No thank you needed, young man

A Thai student stopped me on my way home from work. I was walking head down, scanning the pavement.

It was after 11pm, and the young man was wearing regulation university dress: white shirt, black slacks.

I wondered why he had not gone home for a shower and a meal. Why was he still out at this hour, away from family? 

'Do you have B10?' he asked in English.

'I do - is that all you want?'I replied, opening my wallet. I gave him B20, just in case he needed more.

Being Thai, he finds it difficult to say 'thanks', not because he's ungrateful, just because it's not something Thais do easily when someone older gives them something. They might wai the person; or, as this young man attempted to do, start a conversation, almost as a distraction.

'Do you work around here?' he asked.

I can't be bothered with small talk, which made him feel uncomfortable, so he asked a second time.

'Do you work around here?'

'Mmm,' I agreed.

He looked disappointed that I didn't respond in the face-saving way that was expected. He is starting a conversation, expressing interest in me to show he feels grateful.

But he needn't, as I am happy to help. I didn't want him stuck in this unpleasant spot (I work in an industrial area) either.

'Now I need to find a bus...' he muttered.

I left him to it. Much as I like Thai ways, I can't be bothered engaging in small talk simply because a simple 'thank you' culturally is too elusive. I resumed my journey home.

Iceblock addiction, gay identity issues, candle man memories

'I want suckies!' said boyfriend Maiyuu.

That's a cry for help if ever I heard one.

I put my gay identity problems (see below) to one side, to consider the needs of my boyfriend.

God knows what could happen if he doesn't get his suckies, I thought. I must put myself in his place to consider what his plight could be like - without, of course, 'projecting'.

Actually, I knew immediately what he meant. We are deeply in tune with each other's needs as a couple. You could say we have come out to each other.

'I will go to Carrefour to buy some. Would you like to come?' he asked.

This was Maiyuu's first invitation to me to accompany him outdoors all weekend. I had asked him half a dozen times if he wanted to go for a walk.

'No,' he replied - you can't buy suckies on the street, so no wonder.

Suckies are the coloured iceblocks you see above.

Neither of us is sure what else to call them. I am sure they come in packaging, but I have never looked at the name. We do know what to do with them, however.

Cut off one end with scissors. Place in mouth. As the flavoured iceblock melts, suck out the cordial, or whatever it is in its liquid state.

'I am too busy to go out, but I will wait for you,' I replied.

'I'll be just a tick,' said Maiyuu, as he left home.

We had no other reason to visit the Carrefour superstore other than to buy suckies, but it is the only place around here which sells them.

Half an hour alter, he was back with his beloved iceblocks. As I write, he has sucked his way through at least half a dozen of the tubular-shaped things.

They are addictive, especially in a climate as hot as ours.

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Just when life was getting dull around here, I thought, Mr Anon has come to the rescue.

You will recall that I left an invitation a couple of days ago to Mr Anon to have another go at the coming-out debate, which started in the comments section of Saturday's post.

He left one of the first comments which set off the discussion. Here it is again:

'It is our parents' responsibility to know us and accept us. If you can't be honest with your own family about who you are, it probably means you have a number of identity issues.'

Oh God, identity issues!

There goes my psychological right leg.

'You are suppressed!' And with that he cuts my left leg from under me as well.

I have lost count of the number of wounding epithets or labels which Mr Anon has applied over the years. I must truly be one sad gay bastard.

His remarks are designed to hurt, of course, but the language is couched in psycho-babble - what exactly are identity issues, pray tell, and why should we worry if we have them?

Are they curable, like Maiyuu's addiction to iceblocks?
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The Victoria Coffee House, Christchurch, 1985

When I was 17, an 'adult' friend liked taking me to a coffee house, stuck on the end of a busy one-way street like a barnacle on a ship's bum.

The coffee house, on the corner of Montreal and Oxford Terrace in Christchurch, New Zealand, had been there since 1968, and was a fixture to hippies, arty types, and other oddballs who liked to wile away the empty hours until dawn. It was unlit but for candles flickering away on each table.

Farang M introduced me to his friends, who, like him, were aged in his early 30s.

I thought they were impossibly sophisticated - especially when they pulled out the inevitable joint for a smoke around our moody table.

At the entrance was an enormous white candle, stuck on a platform like the Virgin Mary on a plinth.

Every night farang M took me there, a bearded man with long hair was sitting over the candle, with a fiercely dedicated look.

He held up simple domestic candles (the kind we used in blackouts as a kid) over the flame of the mother candle, to drip more wax onto its body, to make it bigger still.

