Reclaiming the L-Word: Sappho's Daughters out in Africa

Pulled out of the closet into my family's embrace

/,0+0=(5966@,5 (PhD) works for the Human Sciences Research Council. She is the Head of Office at the HSRC’s Sweetwaters office in rural KwaZulu-Natal and oversees the operations and implementation of three large, multi-year, internationally funded social and behavioural trials. All the studies evaluate various types of interventions that address the wider context of vulnerable children, as well as families and communities at-risk, infected and affected by HIV/Aids. Heidi lives with her partner Monique Salomon in Pietermaritzburg with their two mixed-breed dogs – or coloureds – Kylie and Odie.  7<33,+6<;6-;/,*36:,; 05;64@-(403@»:,4)9(*, /,0+0=(5966@,5 I thought deeply about the invitation to be part of an anthology of South African lesbian writing. I liked the fact that the book would attempt to provide a set of stories about positive, strong and successful women. I could live with that! What pulled me up short wasthatthiswasnotjustastoryofsuccessfulSouthAfricanwomen, but of successful South African lesbian women. My discomfort was not because I am uncomfortable with my sexuality, or that I am in “the closet” in either my personal or professional life – far from it. What gave me pause was the singling out of one aspect of my identity – of seemingly placing my sexual orientation – in neon lights. I struggle with being overly defined by any concept, label or circumstance. I feel that I serve these issues better (for example my race, my gender and my sexual orientation) by authentically living and being these things – by simply being myself. It also seemed that the very act of singling out one aspect of me – my lesbianism – would do so at the expense of other parts of me that could claim equal rights in shaping who I am. And, perhaps, my discomfort also pointed to some last traces of internal homophobia. I hardly ever refer to myself as a lesbian – preferring the safer, neutral and easier-on-the-palate term “gay” to describe mysexualorientation.Also,nomatterhowoutyouare,committing your story to paper exposes you to a much larger (unknown) audience and outs you even further. I finally decided to take up the challenge offered by this anthology to claim the lesbian-in-me, and explore how this one aspect of me interacts with the many others – my race, my working class background and my conservative and traditional Catholic upbringing – that define and shape who I am. I was married – to a man – almost twenty years ago. Ironically, the period of time of my marriage marks the beginning of the  /,0+0=(5966@,5 process of coming to terms with the possibility that I was gay. So much of our lives are clearer in retrospect. It would certainly help, and it would save us all a lot of pain and trauma if we had some of these hindsight-insights smack bang in the middle of a difficult period. But, it doesn’t quite work like that, does it? The clarity of hindsight can seem so cold and calculating when stripped of the emotions, turmoil and struggle of the time. Here are a few of my moments of clarity about this significant period of my life. Firstly, I got married too young. At 24, I had no business getting married. It was a time in my life when so much was in flux and key aspects of my identity were being formed and shaped. I was trying to figure out who I was in relation to the world and my place in it, particularly with respect to issues relating to gender roles, sex and intimacy, and how I should be in relation to another person, let alone a wife to a husband. Here’s another: we got married too soon. We met and were married within about six months. And, being the good Catholic girl that I was, I certainly wasn’t pregnant. In retrospect, I think that I got married with such haste as a way out – as a way to escape home, and a mother who was dying of cancer. Given my background, leaving home to either live on my own or with my boyfriend was simply not an option available to me. I got married so that my mother did not have to worry about me – it was my way of saying that she could go: I was in good hands and I would be OK without her. She heard me. She attended the church ceremony in a wheelchair, and died about eight weeks after the wedding. This was a difficult time for me. I struggled with her death and it was hard to talk about. I was also in the middle of my clinical psychology internship year. An internship period is an intense practical period when, after all the years of clinical training and preparation, you finally get to work with real cases. Like most interns, I went through a period of profound and significant personal change during that year. It’s almost inevitable that this happens. In working that closely and intimately with others, I came into close contact with my own issues and personal struggles that I had either pushed aside or not fully dealt with in the past. One of the issues I confronted in the relationship was that of gender and, particularly, the roles  7<33,+6<;6-;/,*36:,;05;64@-(403@»:,4)9(*, that society assigns to men and women based on the physical characteristics of their