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Bootboy: Male relationships

This was written for Hot Press 19th September 2009. Before the  reality of a successful long-term loving relationship between two men hit the headlines in the saddest way possible, when Stephen Gately died.

In the push for equality, as epitomized by the campaign for civil marriage for lesbian and gay people, I have been unequivocal in my support over the years. But lately, my flag-waving hand has begun to droop. Not because of the campaign itself, which is dynamic and effective. (See the brilliant YouTube ad).

And it’s not because of my frustration with its progress. The Green Party and GLEN failed to realise how unpalatable enshrining the principle of inequality into legislation is to LGBT people, no matter how progressive the Civil Partnership Bill is, no matter how much easier it might make the lives of so many people. (Fianna Fáil of course doesn’t care about principles). Since its publication, I believe the Greens have received that message loud and clear, especially after the 5,000-strong march against it in its current form. (If you are legislating to benefit a particular group, surely the opinions of that group matter?)

I am hopeful that the argument for putting the issue of gay civil marriage to a referendum is gaining ground (if, of course, it is constitutionally required, which is uncertain) given that I believe the debate would be good for society.

I am phlegmatic about whether or not it would be passed, though. Maybe, maybe not. California passed Prop. 8 last year, which outlawed gay marriage. However, one of the criticisms of the failed opposition  campaign there was that it didn’t focus on ordinary gay/lesbian people’s lives. That could never happen here. Ordinary people telling their stories on Liveline or on the Late Late is one of the main ways Irish social policy changes. Given a debate between a couple of pained, condescending Catholic moralists and a cheerful lesbian couple surrounded by their kids, I know who would win. Whatever about the shadow side to abortion and divorce, and there are valid arguments in opposition to both, the truth is, gay civil marriage harms no one. It is a symbol.

This is not to underestimate the power symbols have in Ireland. A referendum on gay civil marriage would flush out, for (hopefully) one last curtain call, those Catholic ideologues who dare to believe they know what’s best for other people. (A reminder of this corrupt mentality came on the radio other day, in a discussion commemorating the 30th anniversary of the Pope’s visit to Ireland. His Holiness, the panellist reminded us, was flanked by two “single fathers” – Bishop Éamon Casey and Fr Michael Cleary).

We in Ireland are well used to holding referenda on fraught issues of sexual morality. Each time, they result in a greater understanding of the complex issues raised, and a greater familiarity with the people directly affected by the issue. However painful it may be, it is a positive process in my book, one which few other countries have undergone.

In a referendum on civil marriage, given the legal requirement for debates to be even-handed, lesbian and gay people would be all over the media, in a way that hasn’t happened yet in our society. Invisibility has always been the enemy of gay rights. Perhaps that’s why Fianna Fáil are so opposed to a referendum.
My weariness in waving the rainbow flag is more to do with my desire to fast-forward to the stage after equality is finally enshrined in law. A healthy community engages in self-criticism and reflection, and adapts and changes accordingly. But if that community is discriminated against, by the law in particular, there is a tendency to keep such criticisms or reservations private, in order to not let the side down, to avoid handing the bigots any ammunition. It leads to a censorship of sorts, a defensiveness, and accusations of betrayal of one’s community if one raises thorny issues.

Feminists rightly say that full equality for women will have come to pass, not only when the women in power are just as numerous as the men, but when they are just as boorish, slovenly, and ignorant. Full equality for LGBT people will have come to pass when we have completely moved on from a sense of prickly victimhood and have gained in confidence enough to talk openly about how difficult our lives can be, how fucked up we can be, how lonely and insecure we can be – just like everyone else. The political necessity to present only our good side to the world comes at a price.

The longer I live, the more I realise that gay and heterosexual men are far, far more alike than is commonly supposed. In fact, when it comes to sex and relationships, which supposedly are the significators of gay identity, I find that lesbians and gay men vastly differ in their approach and behaviour. Indeed, they are as different from each other as… the sexes.