This was his job. Rarely a night went by when I did not see him sitting next to the mother candle, tending to its needs. The candle had been growing there, on its noble perch inside the front door, for years.

He did not start conversations with anyone, just melt candles. The bearded one was well known in that part of town as the Candle Guy, and had been there as long as anyone could remember.

Occasionally a newcomer would ask what he was doing, and he'd give them a talk about his life's work.

Others knew better than to keep him back from such important business. Why interfere? He is busy dripping, so leave the guy alone.

At the coffee shop, for the regulars at least, life carried on - the owner served tables, customers smoked joints and ordered one coffee after another.

Other favourites from the smudged, hand-scrawled menu were toasted cheese sandwiches, and simple ice-cream deserts, served in cheap silver-metal bowls.

They also sold liqueur, but only in the late hours, as the place was unlicensed.

Eventually the coffee shop was forced to close as it made way for city expansion. Did the candle man have identity issues? He was odd, it has to be said, and I have no idea how he ended up.

Perhaps he had created another statuesque candle at home, and spent his idle hours building that one up, before his main public performance at the coffee shop at night.

At least there he had an audience. For who can be bothered with such a painstaking task if he has to work alone?

We are all a little strange. Mr Anon, does that mean we deserve to be condemned?

Anyway, before I forget it entirely, here is Anon's latest bitchy comment. I have removed one paragraph, which is no longer relevant to this blog. As for the rest, you are welcome to enjoy it as it was sent.

By the way: To all readers celebrating Buddhist Lent, Have a happy waxy one!

'It seems to me that in this pattern with your parents you follow suit in the same way as with your other relationships. You are happy to keep things on an unreal basis that is unthreatening to you, in one apparent way, because they are controllable.

'Clearly your public and very emotional- rather than rational - reaction to the issue of being out displays some insecurity about your identity and the place you really need to occupy in terms of your relationships in all 3 areas: home, work, and extended family.

'I suspect if you can avoid coming out, it relates to you psychologically in the sense of hiding- from yourself, from any real boyfriend, from your family. Thus my belief you have identity issues in general.'

The strident coming-out brigade

I'm not anti-gay; just pro-family...let’s put it like that, shall we?

But where everyone else is concerned, oh, yes - come out! Regular readers of this blog (well, most of those who have contributed, anyway) are in no doubt that telling our families is the best answer.

We owe it to our parents and ourselves to tell them what we are really like, they say. Otherwise, we lead worthless lives of deception.

The debate on whether gays should tell their parents about their 'true' selves started inadvertently, in response to Saturday's post.

I wrote mainly about symphony orchestras, but also mentioned the plight of a young Malaysian blogger who has told his parents he is gay, and whose Dad won't accept his declaration.

In this pro coming-out message left in response, here is reader Anon:

'Without this very important knowledge of who you are, the entire family is dealing with you on false pretenses (and you with them). There may be surface calm and serenity, but it is dishonest and not real; ie, it is not the real you who is a member of the family but a facade.'

Strong words! So if I have yet to come out, and regard myself as at least part-gay, I am duping my parents? I am wasting our precious time together as I put across a fake image of myself, merely to gain their acceptance?

Life would be nice if it were so simple. Maybe for the proselytising come-out brigade, it is.

Never mind that a gay man may no longer be a teen craving anyone's acceptance. Or that his relationship with his family may have covered many obstacles and joyous moments even in the absence of such a declaration. They might be happy with things the way they are.

The pro-openness movement says they can't possibly enjoy a meaningful relationship - no matter what else has happened, no matter what the age gap between offspring and parent, or each other's expectations of how parents and their children should behave.

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We just have to get the message out there at whatever cost, rub it in their faces, if necessary, to proudly proclaim the real us.

Sometimes the pro-openness message sounds dominant and assertive. 'Stop the lying, liberate yourself and your parents!'

At other times, it sounds oddly subjugated and timid, as if gays do not have the right to expect they will be accepted.

'NEVER despair. ALWAYS hope. GIVE love.'

Forgive me, but I don't see why we should allow ourselves to be brow-beaten by the 'come out' mafia, whether in assertive or submissive mode. No one solution will work for everyone.

Yet if I buck the trend and decline to tell my parents, will I pay a price?

'By delay[ing], you remove the opportunity to build a real relationship, which takes time and good will on both sides. The longer the 'imaginary' relationship persists, the harder it will be to overcome it,' says another reader.

Really? Parents are not as feeble as this argument suggests. They manage to cope with any manner of crises which their children present for their attention: unwanted pregnancies, drugs, serious illness.

