Essay: it’s getting better, right?
somehow, we still don’t hear enough stories about growing up queer
When I look back at my high school experiences, I can’t help but compare and theorise. Compare in the sense of thinking about what would have happened if I hadn’t come out, what would have happened if I was in a different school. Theorise in the sense of whether it would have been easier, whether I did the right thing, whether I should have come out earlier or later. High school, for the most part, was burdened by awkward dates with girls (my apologies to any and all of them) and a complete lack of awareness about my own queerness. This is exemplified by my desperate seeking of a girlfriend, avoiding doing any subject that I deemed ‘too gay’ (drama) and defending queerness with the party line of, “I’m not gay but…”. School was a different experience for my peers. All I had were the tools of any closeted gay: self-defensive jabs caused by the paranoia of being caught out.
You look like them,
you try and act like them
but somewhere deep down
you know you’re not the same.
You spend your whole life living like this. The other day, a memory of coming out to a friend in Year Six dawned on me. That’s how early I knew. Somehow that day went by without comment; maybe he didn’t hear me, maybe he didn’t know what to say.
Maybe you heard and just didn’t want to say anything.
Maybe I was okay with that.
As he forgot, so did I. It took me another five years to recognise it and, even when telling my parents at the time, truthfully I didn’t know it until I said it aloud.
I tell you and it’s an invisible weight lifted,
it’s a breath out of the air I didn’t realise I was holding.
This is something so specific to sexuality. It’s an internal force, a voice that is combatting a lifetime of being told one way is normal. It’s muscle memory, it’s the complicated navigation of what is right and wrong, of what is internalised homophobia, and what is shame.
You’re trying to find your way without a map
Where the destination is shrouded in fog.
I can tell you from experience, a boys’ school contains more people using gay as an insult on a daily basis than you might think. It’s not malicious, it’s ignorant. But it is effective. When all you learn about in classes is straight sex ed, and all you see in movies and TV is straight romance, it has an effect.
You sit through lessons of sex ed with no talk of prep or consent or anything that applies to you.
You watch a straight couple kiss for the thousandth time and go, that may be me.
That could be me.
That should be me.
You start to doubt, to gaslight yourself; the voice inside you becomes confused.
Maybe you don’t like guys. Maybe you can convince yourself. Maybe you like girls. Maybe you’re just kidding yourself. Maybe it’s just a phase. Maybe you’re bi. Maybe you’re straight. Maybe if you try hard enough. Maybe if you stop looking for gay stories. Maybe if you just -
maybe if you just -
maybe if you just -
Being queer becomes an impossibility, something hidden in the corner of your mind that you don’t acknowledge, you can’t acknowledge, until you forget it’s there. You wilfully ignore it.
You just take it all in.
Just under 80% of queer students in Australia hear homophobic language in schools on a fortnightly basis at a minimum. Queer sex education is exceedingly limited in NSW public schools, and the ability for queer students to simply exist in safe schooling environments is continually challenged by homophobic and transphobic legislation.
You grin and bear it.
My circumstances were perhaps odder, growing up with two older brothers who were both gay. Three for three. Being gay was normalised, not stigmatised, in my family. And yet, despite all of this, there was shame. Finding a queer person without shame is the exception now. It’s an expectation. No matter how far we’ve pushed forwards and been pushed back, shame is the eternal ghost that haunts those that dare differ from the “norm”.
When I eventually did come out publicly, I found out that a lot of my friends already knew.
Someone had told them.
Somebody told you.
And you didn’t say anything.
It was my worst fear realised. I’d like to lie and say I screamed and shouted and tracked them down. But, the person who outed me had been a close friend of mine. I remember sighing resigned, “okay,” and moving on. I was still afraid to draw too much attention because, even when you come out, there’s still that pressure to fit in, not to be too gay, not to be too camp. The party line for coming out is: “I’m still the same person.” Why?
You say it’s not a choice, you say it’s alright.
You say: why does it matter?
Why should queer people tone themselves down? Why should they be expected not to change? To assimilate and blend for straight comfort? The first time I experienced what I would now call queer joy was watching Glee after I came out. I knew it only as the “gay show” and had banned myself from watching it. Coming out liberated me in that I could watch what I wanted now (no matter how bad the show). I could choose who I’d be.
You watch an objectively bad TV show and you cry.
You cry because it’s what you’ve been missing.
Straight kids get told that high school will be the best part of their life, and queer kids get told it will get better. Dumb Kids, a play I’ve written in response to all these feelings, asks why it never gets good and only gets better for its’ queer characters. Why is there an immediate assumption (albeit often valid) that schooling and growing up will be hard for queer kids? How do these deficit expectations which surround growing up limit the possibility of queer kids moving into a zone beyond “better”?
You ask when it gets good.
You ask when it gets great.
Dumb Kids started out as an exploration of that. But it wasn’t until we got queer actors, creatives, and an entire team together that we discovered all the joy, and hardship, that happens when you get a bunch of queer kids in the room. Suddenly so many voices that hadn’t been given a chance to speak emerged, suddenly there was safety in community, suddenly there was joy in being able to talk about everything that was different for us. We didn’t shy away from it, we didn’t try and pretend everything was good. There’s such a particular joy and bond in being able to swap stories about how honestly, utterly shit the world is sometimes.
I speak and I listen and I’m listened to and it’s
It’s joy
It’s alright
And I wonder why we couldn’t have this before
As theatre makers, we need to move beyond this representation of externalised homophobia to tell new and exciting stories. Dumb Kids exists in a world free from straight bullies, instead exploring the nuance of the internal struggles of growing up.
I wonder why we couldn’t have this our entire lives.
The most common excuse for not teaching queer inclusive pedagogy is that it’s “dangerous knowledge”. We say this is adult knowledge when these are problems that kids face around the country, around the globe, every single day. This isn’t about politics, this isn’t about religion, this is about too many queer kids not knowing about sex and respectful relationships and how to move beyond the barriers of shame. This is about how many queer kids end up in toxic co-dependent relationships because they finally found someone who loves them. This is about kids growing up thinking AIDS is a death sentence in Australia. This is for all the conversations that do not happen because people don’t want to stir the pot.
I wonder why. I wonder why. I wonder why -
Queer kids deserve to move beyond the realm of things just getting “better”. Now, they deserve things to be good. But I’m honestly not sure how possible that is, at least right now. Dumb Kids is about trying to balance those two ideas, wanting things to be good but accepting the reality of what they are. Maybe one day, queer kids can get to good.
I hope so.
Jacob’s play Dumb Kids plays at KXT on Broadway until 8 July. Find tickets here.
Image by Bryan Ruiz
Jacob is a queer playwright who still has to spell out the whole alphabet to know if S goes before T. He loves telling authentic, funny and new queer stories, like his three plays: This Genuine Moment (Old 505, La Mama Theatre), Tell Me Before the Sun Explodes (KXT) and Dumb Kids (KXT).
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