One only has to survey an online chatroom for cruising guys. It is unimaginable that women would ever talk to each other in a similar way, in such vast numbers. Many women, indeed, would be shocked at the number of men online who freely admit they are married or partnered with women, who are looking for “no strings” sex with other guys. It doesn’t make them gay – it’s simply that they are men, trying to get as much sex as they can, without emotional attachment. It’s what a hell of a lot of men do. But in Ireland, it is hardly ever talked about. Irish men, generalizing hugely, lack the emotional literacy to discuss these matters. And, despite our supposed sensitivity, this counts for gay men too. And when we don’t talk about problems, they don’t go away, they tend to get worse.

Too often, in this country, I hear of a young gay male couple breaking up over a night of indiscretion, and it breaks my heart. (Simple reason: I know far, far too many single gay men in their forties). It’s as if the values of traditional heterosexual marriage have been adopted unthinkingly to apply to their relationship. No account has been made for the fact that they are male, that gay male culture is sexualised and commodified, and that sex is effortlessly accessible. They can, if they so choose, let go “mammy’s morals” and come up with their own rules, their own standards, their own mechanism for keeping trust and love alive, to make their relationship work. But for that to become commonplace, there has to be a level of mature discourse in our community about the drawbacks of being men who love men, an acceptance of the difficult  realities, and not stay attached to a frequently unsuitable and often ultimately self-defeating ideal.

If and when marriage between men becomes an ordinary reality, then, and perhaps only then, will it become obvious how much work we have to do to make them work. I’m just weary waiting for “permission” from the government, before the conversation begins. We could start talking now, lads.

Bootboy: Plausibly social networking

There’s an important play in the Dublin Theatre Festival, Gina Moxley’s The Crumb Trail, by Pan Pan Theatre Company. I hope you get to see it. I’m such a fan of the company that I was asked to write the programme note, which was a pleasure. While writing it, I had to reflect on the impact of the Internet on my life, and I came to some rather dark conclusions.

It’s tough to articulate it, because although it may be a common experience, it is also largely unconscious. And trying to dig up what’s buried in your psyche is an unpleasant business, it’s like hunting for a corpse by following your nose. Something stinks, it’s unnerving, but it’s not obvious. It’s a low-grade anxiety that you catch a whiff of every now and again.

I once was woken up every other night at 3.01am, and I couldn’t figure out why. I am blessed with the ability to sleep usually, but for a few weeks the experience dominated my life, because sleep ceased to be guaranteed. But it was intermittent, so after one night’s full sleep I’d forget about it, only to find myself a couple of nights later being dragged into consciousness to stare at the clock saying 3:01. I tried to figure out what was the cause, but in the middle of the night my head isn’t the clearest. Was it the central heating kicking in on a timer? A neighbour leaving for work slamming the door? Couldn’t figure it out. Gradually, the knowledge that I was not heading for a guaranteed full night’s sleep took its toll. I couldn’t drift off, I couldn’t relax. I became sort of dishevelled inside, and tetchy, and out of sorts. Eventually I figured it out. I set my alarm for 2.55am, and listened. Sure enough, at 3.00, a very low beeping came from somewhere in my room. It was a travel alarm in my suitcase at the bottom of my wardrobe, set at that time to wake me to catch a plane home from the last time I had been away.

It’s as vague as that, as intermittent, the disquiet I feel about the internet. Not the practical stuff, the banking or the plane tickets or the news. And research and entertainment is fun too, the youtubes and wikipedia and the googling. All that is wonderful, even though there is so much bile and venom and chaff to sift through.

It’s about my interaction with others, through social networking, instant messaging, online chat, and dating sites.

On face value, such interactions add to my life. I share a joke or a video online with my friends, it’s instant and fun. I go rooting around the 1911 census online and share my discoveries with others, who then tell me the stories behind their ancestors and what they’ve discovered. I ask in my status line if anyone wants to go see a movie or go to a show, and I get responses. I hear about parties or festivals and exhibitions online, and I go to them, and know who else is going. I keep up to date with the news from my cousins, spread all over the world. Friends who are travelling on the other side of the planet might as well be next door, I can see how they are getting on every day, and see their photographs almost as soon as they are taken. On a sadder note, I’ve learned about people’s deaths online, and passed on the news to people who hadn’t heard.