Is the 'I am gay' declaration so earth-shatteringly important?

This reader, meanwhile, sounds like a politician stumping for election:

'Here is my stance - As a gay man / lesbian ... it is YOUR responsibility to come out and live out. Not only for your own well-being but the well-being of future generations of GLBT people.

'The reason so many parents (and cultures and societies) still (amazingly) have problems with GLBT people is BECAUSE we are ALL NOT OUT.'

Permit me to offer an opinion on behalf of the hapless minority who have yet to liberate their true selves, and discover the glory of asserting their gayness:

We are all not you. Nor do we have to care how beautiful your life has become since you confronted your parents with the news that you are not the man they might have thought you were.

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Many gays seem determined to foist the news on their parents no matter what.

They want to meet their own needs. What their parents think, or their siblings, friends, employees and so on, counts for much less.

These things should be negotiated and managed over time, if they are raised at all.

Questions for the strident pro-outers:

Other members of the family should be considered. If enough of them disagree, would you drop your insistence on being gay - or is it a non-negotiable stance?

Is being gay a non-negotiable part of you, for that matter? How much of you has to be gay before you reach the point where you simply must tell - 50%? 70?

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All of us have family responsibilities, roles which we are expected to play which have a value of their own, both to us and other members of the family with whom we interact.

As an uncle, for example, I would want to consult my brothers and sisters about what approach they would like me to take, as they have children who one day will be old enough to understand what being gay means.

Another challenge for the tub-thumping pro-gay brigade:

'It is not just about you - it something which affects everyone. So, the question is not just whether you are up to it - more importantly, are they?'

PS: I am ware that not everyone will agree, especially gay readers who have come out and liken the experience to the second coming of the Lord. You are entitled to your view, as am I.

Brasso invective, Elgar reprise

You just can't keep a good man down.

The bane of my blogging life, Mr Anonymous, is back, with another nasty remark on the meaning of life as he reckons it should be lived. His latest comment was left in response to yesterday's post about how a young man should respond when his parents won't accept he is gay.

Well, okay, I didn't cover that ground exactly - I talked about symphony orchestras instead. But the blog post which motivated it, by Malaysian blogger Robbie, who is having problems with his Dad, does look at this sensitive matter (link harvested - it died).

I thought Robbie's post about his Dad's anti-gay stance was sympathetic and reasonable, even if I didn't agree with all of it. 

Here is Mr Anon's devastating response:

'It is our parents' responsibility to know us and accept us. If you can't be honest with your own family about who you are, it probably means you have a number of identity issues.'

His scathing remark about identity issues is probably aimed at me, rather than poor Robbie.

Back in another life, when I lived with a woman, we used to visit junk and curio shops, which in the olde worlde English-style city where we lived (Christchurch, New Zealand, since you ask), could be found around almost every corner.

Once I bought a bracelet in copper or gold brass for her, with someone else's name on it. In times past, a man had bought it for his girl, and dedicated it to her. She had an old name like Flo or Betty; the owner of the shop reckoned the piece was about 50 years old.

When we took it home, we polished it with Brasso, to brighten it up.

When I read Mr Anon's acidic comments, I am reminded of that can of Brasso. His comments are so caustic, they could clean metal.

If I could put his spittle in a can, I would market him as Gay Brasso. If I had a gay chandelier, you could clean it for me, love.

Because we enjoy a bit of drama, I have decided to remove the moderating bar on reader comments, at least for a while, to see what he comes up with next. So, fire away, Mr Anon.

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Elgar and a young Yehudi Menuhin

In yesterday's piece about symphony orchestras, I mentioned English composer Elgar. Hours after I wrote it, by strange coincidence, I came upon another reference to Elgar, in a short story called Elgar and the Watch My Father Gave Me.

The author is a Singapore-born Australian citizen, Kim Cheng Boey, who teaches creative writing at Newcastle University.

Kim Cheng Boey says that at 16, his Dad bought him a watch - and a vinyl recording of Elgar's Violin Concerto.

Here he is, describing a visit with his Dad to a Singapore market, on the day his oft-absent Pa bought him those gifts:

'At the next stall, a long-haired man with tattoos creeping out of his singlet served up brimming glasses of sugar cane juice with great gusto, grinding the cane and milking the crush for the last drop. The late afternoon light was aligned with the river's flow, a distilled light without glare. I think that was the last happy day I had with my father.'

