I'd love to fall in love again, but...

I am an individual who is full of life (at least on most days I am). I look out into the dark and marvel at the creation of the sky and the stars. I dream of one day living next to the coast, where I will take long walks, barefoot, and continue to wander at the magnificence of the ocean and its magnitude, as well as its calm nature and presence. I look at the flowers and how they just know what, or should I rather say who they are and their purpose. They live, breathe, and represent the light that is God. They just are.

I, on the other hand do not simply live. I used to when I was little, however with life and its up’s and down’s I have learned to master how to mask living. I am a master of masking what should just be. This came as I always heard from people that one needs to behave a certain way, one needs to protect their heart after it has been broken, one does not always have to show how they feel. Basically I learned the social rules. When I did not hear these rules, I observed them, and now I am someone who lives life according to those rules. There are days where I just live. Most of the times those days are tapped into when I am with my friends aka drunk or high, but sometimes a wave of energy (natural energy) overwhelms me and my spirit shines through. When this happens, I laugh as loud as I can, sing as loud as I can, dance, shout, scream, I feel.

The title of this note is; I’d love to fall in love again, but… The notion of love has changed drastically for me, I continue to believe in it (gagolo), but I have learned that it is an entity to be guarded with all my might and vigour; that no one out there is deserving of it. Now this is a transformation I never dreamt of, it is a crippling of who I really am and all because of the shit I have observed. All the times I have heard people proclaim their love for each other, only for them to “fall” out of it, kill each other over it, or try to hurt each other in the name of it. Basically I have a warped idea of what it means to love another person, especially regarding the intimate meaning of it.

Tonight I took a walk around campus and decided to get a fag, and as I was “deep in thought”, and my feelings were incognito, I stood in silence, alone, with nothing but nothingness to feel and said a little prayer. I prayed for healing and a sense of appreciation for love, just like I continue to have for the sky and ocean, and how these entities make me feel. I could not help but feel giggly, hopeful, filled with … love. So maybe all this is transitory, perhaps tomorrow I will wake up and feel ready, but within the existence of tonight I continue to be armoured, a knight in the night ready to fight off both cupid and whomever he might have pierced, hoping he will change my mind.

love lives within me, however I do not think I understand it. And until that point I will actively try to re-connect to Spirit so that my eyes are reopened and heart capable of trusting. for now, tonight and the seconds that make it, I remain true to the title: I'd love to fall in love again, but... I'm not too certain.

True self: Part 2

In retrospect and about 13 years from that experience I have come to realise that I hit on more girls than I care to remember (Temogo is not one of them, contrary to what she believes). Anyway, before this little love affair at age 12 there were other girls whose friendship with me got twisted as feelings of warmth and belonging arose and I believed myself to have been attracted to them; love something. But they never agreed to my advances and now with a bird’s eye-view I realise that perhaps they too were afraid to be known as the girls dating the pre-Madonna who was not as yet aware of his sexuality. Flashes of memory pop up of when my mother also started pointing out that certain things I did were not the norm. I remember this particular time when I wore her clothes and makeup and started parading in the house (of course I did not expect her to walk in and find me clad in her floral dress and high heels), she walked in and gave me the look and then started whipping me with one of her belts from the wardrobe (elsewhere it is called the closet, which is where she wanted me to stay). Then I realised that I should never again wear her clothes or any of my sister’s clothes without any surety that either of them or my brother wouldn’t come back home early (I wonder what he would have done had he been the one to walk in on me looking epicene). Anyway, let’s fast forward to 2011.

The beginning of 2011 was beautiful for me; I had just graduated from university (again), was looking forward to touring New York with the choir, and also either studying further or finding a job. Twenty four years old with the rest of my future ahead of me (too enthusiastic and positive for my own good if you ask me). The choir left for New York (I had to leave my lover behind, sad bunny but hey) and we had fun there, plenty of memories created, those type of memories one treasures forever. Upon our return everyone was suffering from jet lag and somehow it was taking longer for me to get over mine. I remember feeling like everything did not make sense (especially the days, which is what jet lag is primarily, I think) and only now do I realise that I was blue maybe because I did not want the fairy-tale of New York to come to an end. Then… about a week later my mom called me into her room and asked me if I was gay (let’s just say that my mandible dislocated and lay on the floor for a few seconds). I could not answer that question. Instead I stared at her facial expression and listened to her tone and processed both as I was thinking of a way to answer her very unnecessary question. She went on to say how she heard my grandmother and cousin discussing it and wanted to know if indeed it was true. In my head I was thinking “Mom, I had Beyonce and Avril Lavigne plucked on my wall half of my upper teen years, and you bought me the Beyonce experience dvd. I sing with her as loud as I can every weekend while doing my chores. So, what is this you are asking me?”

She asked me again and I responded with a question, “what if I am?” let’s just say that my question opened up a can of worms, or rather a basket of snakes as Patrick likes to put it. In the end I did not answer her question and chose the cowards solution and walked out. I had never felt as useless before, I felt as though my whole BEING was a sham, a shame, something to get rid of. Thank God Mr lover lover was supportive and we worked through it together.

