Gays, race and this institutional thing of marriage

Truth be told, I am not married and have never been married, now at the sweet, tender, gullible age of 47. That’s right, the Chook and I (the Chook being my missus Marion) have never stood under showers of confetti and their lovely, tasteful representation of great fertility: clouds of sperm pouring luxuriously through the sky. And sure, from sheer deprivation I would have exploded in a cloud burst if something hadn’t changed all those years ago when we “clinched the deal” (read: became common-in-law partners, life souls, whatever). To be honest, I don’t know when we clinched the deal. One day more than seven years ago we were going out in Johannesburg before our overseas travels began, the next she had moved into my bachelor townhouse and I learned to distinguish between window-boxes filled with weeds and grass (including zol) and window-boxes overflowing with smiling azaleas, bizzy lizzies and other petal-hooded tender sages nodding in thoughtful readings of Wordsworth.

It was referring to her as my partner in the cosmopolitan mix of places we have lived in like Shanghai, back in the good ol’ Cracking China days of this blog, that made me change that word for “wife”. As you know, “partner”, is context-dependent and in different communities or nations it means different things. One American friend of mine in Shanghai, Rick, had never met The Chook, and I would refer to her as my partner. “My partner and I live on Beijing West Road.” “I like going to Oscar’s pub with my partner on Sundays for the terrific roast lamb.” One day Rick discreetly referred to the fact that homosexuality was pretty much outlawed in China and was wondering how we managed to circumvent that one. “Say that again?” I inquired. To further Rick’s disillusion, he knew my partner came from Zimbabwe and had come to the confident conclusion that my partner was also black. Immediately I pictured the delusion in his mind: that every evening I went home to be spoiled and serviced by a large, handsome, well-endowed and smoothly oiled Shona warrior. It turned out that pretty much was his vision. Not my five foot bundle of feminine joy and mischief. Come to think of it, though his attempt to be discreet about the subject was delicate, so to speak, it still had all the diplomacy of a large bovine lifting his tail. I burst out laughing and corrected him. He grinned weakly.

Some readers may object to my need to correct Rick on the sex and skin colour of my partner. To which I answer, if you are a gay Indian and your gay friends think you have a wife and that she is also Indian, you may wish to correct this and tell them that your partner is a he and he is Chinese. It’s just truthful and sets the record straight. Otherwise you are living a lie.

Thing is, the incident with Rick above was just one of many misunderstandings, sometimes including downright awkwardness, and so I found the word “wife” useful for avoiding wrong assumptions. Small and sometimes calculating silences that I had before, when I introduced my absent spouse as “partner” disappeared. Mind you it was fun watching various people from different nations and tribes trying to work through that one. It could tell you a bit on their stance on liberal thinking and same-sex rights, especially in some pubs (natural meeting places for travelling westerners in places like China) which are sadly notorious for homophobia and bigotry.

The more unpleasant experience was once staying with a close relative of Marion’s on a visit to England. They were extremely religious and we were required to sleep in different bedrooms as our personal, non-institutional vows to each other were not acknowledged. I found their prissiness rather ironic. This is because they were staunchly Catholic, and I need not remind readers of the tastes of some of their priests and the inadequate apologies of the current pope. How does one go about continuing to choose to belong to institutions like that? Denial? And if we’d been officially married, but in a secular court, without the blessing of their God? Would we still have had to consider tip-toeing to each other’s bedrooms like teenagers in the middle of the night in their home?

Just such a pity that so many have to define others by labels. (“He’s a Buddhist, therefore he’s … ” “She’s a lesbian. So she must be … “) If people are staunchly loyal to a particular institution (especially religious or political), even if it is subtle, their organisation is perceived as “better” than others, an agency for the “real” truth and correct values, and can include hidebound views on “correct” sexuality (or lack of it). Which reminds me of the time gays have tried to pick me up in pubs or clubs in SA and even in policed China. My puzzlement was with what their preferences were. How had they labelled me as desirable? I am fairly large, bald, and hairy. An old joke was that if Rod ever got stuck in the mud a tow-truck could haul him out by hooking into the fur on his back. In other words I am not going to make it as a yummy beef cake on the front cover of Playgirl magazine. I asked gay friends why some gays would go for me. “Some just like butch,” was the sympathetic response. My second concern was why would they choose “straight” pubs to look for a pick-up, or something more, when there was the real risk of some homophobes attacking them? That is not a value judgment; it just doesn’t make practical sense. Go where the market is, surely. I gather from same-sex friends that one reason is that some guys just need a bit of coaxing to come out of the closet and hide in straight pubs. And of course, homophobic people are sometimes unable to deal with their own denied predilections, so project that self-loathing onto others. Why else be homophobic? What is the threat? None, except for personal, unexamined drives. Don’t you just love this definition (6) on Urban Dictionary? I am sure some readers can add to the list of reasons, including attacking my viewpoint as valuing segregation.

So, I have perhaps “deluded” the reader (and the marvellous friends I have made through these blogs) for a long time. Marion and I are not married. We’re partners. Ummm … soul mates? Common-in-law spouses? Two partridges in a pear tree? Well, we really don’t care. We love each other and are suspicious of institutions.