sex. For example, even though we both worked full-time, there were certain things that I had to do simply because I was the wife – such as cooking. I actually love cooking, but it became such a heated source of conflict. I chafed under the seemingly immovable set of expectations that I had to cook, irrespective of the circumstances of my or his day. It was a lot for a new relationship to deal with: coping with all these significant and stressful events, and also trying to figure out how to do this relationship, how to do this thing called marriage. We struggled. Throw into the mix a growing awareness that I might be gay. At the time, I did not know this so clearly, nor could I state this so unequivocally. The realisation was on a much more physical, non-verbal level. You can all relate to this – a moment in your life when a truth, an aspect about yourself, a knowing of something about yourself clicks into place. It’s as though your internal mechanics all shift a gear and settle into a comfortable groove that was meant to be. Throughout my life, from primary school up until this particular point, there was always an older woman – a teacher, a guidance counsellor, a lecturer, a supervisor – to whom I had an emotional connection and attachment. These women gave comfort, support and a safe space, and it was to them that I took all that mattered to me. In my relationships with men I took on a different role. I was the one they came to and talked to, and brought their problems to. The big shift at this time was that, in addition to the emotional connection with the older female supervisor, there was a knock-me-down, physical desire for another woman. This floored me. Completely! For the first time I was consciously aware that I was both emotionally and sexually attracted to someone of the same sex. I was terrified, but this awareness moved me at some deeper level that overrode some of my anxieties. It was becoming clearer to me that the marriage happened too soon and perhaps for not all the right reasons. This was difficult to admit to myself and to others, and especially to my family. Being from good Catholic stock, a divorce was not an easy topic to raise. In fact, it’s a topic that should not be raised at all. There were many examples of couples in my community who stayed  /,0+0=(5966@,5 together under extremely taxing and heartbreaking circumstances. My unhappiness and desire for something more seemed so insignificant compared to these marriages that surrounded me. There was a strong sense from my family that I should try to make the relationship work. Leaving the marriage meant that, probably for the first time in my life, I would be going against family expectations. In doing so, I risked losing the understanding and support of those closest to me. It was a very lonely time for me. But, it was also an important time in learning that I was ultimately responsible for my own happiness. As I have gotten older, at other life-altering decision-making times, when all around me is in chaos, I have learned to listen to this part of me that quietly speaks its truth, and demands to be heard. Did I leave the marriage because I knew that I was gay? This is one of the hardest questions that I have ever been asked. It’s hard because there isn’t a simple “yes” or “no” answer. It’s hard because something as big as this – love, relationship, sexuality, sexual identity and sexual orientation – is never this straightforward. The short version is that, on its own, the marriage was not working. If anything, the marriage, in what it couldn’t give me, gave me a clear sense of what I wanted and needed. I wanted a relationshipthatwasmoreequal,thatwasmoreaboutgiveandtake, that was based on individual strengths, abilities, and inclinations rather than being tightly defined by gender and gender roles. And, with the growing realisation that I was sexually and emotionally attracted to women, some of the blanks were being filled in – that this future relationship I desired and wanted could be with another woman. Perhaps, knowing that I did have other options, as yet unexplored, gave me the strength and the courage to leave. But leaving the marriage and coming to terms with being gay wasn’t easy. I was taking a leap into the unknown. There were no examples of other gay people where I came from. Together with many other coloured families we were relocated as a result of the Group Areas Act to an area called Wentworth on the outskirts of Durban, mindlessly close to a major oil refinery. The place we called home was an old army barracks that was now a makeshift “community” for many displaced families. Wentworth soon  7<33,+6<;6-;/,*36:,;05;64@-(403@»:,4)9(*, became synonymous with drugs, alcoholism and gangsterism – signs of a disparate group of people, with competing value systems and beliefs, thrown together against their will and trying to find a way of co-existing together. I come from a large family of eleven – nine girls (including me) and two boys – a case of yours, mine and ours. My father had three children from a previous relationship, my mother had three of her own and together they had five of us. My father