So far, so good. It’s all so plausibly social.

When it comes to dating sites, I’ve given up on them, however. And my problem with them is a concentrated version of the flaw in online social networking with friends.
It is this: what did we do before the internet? What was so wrong with it? What have we lost in the transition? Because socializing and keeping in touch used to be part of everyday activities that served us perfectly well for eons.

I’m not a Luddite. But with every advance in human civilization, there is a drawback. And  we only really notice what we’ve been deprived of when it begins to hurt – like not getting a particular vitamin in a new diet that tastes amazing. Over time, something begins to go wrong with your health, it’s vague and unsettling and hard to pinpoint.

Keeping in touch with people used to be done in company. Whether it was in a pub or chatting with neighbours or simply chatting on the phone, the information we swapped was part of a matrix of interactions that only happens when you are actually talking to people. Our tolerance levels of other people’s personalities and idiosyncrasies had to be quite high, but we never noticed it.

You’d never walk into your local and have only one request on your mind, that you would announce as you came into the pub. “Who wants to see the Tarantino with me tonight at 7.30?” If you think of it literally happening, it seems quite absurd. Would you turn on your heels if no one wanted to go with you? If you found someone who did want to go, would you leave together right there and then to see it? No, you wouldn’t. The very idea would be absurd. You would be meeting your friends to spend time with them. Chatting. About the weather, about NAMA, about the X-factor,  their latest break up or holidays or anything else. The primary purpose is, of course, truly communal: taking people as you find them, and seeing what happens. You’ve no agenda, but you’re meeting a basic human need, to hang out. And if a friend is being a bit of a bore, or a bit down, you still pass the time with them. They’ll be in better form next time. It’s a basic kindness, a basic generosity of spirit. You give of yourself your actual presence, and you get the same in return. What comes out of a night such as that might be a pleasant surprise. You might meet a new friend of a friend that you like – you might even want to ask them out. It happens organically. Naturally.

Of course I still have nights like that. I’m not a complete geek. But I know if I didn’t have the internet, I’d be out socializing much more. And I think I’d be far more content with myself and my life.

The internet seems social, as I say, but it’s actually a way of controlling your life and your interactions to such a degree that ordinary “passing the time” socializing seems too much like hard work. When it comes to dating, it gets quite grotesque. Relationships are built not on a negotiated checklist of sexual preferences, but quite simply on a sensation of ease that you stumble upon, when you meet someone and there’s a mutual attraction. If it feels easy, and the body language is good, and you can have a laugh together, you will want to spend more time discovering the person, and, hopefully, vice versa. It’s a slow, tentative, gentle process, because it has to be. Not for everyone, I grant you, but for me. For all the fact that I used to be a webmaster and still design blogs for my friends, the internet is just plain wrong for me when it comes to dating. I need time, plenty of time, to get to know someone. And the internet just doesn’t offer that – it’s all about the instant moment, scratching an itch.

The internet allows us to control our interactions in a way that is impossible in the “real” world. We set the agenda, and it is based on our want, our need, our taste, our hunger. There is one thing that is guaranteed to magnify our desire, our sense of lack, our need for connection, and that is when we focus on it, to try to satiate it. Desire is an ourobouros – a snake that eats itself.

Online, we ignore those who don’t immediately satiate that need, respond to our joke, reply to our message on a dating site, or like our facebook status update. We can spend an evening interacting like that and by the end of it we’re still on our own. We’ve been mentally stimulated, but emotionally we’ve been in a vacuum. It’s a curious, subtle deprivation. And the only symptom of it is an unease, a restlessness, an anxiety. A tiny alarming sound in the middle of the night.

Bootboy: Intersex

I’ve not been posting my Bootboy articles here ever since the Cathal Ó Searcaigh interview. The vitriol I would face if I posted it here put me off. (See here). Then, I got out of the habit.

Here’s one written for Hot Press on 21st August 2009, just after Caster Semenya won her gold medal, and before any official “results” on her sex-testing. And before I attended the Electric Picnic Leviathan debate on gay marriage, with Senator Ronan Mullen and others. More than once, he said that “God doesn’t make hermaphrodites”. I had to correct him.

