August 2, 2005

August begins in deep sorrow. Amidst friends having to leave for university I deal with the uncomfortable conjunction of sexuality and family. This I have always dreaded, and yet when the moment arrived I felt strangely dissociated from it, as if heart and head could not connect. I have never been one to face problems head-on, I try my best to run away from them – consequently I have not given much thought to the matter.

But feelings I cannot control. I cannot divorce myself from the mad morass of anger, sadness and ennui that I feel. How does one deal with these things? How does one deal with a father who cannot trust his son, and must resort to foraging through his wallet and internet history in order to find what is expected, and what is expected is the worst?

Yet who can blame him: surely he must have his suspicions. I have not been the subtlest queen in the court. It soon becomes apparent that our relationship is a house of cards built upon a pack of lies. This is heartbreaking. He thinks that I am a Christian heterosexual who will eventually grow up, get married, have a family and retire in contented senility. I think not. What is there left to say and love?

For in a court of law evidence gleaned through illegal means must needs be ignored; that is the law. But how can a restraining order be made against mothers and fathers? Memories and pain do not just disappear with the strike of a gavel, especially not treachery as low as this. I have betrayed my parents, my family, by pretending to believe in God and the attraction of women. My father has betrayed me by not placing in me his fullest trust. We are a house of cards, a pack of lies. Who betrayed whom first? Guilt that cannot be fairly apportioned.

Things are now explicitly clear. It is hard to deny a son after so many years of hard work and tenderness, just as it is difficult to refuse a father after so many years of anger and affection. Book-burning is to me one of the greatest sins (along with betrayal and unfilial piety), but on the stroke of midnight on the last day of July I tore seven precious books on a homosexual theme away, pretending to repent. More betrayal, more unfilial piety, but what remains to be done but to pretend?

And so I live.


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