The New Normal

Stephen Mulholland has got a lot of people upset, with his recent article in the Sunday Times, titled: “Same-sex parents have a special duty to their children”.  I would say, he isn’t wrong.  We do have a special duty to our children – but not quite in the way Mulholland imagines.

Bringing up a child, no matter who you are, isn’t the easiest thing.  The manuals are both incomprehensible and dull.  Anyone around you who has ever had a child is quicker with the advice than with actual help.  It is a lonely sea and you have to paddle it pretty much on your own, on those bleak nights when projectile vomit hits the ceiling and temperatures soar off the charts.  Of course there are the “Little House on the Prairie” moments as well, when all is sweetness and such dazzling light as one could never hope to imagine, let alone describe.

But generally, children of whatever age are a bit of a slog.  You have to hammer away at their spelling and reading and vocabulary and maths.  If you don’t, like a neglected work email inbox, it starts to become impossible to recover the lost ground. You have to bandage the grazed arm, you have to calm their fears.  You have to take them to school, you have to make their supper and then get them to eat it. Being gay or lesbian is neither here nor there, since one does none of these things using one’s sexual organs, or any combination of them.

Each phase has its wonders and each phase seems to have its slog.  It is the dreariness of dealing with nappies and tasteless food that comes out of very expensive bottles in chemists; it is the fighting for space in bed; it is the explaining things over and over again – because, as a friend of mine once said to me long, long ago – “You have to teach them everything!”

Yes – everything.  And what she forgot to tell me is that you have to un-teach them a hell of a lot of things as well.  We have to explain to them that the world is sometimes a very hostile place – where children will laugh at them because of who they are, or because of who we all are as a family.  And we have to explain to them that those children have learnt their cruelty and their bigotry and stupidity from their parents.  And it is very likely that they learnt it all from their parents in turn.

We have to teach them how to deal with a world where some people think it is fine to be one thing and not fine to be another, whether because of race, or religion, or accent or gender.  We have to teach them tolerance, even of the idiotic many who are so terribly comfortable – so unchallenged – so unruffled.  We have to teach them these things, not because of who we are but because of what the majority is, and how it thinks (or doesn’t) and behaves.

So yes, I think Stephen Mulholland has a point, bumblingly made, albeit.  Gay and Lesbian parents need to do a great deal to protect our children from rampant and openly confessed heterosexuals.  They are a dangerous breed, by and large.

And it is the case, holding as they do, a majority of such huge proportions, that they can behave as though there is no-one else on the planet.  They can define what is “normal” and what is not.  They can demand obeisance to the gods of “family values” and “common sense” and “religious principles”.  And they can persecute those who do not conform to a binary view of gender, sex and sexuality.  And they do.  I need not cite the terrible details.  That is what is “normal” in the world in which we as lesbian and gay parents live with our children.

It is not his patronising attitude which worries me.  (I would much rather be patronised than ignored).  It is not even his short-sighted and bigoted conclusions which he reaches on the basis of no discernible argument.  What worries me most about Stephen Mulholland is that he is so god-damn smug and self-righteous about himself.  He speaks, perched so comfortably on the summit of Mount Self Content.  His speaks a hetero-normative tongue, because he simply has never heard any other language.  That is what worries me.  And he is not alone.  You, dear reader, are likely to be with him too.  Now put yourself in my shoes, as a parent.  Would you not have your work cut out for yourself?

Define the word "real".

Some time ago, I was overhearing an argument taking place between my two children.  Usually, they get on.  They are, indeed, polar opposites of each other.  The one’s black is the other’s white.  The one’s yay is the other’s nay.  They agree on very little but they contrive to get on.  They are not biologically related, either to each other, or to me.

But this time it was blistering – the argument.  It was brought to a close when the younger one spat at the older these words - he said, “Anyway. You aren’t my real brother!”  The words stung his brother.  They certainly stung me.  I kept silent though.  I would wait my time to deal with it.

During the next week, I went searching through my photograph albums.  They are substantial in some areas, and exceedingly thin in others.  I was looking for, and found some pictures of my two brothers – the one 15 years older than me (and now dead), the other ten years older than me.

I waited a week and then called the family together.  I placed the pictures of my brothers on the coffee table and asked the children if they recognised any of the people in them.  They examined the old photographs carefully.  The one showed a youngish man swinging a cricket bat, the other showed a family of four siblings.  It had me as a baby, being held by my sister and with two brothers posing alongside her.