Central to the Catholic ethos is a notion of the “complementarity” of male-female relationships, and this notion of public policy being conservative for the “greater good”. And yet the current civil partnership bill, by ignoring children of same-sex couples, does exactly what Catholic teaching has always done – sacrificed the well-being and family security of children at the altar of dogma. Catholic teaching punishes children. And by Mullen saying that “God doesn’t make hermaphrodites” I was left aghast. On average, there would have been thirty people at Electric Picnic who would have been incensed had they been in earshot of his pontificating. Not to mention hurt. But Mullen immunizes himself against how his words hurt people’s feelings by telling himself and others he believes they make for a better society.  If Catholicism could point to one example of its teaching on sexual morality that had been proved correct or for the greater good I’d like to know about it.

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As we go to press, the “results” of the “sex test” for 800m gold-medal winner Caster Semenya have not been released. However it turns out, the way the organizers of the world athletics championships in Berlin have treated her is nothing short of shameful, by making the process a publicly humiliating one, instead of employing a modicum of discretion and tact. And the way that South Africans have rallied around her in support is a matter of pride for her and her country.

As Germaine Greer pointed out in the Guardian recently, in the 1992 and 1996 Olympics, genetic testing was required  for all female athletes. After more than 6,000 tests, no one was found to be a man masquerading as a woman, but quite a few women discovered they had developmental sexual disorders that they weren’t aware of before. It succeeded only in embarrassing a lot of people, and was discontinued.

Evidently, the authorities have decided to bring back testing (this time involving a whole panel of “experts”) because of Caster’s unique winning physicality. The South Africans naturally put it down to envy. (However, the envy may be a manifestation of another kind of suspicion, to wit the none-too-subtle comments in the press about her “recent dramatic improvement in performance”, which is usually code for “we think someone’s been doping on the sly”.)

Notwithstanding that particular thorny issue, she is a striking woman, and indeed with her low voice and masculine physique, she does make one wonder about how the binary construct of male and female in our culture fails to describe adequately the variations that occur naturally in our species. Her family, from an impoverished village in Limpopo province, affirms that she was born a girl, and also that she was a classic tomboy, loving soccer and showing no interest in girly things. In other words, her story is not of a young man deciding to cheat and enter the girls’ races so he could win; her narrative is one that many women the world over can identify with, and certainly, I would imagine, a large proportion of women who are sporty. While many tomboys grow up into lesbian or bisexual women, it is course not reliable to infer sexual orientation by the degree to which one displays “masculine” or “feminine” attributes. That is, to fall into the binary trap, to see everything as one thing or the other. Human beings have always been somewhere in the middle. Aren’t you?

Neither, it seems, is it reliable to infer gender by appearance alone. Statistics are easy to manipulate, but it is fair to say that somewhere between one in a thousand and one in a hundred people are born with a certain ambiguity in their gender. (This figure of course is multiplied many times if one includes those that aren’t 100% heterosexual). This may manifest in something as obvious as being born with genitals that are a mixture of both male and female, or something less clear cut like a very large clitoris or a small penis, or it may only manifest in adolescence, when things don’t turn out the way they are “supposed to”. The variations from the binary norm can manifest in our genes, in our hormones, and/or in our genitals.

Intersexuality is separate to the experience that is classified “gender dysphoria”, in which a person in adulthood comes to the realisation that they were born into the wrong sex, in the wrong body.  And indeed this is also separate from the experience of growing up gay or lesbian, in which one’s chosen love-object is not the cultural norm. In many societies, being a gay man is synonymous with being effeminate, such as the ladyboys in South-East Asia.

Any of these natural variations can lead to a deep questioning about gender, about sex roles, about what is expected of us as a man, as a woman, as a human being. For many of us it is a journey of self-discovery that is like trying to work out a puzzle, to which there is no solution. Because the problem is society’s, not the individual’s.

