"I'm not homophobic,"
......... "anymore,"
I think that says it all.
A few months ago I met my father for a coffee, whereby he proceeded to tell me what an enlightened human being he had become, and that due to this evolution of self, he would be happy to attend the wedding of his gay daughter.
How gracious of him.
And it's a phrase that has burned in my mind since he said it.
"You have to understand Fran, things were different 20 years ago,"
Interesting.
Because it's 2019, and despite my father declaring his open mindedness and acceptance of gay culture, or more specifically, my sexuality - his growth as a person is very much reflective of the society in which we live.
I had huge anxiety on my wedding day, not because I was getting married, of course not, I've been waiting for this day for the past 8 years, the countdown to marrying my best friend was a thing of excitement, not anxiety.
No, the anxiety arose from my fathers attendance.
Althought, as the clock struck 1pm and he was not in attendace, despite my marriage taking place at 1:15pm, I assigned myself to the fact that more than likely his disapproval and distaste had forged it's way to the front and this new sense of self had disappated as quickly as it had come.
Alas, he arrived.
And his state of unease was apparent.
My anxiety grew.
You see, my father has never seen me kiss a girl.
Never seen me with a girl.
Never seen my love and affection for another woman.
Never seen me in any sort of relationship that was allowed to grace the light of day, because for my entire teenage years and into my early twenties, that part of my life stayed in the shadows.
Growing up and realising my sexuality was a difficult thing because I knew it was not a conversation that could ever be had.
Falling in love, first love and wanting to have a relationship like any other teenager, holding hands in public, dates, meeting the parents.
It was forbidden.
I was never allowed friends who were girls, I was never allowed sleepovers, never allowed to sleep over at a girl who was a friends house.
I was never allowed to share a relationship. When I had my heart broken, I had to hide it and pretend all was ok when what I wanted was to cry and it be known my 17 year old heart was breaking.
When I fell in love and found the one, I wanted them to know and share in the joy, my Sarah.
A wonderous example of how we deal with my sexuality? But remember now, my parents are not homophobic. Anymore.
I was 21, I had the shit kicked out of me by a group of twenty something men, just outside the gay village, I was walking back to my apartment, and when one of them shouted at me
"Are you supposed to be a boy or a girl?"
A rather drunk me on my way home from a night out uttered "fuck off,"
Which wasn't receieved well.
There's no doubt about it, they were waiting. For a boy, or a girl, anyone, to play with.
I happened to be there.
Cue a punch to the face, regardless of my gender, it was about my existence, the afront of ambiguity, and lo' blood flies, my lip is burst, I swing aimlessly, bewildered as to what is happening, I land blows on bodies and scrape a wall as I hit the ground, they laugh, they leave, and I sit on the pavement examining my own fate.
It could be worse I think to myself, and lord knows I'm not stranger to brutality.
I get to the MRI hospital, and I'm stitched up, they ask me who to call, I say my father. He doesn't answer.
I leave the hospital the day after and call him again, asking to come home, he says yes.
With a condition :
I am to stay upstairs in my bedroom and stay out of sight as they have friends over for sunday lunch and they don't want to explain that their dyke of a daughter was gay bashed in the gay village. Imagine. Thats enough to put you off your foie gras isn't it?
So I sit, in my shame, in my teenage bedroom, a bedroom that has not been kind to me. My lip has paper stitches across and is swollen and raw, my hand has paper stitches to hold the gash closed, its gross to look at.
It's a battle scar.
The man who raped me, told the police, when referring to me, that "the lesbian girl was the cherry on the cake," and it's something that makes me sick to think of.
It's not that the man is a rapist, oh no, that is abhorrent and makes my skin crawl, that he created a life inside me whilst taking part of mine, even more so, but no, it is the very arrogance and pride he must have felt when he uttered those words.
The lesbian girl.
He must have found it quite an accolade knowing he could take the only thing I would never give. My sexuality. My sense of self.
Because this is who I am.
Every time I see the scar on my hand, my now married, with wedding ring hand, I wonder what the state of the world will continue to be.
My students, debate, frequently, an open forum as to the state of the world, and the story of the girls attacked on the london bus comes up, and I share my dispair and disappointment that the world still hasn't learned that love is love and it's needed more than ever.
That teenage boys are still making their mark because they can, because they want to, because they are right and we are wrong.
I look down at my scar in my friday classroom and I'm sad.
It's 2019 and the world hasn't changed.
We talk of Gentleman Jack and how life affirming it is for all in the classroom, the boys and the girls, the strength of self and love that Suranne portays as her iconic stalwart Anne Lister.
Such hope in love and such pride in identity.
A woman who wanted to marry, for love.
We are all transfixed by the beauty of it, my students who range from 17-26, and me, their 30 something tutor, in discussion about the power of love and its epic portrayal.
Don't get me wrong, we had the same conversations when Dr Foster aired on our screens, but this is something different. This is something more.
I'm a woman who wanted to marry for love, and it's by some miracle we have at least managed that.
My students wanted to know every detail, how did we meet, how long have we been together, and one inspirational little soul, when explaining to a new student in class "Who's Fran?" proceeded to narrate the barker baker tale, and I was in awe that they dare to know my past whilst I teach their present and their future and then she spoke the words "The only thing you need to know about Fran, is Fran loves Sarah,"
It was so powerful, I told a friend of mine and the exact same quote cropped up in her wedding speech to me on the big day.
I am blessed to teach a group of kind, open minded, beautiful people who will grow to change the world in a postive and loving way. My job is not just teaching syllabuses, it is teaching love and kindess, perhaps they have taught me this too.