No, they didn’t recognise any of them, besides my sister.  These, I said, are my realbrothers.  These are my blood brothers.  Have you met either of them, I asked?  They looked again at the pictures.  No, they didn’t think they had.  In fact, I said, they had met one of them very briefly, at my sister’s funeral last year.  Oh, they said, yes, they had. 

Had they ever heard these brothers of mine phone me about anything?  No, they hadn’t.  Did either of them call me on my birthday?  No, they didn’t.  For Christmas?  New Year? For any reason at all?  No, they said.  They were not aware of any contact.

Did they not think that was strange, I asked? Yes, they did think so.  I then went on to elaborate on the relationship.  My older brother had been kind to me when I was growing up – but we had lost contact early on and that connection was never re-established.  My younger brother seemed to want nothing to do with me from the start – whether it was because I was a rebel, or because he didn’t approve of my lifestyle, or my politics or my views, I did not know the reason.

But the upshot of it all was that my brothers had virtually nothing to do with me throughout my late adolescence, early adulthood and middle age.  Nothing!  They knew nothing of me.  They had made no effort to contact me.  When terrible and dramatic things had happened in my life, they were both sublimely uninvolved.  I dealt with exile, return, arrest, passport removal, divorce and a suicide entirely without them.  My relationships were unknown to them.  My triumphs and my tragedies, my joys and my sorrows – all passed them by.

These were my “real” brothers.  These were people who share significant elements of my DNA.  They are my blood relatives.  On the other hand, there is someone with whom I have grown up.  A friend – and we have been friends since the first year of High School.  We could not be more different.  We have very different views on things, very different positions.  We argue, when we want to, like hell.

But this man has been present in my life.  Every step, every fumble, every fall and every achievement.  I asked them if they recognised him?  Yes, they said, they did.  Does he call me ever?  Often, they said.  Have you met him?  Many times, they said.  This man is not related to me in any way.  He shares nothing of my DNA.  But this man is my real brother.  This is the man I can rely on, not to agree with me, but to support me – no matter what. Which of them, I asked my children, would they think I should consider to be my real brother?

My children were staring at me with wide eyes and open mouths.  I am sure this is not the last time we will have conversations around this matter – because I believe it is a hugely important one to have.  But I think they did get the salient point, that it is not how you are related, biologically, that matters at all. Rather, it is how you behave.

What about the Ancestors?

I remember that day very clearly. An excited call from my partner, Leon, saying “We have got a child”. I went into panic mode. I had made my position very clear, both to him and into Social Welfare. I wasn’t going to have just any child thrown at me. I wanted to be sure that I could “bond” with the child first – not that I had the vaguest idea of what that might mean.

So I went to see this child, which they thought would be right for us. He was lying quietly in his cot at the far end of the room, sucking his finger. I looked at him. He looked at me. After a while, I put out my finger and he took hold of it. And at that moment – that instant – I knew that this child was mine. I knew that I was his father and he would be my son.

When we adopted our children, the legal wording of the adoption order was, for me at least, very important. It said that this child was now “as if born to you”. The ancestors of that child (and the state) for whatever reason, handed him over to me and my partner. Our children were not “abandoned”. They were consciously and lovingly handed over. Those children are now mine - “as if born to me”. These two black boys now have two white fathers.

And it happened quite naturally, fairly early on, when I was asked by one of them about the identity of an old white lady in my photograph album, that I explained that she was my mother. “Your grandmother”, I explained, “she died a long time ago”. And we moved on to the next set of pictures. “And that is your Aunt, and that is your cousin…” and so it went.

Both the children refer to Leon’s parents, who are much more to them than pictures in an album - as “Granny” and “Grandpa”. And Leon’s parents make no distinction between our children and the children which his brother has produced biologically. Our ancestors are now the children’s ancestors. They have no others.

Of course besides anything else, the question of culture has also come up fairly frequently. Just because of the fact that these children happen to be black and me white, do I need to start doing a course in gumboot dancing? Should I rush off and get myself circumcised? Should I have a regular supply of Mopani worms in the house to make them feel secure? This is as crazy as it is bizarre and it reveals, I am afraid, just how far we are away from a really non-racial society, where colour is the least significant thing about a person.

No, we are not there yet. And yes, I have no objection to “exposing” my children to cultures other than my own. I also have no illusions about the difficult path they will need to tread. They need to be secure, not in some fantasy culture from somewhere else, but in their own skin, for who they are. And force-feeding them Mopani worms will not make it easier for them. It may make it a whole lot worse.

Patriotism, nationalism and the rest...