In wealthy families, or families with good public health systems, the parents of children born with ambiguous genitalia are often offered early surgery to “correct” the “abnormality”. This is why we don’t hear so much about intersex adults, certainly in Ireland or the UK – the “correction” is made early on in life, and as long as adolescence proceeds without a problem (I mean without more than the usual problems), then the natural variance in body shape remains a private matter. Of course, the awful possibility exists for parents that they choose the “wrong” sex for their child, ie one that the child eventually decides is wrong for them. However, in Caster’s case, her parents had no such recourse. Presumably, therefore, her body as a little girl raised no suspicions or fears.

One in a thousand Irish people works out at around 6,000 people on this island. It is of course impossible to know how many of them as adults were informed about their surgery in infancy, if they had it; I would guess that, so embarrassed are we about sexual difference, many Irish parents have chosen to keep such matters as secret as possible. Parents have an understandable wish to protect their children from feeling like outsiders; but, sadly, the more they do so, the less likely that things will change for future generations.

The limits of a circle define it – by which I mean those who test the boundaries of human experience create more of a sense of security for those who find themselves comfortably in the middle. But we tend to demonize and scapegoat those on the edge, as opposed to show them gratitude or respect for the difficult path on which they find themselves. Because we fear difference, it unsettles us. And those who are most fearful, most suspicious, most hostile, tend to be the ones who have their own secret fear of letting their differences be known.

Electric Picnic

OK, weather was crap, dull, cold, windy, autumnal. Sunday morning’s rain was depressing. And wellies were essential, I spent the weekend trudging around through mud. The trouble with no sunshine and wet ground: you end up standing all the time.

That said, I had a great time. Musical highlights: Madness, the last 20 minutes of Chic, Brian Wilson, Laura Izibor. As ever, Dublin Gospel Choir on Sunday morning lifted my spirits. Cuckoo Savante and Reader’s Wives both gave excellent gigs, on a smaller scale.

Found the Leviathan tent consistently interesting. Bob Gruen the photographer was cool.  The Emergency were really, really good, and very funny.  David McWilliams hosted excellent debates on the economy on Saturday, and on gay marriage on Sunday, and they were passionate and thought-provoking.

Food as ever was great. And it has to be said that, despite the conditions, the organization was excellent, at least as far as I was concerned. Muck was everywhere, but the showers and toilets were much better this year than last, at least for me. But hey, I’m a guy.

But for me the unmistakeable joy of the festival was Arcadia; every night the music was impossible to ignore, the visuals breathtaking.

The 1911 Census

I’ve been loving finding out where my family was in 1911.

My maternal grandmother, Mary, was one year old. Her dad, Denis, was a “General Labourer”.  Her mother was Julia, née O’Reilly. They lived in a room in a tenement block with her infant brother in Smithfield North Side, Dublin. (Probably within a stone’s throw of the Cobblestone pub.) There were five other families living in the same house. This is Denis and Julia’s wedding photograph, c. 1908/09.  My great-grandparents.

Denis and Julia

Denis and Julia

Mary, or Mamie, was to marry a “Master Carpenter”’s son, Dermod, who was five in 1911. (I’m named after him, so his name definitely was spelled Dermod, but weirdly he’s listed as Dermot in the census, in his own father’s handwriting). He lived in Drumcondra with his parents Michael and Elizabeth (née Smyth) and paternal grandmother Jane, née Hambrook, (who spoke Irish, the only one of my family in this census to claim it), and his two younger sisters.

All my mother’s side of the family are Dubliners and Catholics.

My paternal grandmother, Mai, was born in Ballinasloe, Co. Galway, and was Catholic. She had a troubled upbringing, her father Michael died when she was an infant. I must find out more of the story. She was aged 17 in 1911. She and her older brother, (as well as her younger half-sister and half-brother who were born in South Africa), were all taken in by their mother’s sister, who lived in Dún Laoghaire.  Poor Aunt Annie, so the story goes, worked herself to the bone to look after four children who weren’t her own. She’s listed as single, and a “Boarding House Keeper and Landlady”. Two lodgers are listed as living in the house.

My paternal grandfather Henry was 22 in 1911, and was born in Boyle, Co. Roscommon. He was single and living in lodgings in Athlone, while he worked in a bank. He is listed as “Church of England”.

