wasn’t noble. They wrote her as the ‘Finn Hudson’, the hero, but what they did was stupid. Nobody knows Becky Jackson thought a gun was the answer to her woes and if nobody knows, Becky Jackson doesn’t receive support.

This image, coupled with the footage Artie shot on his phone, when the Glee club were afraid they may not leave the choir room alive, sent chills down my spine. I want to say they did this well but too much of it doesn't sit right with me and when America’s Thursday is our Friday and I won’t see my students for another couple of days, I’ll spend the weekend trying to think of how I can hide 26 kids, who belong to other people, in a room with no store cupboards and glass walls.

Fuck You Michelle Pfeiffer

As a teacher of young people who are primarily aged 10-12, I often find myself observing their behaviours, their groups interactions and silently adding individuals to the ‘Queer List’ in my head. My track record has been pretty impressive so far.

Having taught for almost nine years, my ex-students presently range in age from 13-25*. Over the years a few students have come out to me and many more have found a way to get in touch years later to ask for advice or to just casually drop the fact that they are gay or bi and have a new girlfriend or boyfriend they’d like to tell me about.

99% of the time, those kids had been on the Queer List. Having spent at least a year in the lives of many of these young people, I had picked up on many subtle (or not so subtle) clues and, in many cases, saw something of myself in those students.

So why is it that, often, everyone around us can see that we’re super gay and we, ourselves, have no clue? Life would be so much more convenient if we all had the space and time to work this out ourselves.

In high school, my friends (and many people I was most certainly not friends with) knew that I was gay WAY before I did. At the time I thought their side comments and nudging remarks were all very misguided and that one magical day the right handsome prince would ask me out and this would shut them all the hell up. I’d like to propose a theory that many of those handsome princes were probably reading the signs themselves.

The event which became my undoing, and turned this quiet joke into something which began to consume me, occurred during a sleep over in Year nine.

After a birthday party, my friends and I all rocked up to one girl’s house with movies, junk food and sleeping bags in hand. When no gay jokes were made over pizza, and I changed into my pyjamas away from the other four girls, I thought that in the darkness of the living room I would be fine. I thought, stupidly, that because the night had been reasonable up to that point, that maybe, just once, this wouldn’t come up. Naturally I was very wrong.

The first ridiculously creepy movie to be loaded into the VHS player was some horrendous X-Files situation. Before being subjected to watching this, however, a far more horrendous situation occurred.

Being a huge fan of hip-hop in general, and Coolio in particular, I’d heard that Gangsta’s Paradise was the theme song for a new movie called Dangerous Minds. I had been wanting to see the movie and, with plans to become a teacher, I was also interested by the fact that it was set in a high school and centred around a ballsy female teacher. For the life of me I couldn’t remember the name of the actress who played that role and while watching the movie previews before the X-Files was to begin, Dangerous Minds appeared.

I expressed enthusiasm for wanting to see it and with the beat of Gangsta’s Paradise thumping in the background, my friends all rolled their eyes in turn, not knowing why I was interested in that kind of music when bands like Take That also existed.

As the preview began to draw to a close the voice over declared that the name of the actress, who played the teacher, was Michelle Pfeiffer.

“Oh, Michelle Pfeiffer!” I exclaimed.

Well, let’s just say that the laughter that ensued, over my very innocent utterance, is still ringing in my ears today. The remainder of the painful sleepover was spent trying to ignore the whispers and stifled laughter from my friends around the room. Despite being a hater of horror and thriller films, I watched the X-Files movie intently, afraid to tear my eyes away from the screen and look at any of them. I could now, quite easily, relay the entire plot and can even recall the name of the repulsive creature that was the source of nightmares for weeks to come.

Two weeks passed with continued daily murmurs from the group. Often things were said within earshot, but just low enough to guarantee that if I really wanted to know what they were saying, I’d have to ask.

I never did.

Arriving to school early on the Monday of the third week, two of my friends came running towards me excitedly and seemed genuinely happy to see me. Instantly my mood brightened and I felt sure that the day was going to be a great one.

As I was packing away my bag, and sorting through my locker for the books I would need for our first class, I turned around and was surprised to be presented with a ‘gift’ from the two of them. It seems they'd had their own secret, lesbian free, sleepover on the weekend and had decided to put their mothers’ trashy magazines to good use.

Unrolled like a scared scroll before me was an A3 poster covered in at least 50 pictures of Michelle Pfeiffer. It wasn’t unlike me to be exceptionally quiet but, for the first time ever, I had no words at all. I remember clenching my jaw tightly as I felt my face redden beyond belief. I also recall turning to put my books back in my locker before I dropped them. When I didn’t reach out and grab the poster, and thank them both for their scrapbooking efforts, it was shoved rather unceremoniously into my chest. I remember hearing their laughter increase when I tried to angrily throw the poster to the floor. 

I particularly remember one of the girls shutting my fingers in my locker as she tried to shove the poster inside, slamming the door as I tried to hold it open to rip the poster out. The shock from the pain in my fingers ran up my entire arm which hung limply at my side for most of the day. This girl was the friend I shared a desk with in homeroom and had classes with for the entire morning. I did everything I could to hide my shaking hand from her, not wanting her to see that it was one more thing she had over me.

And these were my friends. My closest friends. They were whispering so loudly about me that it drowned out the sound of other any people’s comments. Every time I looked at a girl for one second too long, for the rest of the year, there were smirks. Every time I uttered the words girl, women/woman or female, there was laughter. Apparently liking the Fugees rendition of ‘No Woman, No Cry’ was something I should have kept to myself.

So they knew before me. Good for them. They had it all worked out while I was completely clueless. Interestingly, one of them ended up kissing me in a park a few months later and we spent summer break having secret sleepovers of our own. She phoned her boyfriend one night, said she wouldn’t be able to visit him and popped in a quick ‘I love you’ before coming back to join me in her bed.

Without a Michelle Pfeiffer debacle to her name, she coasted happily through our first few months of Year 11 pretending nothing had happened between us. The result of this for me was long stares at one girl for minutes at time, willing her telepathically to talk to me or even just acknowledge me.When suspicions began to flare within the group that something was going on between us, she was quick to tell them I’d tried to kiss her at some point over the summer.

That confirmation of their long-term suspicions was all that was needed for the whispering and the comments to return full force. When I heard the name Michelle Pfeiffer uttered, for the first time in months, I stood up from my place on the edge of their circle and walked across the quad. I ended ten years of friendship there and then and, to this day, I would rather watch a horror or a thriller than any film starring that blonde actress who played the teacher in that high school movie.

Fuck you Michelle Pfeiffer.

*This figure is a little devastating and I’m regretting doing the mathematics on that one. To put it in perspective, my first posting was a high school where I taught 16 year olds and was only 22 at the time…(it was important for ME that I get that clarified in print).