A week later, gambler Dad, forever in financial trouble, turned up at the house to ask for the watch back, so he could pawn it. Thankfully, his son was much closer to his Elgar recording than he was the watch, for he was never to see it again:

'The watch my father gave me and then took back, ticks only in my memory, where my father also lives. Elgar's timeless piece goes on, retracing, measuring, anticipating our steps, resonant of lost years and vanishing places. Menuhin [who played on the recording] seems to be deferring to the last note; but there is no going back, the music says. I am in a new country, a lifetime away from my lost country, my lost father.'

I suppose Boey grew up with the English language all his life; otherwise, it would be unfair. Many native speakers of English can't write this well. They are unable to use their own language as expressively as Boey does; nor do they have his mastery of story-telling technique.

I found Kim Cheng Boey's story about his Dad, Elgar and the timepiece in a literary journal, Asia Literary Review. The journal describes itself tersely on the back cover as 'new fiction/reportage/travel/memoir'.

Asia Literary Review is sold in the US, UK, Australia, and many places in Asia, including Thailand, where it goes for B395. The watch story, from the summer 2009 edition, is here.

PS: Thank you to the friend who sent me two copies. I have a list of shops in Bangkok where you can buy it, for those interested.

PS 2: The story includes a picture of composer Edward Elgar and violin prodigy Yehudi Menuhin, then 16, outside Abbey Rd studios (see above).

'Menuhin is cooperating with the camera, while Elgar's pose betrays an air of unease...perhaps he is impatient to go the races,' Boey writes.

Gays on the perch, concert memories

We are sending off clothes to be washed and ironed today. I send mine every week. Maiyuu sends his every month.

Yesterday he sorted through an enormous pile of unwashed clothes, which he keeps in his bedroom.

We can send only 80 pieces at a time, so he chose those he most wants to wash (I suppose), and left the rest.

They now sit in two large rubbish bags, waiting for the girls from the clothes washing service to collect.

'I still have plenty more left over in my bedroom,' said Maiyuu, referring to his pile of unwashed clothing.

I don't think I have ever seen that space empty. Maybe he enjoys the company of his unwashed clothes.

I sent off a modest basket of work clothes, amounting to less than 10 pieces. These days, I make sure I check the pockets first, as I am forgetful.

Today I found B20 in one shirt, and B60 in another. In a third shirt, I found the ID card I need to get in the door at work, which I left there two nights before (last night, a friend let me in).

That's good. That card is still clean, and doesn't need another wash just yet.
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Two gay guys were sitting outside my condo building yesterday as I went for a swim. They were still there when I got back.

'Do you know Mr So-and-so?' one guy asked as I went in the door.

He gave me the floor number.

No I didn't, but I knew which farang he meant.

'I call him but he does not answer.'

Well, maybe he does not want to see you, dear!

'Can I visit into your room to call him on your phone?'

No, you can't.

'Two Thai friends are cooking up a storm in there,' I said, and left.

This was one of two gay encounters I had yesterday with the public.

Such is the state of my memory, I can't remember what happened in the other, but give me time, and it will come back.
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Elgar

Do you like symphony concerts? My Mum does, and thanks to her, I was exposed to them from a young age.

In Sydney, the city where I grew up, home to a world-renowned opera house with majestic sails, the symphony orchestra performed annual seasons of well-known classical pieces, in concerts aimed at the young.

My Mum would book season tickets, for me and herself.

The oldest child, I was in my early teens. The others were still too young to appreciate it when I had my turn, though she was to take my brother and sisters in due course, once I became too 'grown up' to be seen out with my Mum.

On concert days - from memory, the first Tuesday in every month - Mum would drive from home to see me at school in late afternoon, a 45min trip.

After I finished my homework, we'd catch an old deisel-powered train into town - one of the few times I went into the sparkling inner-city, except for Christmas - to visit the local opera house where the concerts were held.

We'd take a meal together in a restaurant overlooking the harbour, then find our seats in the concert hall. I don't know what we talked about; I wish I could remember.

I wore my school uniform. Mum used to get dressed up.

Often during the concert, Mum would fall asleep, though she still enjoyed it. I liked watching the players on stage. How come they did not get nervous? Everyone knew exactly what to do...how was that?

The orchestra played popular pieces like Elgar's Pomp and Circumstance. Many families took their offspring to the concerts, some much younger than me. I used to enjoy inspecting the printed programme - it looked smart, like the occasion itself.

The concert ended about 10.30pm. I suppose we finally got home at the exciting hour of midnight.

Today as I write this, I am listening to a classical radio station broadcast over the net from Sydney. It is still going after all these years - as is my Mum, bless her.