He was following his father’s footsteps, who, in 1911, was manager of a bank in Scarriff, Co. Clare. In those days, bank managers travelled around wherever they were appointed, and they used to live above the bank.  (My dad lived above a bank or two when he was a boy).

Henry Senior, my great-grandfather, was 55 years old. He was born in Limerick City. He was living with his second wife, Elizabeth, in 1911. Also in the household was Emily, the 24-year-old daughter of Henry and his first wife (my great-grandmother, who was also called Elizabeth, née Black. She died  in 1897, when my grandfather was 9 years old). There was also their own 9 year old daughter, again called Elizabeth*. Their religion is listed as “Church of Ireland”. They lived well enough to have a 16 year old Catholic servant girl living with them. Also called Elizabeth!

All these people are my ancestors. And they are all so different. I like that.

*I am lucky enough to be able to trace Henry’s lineage right back to the 12th Century, thanks to the work of Elizabeth’s son. The Mores or de la Mores were a “noble family” of French origin, and settled in England after the Norman Conquest. Then they came over to Ireland and the family became the Moores, Earls of Drogheda. I am not directly in line to anything, but Henry Street and Moore Street are named after them, and one or two of them are buried in Christchurch Cathedral. Must have a wander.

If you’re on facebook, join this group and tell stories about other people in the census returns.

Sinéad’s hand

YouTube Preview Image

MarriagEquality

LGBT Noise March for Marriage Equality photos

March for Equality – all welcome

LGBT Noise poster

Older gay men

In trying to find an older gay person for my little documentary, I realised how difficult it was to find older gay people to tell their stories. Luckily for me, however, I found Tony, who is a gem in the film. But he only agreed to take part six days before the shoot!

Along the way I realised there is a story to be told about where older gay people go, because the gay “community” is largely pub- and club-based, which is really not ideal. I believe there are many older LGBT people who feel excluded and isolated.

In the light of President Mary McAleese’s admirable project to encourage old men to feel more included in Irish society, I think we should begin to put our own shop in order, and follow her example as a community. For example, the Irish gay rugby and soccer teams could follow the GAA’s example and reach out to older gay people specifically.

So I am happy to publish this press release here, and can’t wait to see the final product, as I missed it the first time around.

Critically Acclaimed Show Returns!
Silver Stars
Now Auditioning

“Silver Stars”, an innovative song cycle based on stories from older gay Irish men, is now casting.

Performers with passion required.
There are at least 4 central roles and places in the choir. Seniors and first-time performers are especially welcome.

Open casting session will be held on the following day:
Wednesday July 15th; 7:00 – 9:00 p.m.

Casting Venue: The Abbey Studio (TEAM Building), 4 Marlborough Place, Dublin 1

The Workshops will take place on Monday the 20th and Tuesday the 21st of July.
Times to be confirmed.

Rehearsals: 3 evenings a week from August the 24th through to September the 26th.
Time; 7.00 to 9.30 pm

Songwriter Sean Millar has been gathering stories of honour, exile, spirit, survival and love from older gay Irish men and transforming them into powerful and evocative songs. Theatre innovators Brokentalkers have created settings for each song.

The original run of the show was part of the spring 2009 Bealtaine festival. The show was a great success, playing to full houses every night. This current production is in association with the Abbey Theatre and the Dublin Theatre Festival.

The show will be performed in the Cube at the Project Arts Centre and will run from Tuesday the 29th of September through to Sunday the 4th of October, 2009.
SPREAD THE WORD!!!!!

Important
If you are interested then let us know!
Pre-register your details by emailing us at brokentalkers@gmail.com

My First Kiss

Here’s the little film that I directed. Please click through and rate it if you like it, it’s part of the Dublin Pride Film Shorts Awards, and on Sunday the highest rated gets a gold star or something. All nine films are here.

For more info on how we made the film, please take a look at the film’s blog. Thanks to everyone involved, it was fun. It’s showing in the Galway Film Fleadh on Saturday 11th July, at 10pm in Cinemobile, before the superb Identities.

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