moved in with the children from his previous marriage and we grew up together; we have always felt like a large family of eleven children. We were poor. My father worked too little, and too inconsistently for it to be of any consequence. And he drank far too much! My mother kept the family going by working three jobs: she worked by day in a factory as a seamstress and by night did dressmaking for private clients. On weekends and month ends she sold food and cakes to bring in extra income. It was tough. My parents struggled with each other’s different understandings, responses and capacities for marriage, parenthood and responsibility. While growing up, I always felt different from the others in my family. There were several reasons for this. As is typical with many coloured families, the children were all different shades of brown. I was one of the lighter-skinned ones in the family. I stood out and took some flack for this from my siblings. It didn’t help matters that I also wore the good girl mantle. I felt that, in the chaos and difficulty that characterised my parents’ relationship, and the struggles of our home life, I had to be the good girl. I had to be the one good thing that would make everyone proud. So, I did well at school. At home I played the clown and tried to get my mom to laugh, and tried to live up to all the expectations. I believed for the longest time as a child that I was accidentally left at my family’s doorstep by the proverbial stork. I felt different in so many ways. I wanted more. I was determined to get beyond the unemployment, drugs, alcohol and violence that characterised many lives in Wentworth. Of the brood, I was the first to “use my brains” as my one sister said, to help me “get out” and make the most of my life. I was the first to pass Matric, get a degree, and more recently, the first with a PhD. Perhaps this feeling that I was different also came /,0+0=(5966@,5 from the fact that I was gay. I don’t know. I certainly didn’t know it at the time. I wear my race and the relative disadvantage of my upbringing lightly. Somewhere along the line I felt that if I allowed these things – the hardship, the squares of newspaper used as toilet paper, the salt for toothpaste, the ill-fitting clothes, the hand-me-downs – if I allowed these things to define me too closely, I would become defined by the deficits, by what I didn’t have. Going this route meant that there would be little space to acknowledge all that I did have. We are a family rich in the right things: love, an ability to laugh at ourselves and our situation, a closeness and support for and of each other that is remarkable. When I left the marriage, I didn’t come out to my family. I needed time to internalise the fact that I might be gay and to become more comfortable with it. I had my first relationship with a woman several years after my marriage had ended. It didn’t last too long, but it helped confirm what I was beginning to grapple with. I was gay. My first time with a woman was a moving and incredible experience. It sounds clichéd, but it felt like I had come home. The entire struggle and the confusion of the past few years just seemed to disappear. While on a personal level this was making more and more sense, this knowledge did not transfer to more public spaces outside my relationships with women and the gay social circles that gave me a home. Comprehending and accepting that you are gay in a world that is so predominantly and overbearingly heterosexual needs to be worked through on so many levels. There’s the personal acknowledgement and acceptance that is required – many of us struggle with this – as your newly found sexual orientation has to compete with the norms, values, culture and religious beliefs of your upbringing and of society at large. This is tough. Even if one works through this with a reasonable level of success, you have to also deal with others’ views, fears and prejudice about your sexual orientation. As I wasn’t quite ready at this time to deal with my family’s views and reactions to being gay, I started to live a split existence. I had my relationships and gay friends on the one hand and my family on the other. I offered my family very few glimpses into  7<33,+6<;6-;/,*36:,;05;64@-(403@»:,4)9(*, my new life and “friendships” with women, some of whom they did get to meet. Like many other gay people, I was afraid to come out to my family. I feared that they just wouldn’t understand it. Loving someone of the same sex would be a foreign concept to them and I had no way of knowing how they would respond to this. My greatest fear was that my family would keep the children from me. I have a large clutch of nephews and nieces who I am close to and have been very involved in their upbringing and their lives. If I came out, I worried that they would prevent me from seeing the children. In the end, I was unceremoniously pulled out of the closet by one of my sisters. I am thankful to this sister for many things. She brings much to my life. But none more so than this single act, and the asking of the all-important question: “Are you gay?” So much for me thinking that I had my family