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!!!
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