I was sixteen years old when I came out for the first time. I was living in Bundaberg and it was very early in 2007 – right at the start of Year 12. Two years prior, I had been expelled from a conservative, pentecostal Christian school with 300 students because of my choice to come out. I had been harassed after I left by parents on MySpace, making all sorts of allegations about my personal integrity. It was difficult – so much so that I didn’t even tell my parents about what I was going through. I was hamstrung between a rock and a hard place; the ‘rock’ being the fact that I was not ready to come out, and the ‘hard place’ being the fact that my previous school had convinced me that my parents would outright reject me. I wish I’d sued them – but I did better. I became a teacher and an author, hoping to educate others to be the best and most accepting version of themselves. No regrets. Still, suing God may have delivered a satisfactory outcome.
Bundaberg is the sort of place where everyone knows everybody else. Family lines go back to the days when Kanakas were blackbirded from the islands for cheap labour on the cane farms, and everyone goes camping with their “cousins”, who are actually just lifelong friends. When you join such a community at the age of 14 – particularly a tightly-woven religious community – you are not going to fit in. Especially if you happen to be gay. When I first got the keys to a car, I used to drive out on country roads to my friend’s houses. If it had been raining, the light would throw reflective rainbow shadows between the cracked bitumen as the trees went from orderly rows of fruit-bearing goodness to withered hands of desolation, pointing to the nothingness. If you drove out to those places at night, you would see the stars. The shimmering blanket of night sky was nothing like the city, where all the stars were suffocated by distant haze and streetlights; it was the only saving grace I found living so far from my real home. If you turned off your headlights in that place, you could disappear. Sometimes I wanted to.
After I ended up in a public school, I came out to my peers and teachers. I fielded all sorts of odd questions, including and not limited to:
How do you know? Have you ever tried it with a guy? How can you be sure if you’ve never done it? Have you ever kissed a girl? Do you have a girlfriend? Do you want a threesome?
Then, there was one I had thought about, but only briefly.
But don’t you want children someday?
Actually, I had always wanted children. I was not the sort of person who desired to be a parent from the moment I left school, nor did I ever want a big family – but I did want one baby to share with my future spouse. I had never thought about the practicalities of making this happen, but I knew that if I wanted it, I could find a way.
This particular question was asked numerous times by my Year 12 home class teacher, who was oddly curious for someone who saw me for 15 minutes out of the day. Sex education only goes so far and it certainly didn’t cover gay issues in 2007. Her questioning bothered me so significantly that I started to research what my options were. I came to the conclusion that if I wanted a child, I would need to pursue assisted reproduction with donor sperm. The next time she asked me how I would make a child without a man, I fired straight back at her.
“Well, miss, you can use donor sperm and in vitro fertilisation – or insemination. I have options.”
She looked at me with a cocked eyebrow.
“And how do you suppose that works?”
I looked back, wondering if she was serious.
“A donor provides his photograph, then he ejaculates into a vial, to be frozen and stored for insemination or IVF. Does that explain it?”
She was honestly speechless and had no idea how to respond, other than to record it onto the school system for behaviour, which my parents got a copy of upon graduation. We leafed through it the day after I left school and laughed and laughed.
Eleven years on, I wrote a book about it. Life is beautiful.