fooled with my various girl “friends”! They had been wondering about the nature of these relationships for a while. Our families and those close to us know us intimately and know us well, and are able to see us in our entirety even when aspects of ourselves are hidden or obscured from our view. I also believe they ask the all-important questions when they are ready to hear the answers. I responded to her question in the affirmative. It was a wonderful conversation and we discussed how we thought the other siblings might react to the news. I left feeling lighter than I had in years. I was slowly working on a plan that would probably have taken me about ten years to come out to my remaining siblings. My sister phoned in excitement on the Monday after our conversation. “You won’t believe it,” she said. “Things are not as bad you thought!” “I know,” I replied, “I’ve been feeling so much better since we spoke.” “No, no,” she said, “I’m not talking about that. After you left, I phoned everyone and told them that you are gay!” I couldn’t believe it! After our chat, she had promptly phoned all my siblings to tell them that I was gay and needed their support. She had also set up a family meeting for the next day. Given that the agenda for the meeting was to discuss the fact that I was gay, she thought that it was a good idea for me to attend. For added /,0+0=(5966@,5 emotional effect – just in case any more was required – the meeting was to take place on the anniversary of my mother’s death. Most of my friends gasp at the audacity of my sister when I tell this coming out story. They feel outraged on my behalf that she took into her own hands what should essentially be my story to tell, at my own pace and in my own time. I was initially shocked at her behaviour, but mostly I was relieved, and grateful for her intervention. I had reworked and replayed coming out to my family so thoroughly over the years that it was starting to silently choke me rather than build my confidence to enable me to eventually voice my story. By “outing” me, my sister did me the greatest favour. She forced me out of myself and my fears, into my family’s love and embrace, and acceptance of who I really was. I was lucky in more ways than one, not only for the infamous sister-act, but also for my family’s lovely response. There were the usual questions: “How come I am gay? What made me gay? How did I know that I was gay?” I envy straight people, who never have to answer such awkward and profoundly difficult questions. It’s like trying to find simple answers to what is complex and complicated, and defies such simplicity. I fumbled my way unsatisfactorily through their questions. Eventually, my older sister, who is often teased for not being clever enough, smartly rescued me. In response to the questions about what made me gay, and after several shaky attempts from my end, she piped up and said: “You know what – it’s just the way you are.” Why didn’t I think of that? But mostly, in that family outing, there was a reminder that they loved me no matter what and that I should not have doubted it for a second. I was humbled by their response, and a little ashamed that I was so afraid that they would reject me when they found out. I should have known. I should have known that this family, which the world would harshly dismiss as having so little, always had a good dose of the things that mattered, and unwavering love and support of each other, no matter what the circumstances. Sadly, the reality is that far too many gay people are not so fortunate. I remain thankful for my family’s generous response and love at a time when most gay people anticipate, and very often get, the opposite. I don’t have too many regrets about how long it took for 7<33,+6<;6-;/,*36:,;05;64@-(403@»:,4)9(*, my story to emerge. I believe that, like most important things, it happened at the right time – for me, and for my family. That out-of-the-closet experience happened about thirteen years ago and it marked the start of an important period in my life – one of greater acceptance for who I am. A family’s love and acceptance for who one really is can do that. Their acceptance of my sexual orientation expressed that day has not wavered. They have warmly embraced Monique, my partner of ten years as one of the family. At our wedding two years ago, I told another story of family acceptance. It took place at the beginning of our relationship, and Monique was still trying to figure out who everyone was, and how to negotiate her way through these events. Family gatherings are often large, noisy affairs with loads of food and drink. My brotherin -law, who was slightly drunk, spent the afternoon trying to get a moment with her; she spent the afternoon trying to avoid him, unsure of what he was up to. He eventually followed us out to the car as we were leaving. All he wanted to say was: “I don’t care about your praaitjie (I don’t care that you are gay), I love you both. But Monique, if you mess around with Heidi, we’ll fuck you up!” We laughed all the way home, cheered by those colourful, beautiful words of acceptance for our relationship – Wentworth Mafia style. ...