Now I can look back at the experience and not be as sad or as angry towards my mom. I was also angry towards God for firstly making me gay, and secondly for having me defend myself my whole life from both outsiders and now family members. I had to defend myself for being the only person I knew how to be, and was angry that at times I would downplay my personality just so I could fit in and not have to go through ridicule. Simply put, I was depressed. It is now 2013 and I do have to say that I can see a change in my mother; even though she does not ask about whom I’m dating or any of that love shit, she has come to accept my sexuality (I think). My relationship with her has become tighter since my move to Pretoria and we do talk often on the phone. I have come to realise through many discussions with friends and others that my response to her question could have been different. Some say I should have answered her and not ask her a question as my response, some say that I should have been more understanding of her stance on the matter and thus offer understanding, while others understand my reaction (these are my favourite people, lol).

The point is; denying who you are is not good for you or your greater purpose here on earth. When you do this you prevent yourself from travelling a path only set out for you. You choose another one hoping that perhaps with time or church or any other method of “healing” you will no longer have the same feelings, but when you no longer have those feelings you are not who you were meant to be. Some get married to women and hide behind this identity but come after nine ba busy le di gay, some turn to the church and speak of how they were healed, while some just suffer quietly in their rooms, crying themselves to sleep every-night but smile during the day.

There is only one of you, introspect, do right and just be!!!

True self: Part 1

There was a time in this ever-evolving world of ours when homosexuality was deemed a psychiatric disorder. The Diagnostic and statistical manual characterised and gave leeway for people, both professionals in the medical domain and ordinary folk the right to not only pose judgement, but to have a leg to stand on in marginalising homosexuals. This marginalisation succeeded to an extent because some homosexuals sought the help of these scientists with a cure, finally they –in most cases gay men- would expect release from the chains of the beast called true self. I, like many others born into a society with a level of sanity and rationality, however minimal, did not have to experience such harshness from the medical institutions or others. However, I did experience levels of homophobia on a personal level. My brother was the first person to point out that something was wrong with me. I remember the one time I came back from school with a knitting kit. I was just sitting there and about to start and he said “wetsang ka ntho tsa banyana?” I could not understand what he meant, I mean everyone at school was permitted to knit, both boys and girls, and now in the comfort of my home I was told that what I was doing was effeminate. My sister, luckily for me, jumped to my rescue and told him to get off my back. I laughed and simply continued the task at hand, which by the way required above-average hand-eye co-ordination and high levels of concentration. Days went by and I continued doing what I enjoyed i.e. choir (singing first soprano), knitting, having my nose in the books and generally being around girls.

The “something is wrong with you” interaction came once more when I was in grade 3. Then and there boys were mean asses, out to say whatever came to mind and the other problem was that they were not afraid to get physical about what they believed in. I remember this particular ass- hole in primary school making a remark, loudly as I walked through the school yard about my demeanour. I did not do anything, just continued walking. But then with days passing and more remarks I decided to retaliate. I am not one gifted with a robust physical structure, but lord knows-and I thank him- for I have an agile and strong vocal tract coupled with some brain cells to rub together. So I began the ever so fulfilling journey to curse-Ville, this was my manner of retaliation back then. Whenever a moron would make nasty remarks about who I am, I did the same thing and it was ten-fold in intensity. This helped but sometimes it got me into even bigger trouble as I was promised a beating after school, that’s if it did not happen immediately. Some boys would go as far as asking if I was a boy or girl, my remark “botsa ntatao”. I somehow knew that by saying that I would get them to keep quiet and angered enough to paralyse them. This was a way for me to degrade the carrier whose loins produced them, which served a snowball effect; by de-masculinising their fathers it somehow reflected on them as well, two birds with one stone sort of thing. These asses got angry and some charged at me, I ran away, typically to the teacher. If I was with my friends then they would step up and tell the idiot to leave me alone. This resulted in no after-school beatings or scars on my face (kneels and sighs).

However, by the time high school came I began wondering if something was indeed wrong with me. I looked at all the boys in my grade and at home and realised that they would hang out together, while I was with the girls. They started sounding different as their voices ‘broke’, while I still had the same high-pitched voice. They had pimples…uh… the only thing I did not question but gladly accepted, as I had the smoothest skin (emphasis on ‘had’). And the most important realisation; my feelings for this other chap (heart eyes). I swear he would simply be wiping his nose and the reason for my existence would be evident (dramatization), but hey you get what I mean. For a whole year I did not entirely entertain these feelings and instead fell into the pit of peer pressure and courted a girl (yuck). This relationship was lovely, best-friends sort-of-lovely, and I even shared a lip-lock with her. This went on for about two months or so, and just as I was beginning to go with the flow of being with a girl she asked me if I was gay. Can anyone spell A N G E R? That is what I experienced as she breathed those words; I gawked at her, motionless, and eventually walked away. That was the beginning of the end for her and me. I was heartbroken as I walked home in the evening, the clouds gathered (this is the truth) and I thought how funny, the outside world is mimicking exactly how I was feeling on the inside… to be continued