I was never allowed to share a relationship. When I had my heart broken, I had to hide it and pretend all was ok when what I wanted was to cry and it be known my 17 year old heart was breaking.
When I fell in love and found the one, I wanted them to know and share in the joy, my Sarah.
A wonderous example of how we deal with my sexuality? But remember now, my parents are not homophobic. Anymore.
I was 21, I had the shit kicked out of me by a group of twenty something men, just outside the gay village, I was walking back to my apartment, and when one of them shouted at me
"Are you supposed to be a boy or a girl?"
A rather drunk me on my way home from a night out uttered "fuck off,"
Which wasn't receieved well.
There's no doubt about it, they were waiting. For a boy, or a girl, anyone, to play with.
I happened to be there.
Cue a punch to the face, regardless of my gender, it was about my existence, the afront of ambiguity, and lo' blood flies, my lip is burst, I swing aimlessly, bewildered as to what is happening, I land blows on bodies and scrape a wall as I hit the ground, they laugh, they leave, and I sit on the pavement examining my own fate.
It could be worse I think to myself, and lord knows I'm not stranger to brutality.
I get to the MRI hospital, and I'm stitched up, they ask me who to call, I say my father. He doesn't answer.
I leave the hospital the day after and call him again, asking to come home, he says yes.
With a condition :
I am to stay upstairs in my bedroom and stay out of sight as they have friends over for sunday lunch and they don't want to explain that their dyke of a daughter was gay bashed in the gay village. Imagine. Thats enough to put you off your foie gras isn't it?
So I sit, in my shame, in my teenage bedroom, a bedroom that has not been kind to me. My lip has paper stitches across and is swollen and raw, my hand has paper stitches to hold the gash closed, its gross to look at.
It's a battle scar.
The man who raped me, told the police, when referring to me, that "the lesbian girl was the cherry on the cake," and it's something that makes me sick to think of.
It's not that the man is a rapist, oh no, that is abhorrent and makes my skin crawl, that he created a life inside me whilst taking part of mine, even more so, but no, it is the very arrogance and pride he must have felt when he uttered those words.
The lesbian girl.
He must have found it quite an accolade knowing he could take the only thing I would never give. My sexuality. My sense of self.
Because this is who I am.
Every time I see the scar on my hand, my now married, with wedding ring hand, I wonder what the state of the world will continue to be.
My students, debate, frequently, an open forum as to the state of the world, and the story of the girls attacked on the london bus comes up, and I share my dispair and disappointment that the world still hasn't learned that love is love and it's needed more than ever.
That teenage boys are still making their mark because they can, because they want to, because they are right and we are wrong.
I look down at my scar in my friday classroom and I'm sad.
It's 2019 and the world hasn't changed.
We talk of Gentleman Jack and how life affirming it is for all in the classroom, the boys and the girls, the strength of self and love that Suranne portays as her iconic stalwart Anne Lister.
Such hope in love and such pride in identity.
A woman who wanted to marry, for love.
We are all transfixed by the beauty of it, my students who range from 17-26, and me, their 30 something tutor, in discussion about the power of love and its epic portrayal.
Don't get me wrong, we had the same conversations when Dr Foster aired on our screens, but this is something different. This is something more.
I'm a woman who wanted to marry for love, and it's by some miracle we have at least managed that.
My students wanted to know every detail, how did we meet, how long have we been together, and one inspirational little soul, when explaining to a new student in class "Who's Fran?" proceeded to narrate the barker baker tale, and I was in awe that they dare to know my past whilst I teach their present and their future and then she spoke the words "The only thing you need to know about Fran, is Fran loves Sarah,"
It was so powerful, I told a friend of mine and the exact same quote cropped up in her wedding speech to me on the big day.
I am blessed to teach a group of kind, open minded, beautiful people who will grow to change the world in a postive and loving way. My job is not just teaching syllabuses, it is teaching love and kindess, perhaps they have taught me this too.
But what will come of it?
My married bliss.
Do I have to consider that holding my wifes hand in public may offend to such an extent we are in danger?
Not just the usual danger of judgement, dirty looks, stares, the usual "ew" shouted from an uneducated mass of chavs that roam the streets with somehow more right and sense of entitlement than we do.
Do we bring a child into a world where things won't get better, where they will be ostricised and judged? In danger?
Will our Tory government move mountains to strip us over time? Who knows.
If Trumps America continues to filter across the oceans that the pollution that he and his politics are, then perhaps our rights will filter too. Disappate.
Perhaps as long as there are strong women in the media, who pose as positive role models, of love and life and hope and self, then there is a change we can change perceptions and shape minds.
To break barriers and hate.
It's pride month, and I am proud.
But I am worried.
Worried that rainbows and glitter are not enough to see us through this storm.
My married bliss.
Do I have to consider that holding my wifes hand in public may offend to such an extent we are in danger?
Not just the usual danger of judgement, dirty looks, stares, the usual "ew" shouted from an uneducated mass of chavs that roam the streets with somehow more right and sense of entitlement than we do.
Do we bring a child into a world where things won't get better, where they will be ostricised and judged? In danger?
Will our Tory government move mountains to strip us over time? Who knows.
If Trumps America continues to filter across the oceans that the pollution that he and his politics are, then perhaps our rights will filter too. Disappate.
Perhaps as long as there are strong women in the media, who pose as positive role models, of love and life and hope and self, then there is a change we can change perceptions and shape minds.
To break barriers and hate.
It's pride month, and I am proud.
But I am worried.
Worried that rainbows and glitter are not enough to see us through this storm.