The country, at the moment, is going through a surge of patriotism. There are flags everywhere. Sometimes they are the right way up and sometimes not. Sometimes cars have socks over their rear-view mirrors. Sometimes they have flags on the aerial. Sometimes they have flags on the boot, the bonnet, the windows. And sometimes, on all of these.

What I find astonishing is that white people who, a year or two ago were sneering, and saying we would never be ready, and the crime rate, and bemoaning how boring soccer is in comparison to rugby, these are now festooning their cars with flags. And, don’t get me wrong, I don’t see anything essentially wrong with that.

Is it that there has been a sea-change in the way in which people are looking at their country? Are they displaying pride in the achievement of getting ready for the event? I hear discussions about the 2010 FIFA World Cup in the changerooms at the gym. Whereas before, white men would be dismissive and churlish about it, suddenly they are speaking authoritatively about it. They have opinions on who is going to win. They have all been to see something in the stadium – and they are impressed. They like this player, that team and this coach. It is a remarkable and noteworthy change.

Clearly, the sport of football will never be the same again in this country. Young children are bewitched by it – mine are, and I am not a soccer fan. The blue eyed boy of apartheid – rugby – is now joined by a fairly well resourced competitor. At the moment, there is only one game in town and its balls are round.

And it is true that when you watch television broadcasts of South Africans singing the national anthem, a lot of whites still do not know anything other than the English and Afrikaans parts of it, while a lot of blacks either do not know (or refuse to sing) the English and Afrikaans, or they refuse to sing it.
But generally, despite things like this, there is a general outpouring of patriotism.

Now, simultaneously with this experience, I have been having some – well, “discussions” would be too grand a term for these things – but let us say “interchanges” with a range of my friends on Facebook, about Israel and the recent international outrage which the Israeli government has committed with the “Freedom Flotilla”, leaving 9 people dead. Some of my harder core Jewish friends – maybe even Zionist friends – are infuriated that I should even think such a thing. Because to them it seems, Israel is not capable of doing wrong. It is only “them” - Muslims, Arabs and non-Jews who do terrible things to Israel.

It has frequently become extremely nasty indeed, these Facebook inter-changes. It happens whenever I, or anyone else associated with me, takes a negative view of Israel. And it has given me pause for some serious thought on the issue of patriotism.
Because, if I am honest, I have to say that I am deeply suspicious of patriotism, in any form and in any guise. When I see flags fluttering in the wind in numbers, I see Nazi Germany. I see the kind of fervour which that maniac Hitler was able to whip up and the way in which that entire nation, young and old, were enthralled. And I hate it with every fibre of my being. It is that kind of stuff which enables evil to be baptised good. And I cannot but see the same thing happening in Israel today. It is a strange and curious irony indeed.

I think, in the case of Israel, that the land has been deified. To the extent that it needs to be served unconditionally. To the extent that it has power to demand absolute loyalty and allegiance. To the extent that some people are prepared to defend it against any and all odds. To the near hysterical responses to even the mildest criticism. This is the behaviour of a worshipper – a devotee - not a citizen.

And it is this worship of the land that I fear so much. Here, the xenophobic attacks that have happened are usually based on gross ignorance; on lack of analysis and education; and on huge doses of selfishness and ingratitude. But what it finally based on? It is based on this thing called being “South African”. And that “being South African” can somehow be used to justify terror, murder, robbery, and that thing which the bible (in the story of Sodom) identifies as virtually unforgivable, inhospitality.

It is the same with Israel. It was the same in Nazi Germany. It was the same in apartheid South Africa. It is horrific.

Trans-racial parenting

Pic - Getty Images

I have written quite about this in this blog before - so I was interested to read a satirical article recently on the site "Parent 24" by Sipho Yanana, entitled "My white son", where the author (black) contemplates adopting a white child - and how that child would be brought up. The article itself is really good - but the comments, or some of them at least, are fairly indicative of the state of intellectual play about this issue.

However, an interesting aside. Our childminder came home today, after a weekend of Zionist church services (which involves, she tells us, singing, praying, dancing and tea drinking - tea without milk or sugar - which is described as the "Tea of life"). She got a lift with a fellow Zionist, who is apparently also working for two white gay men who have adopted children. Except, in this case, the children which have been adopted were imported from Europe, and are white.

I remember having pause for thought, many years back, while I was living in the UK, when I heard that social services there would not allow adoptions trans racially. I wondered, for a moment, whether this might be racist. But thinking about it, I came to realise that, it probably is not. We do not, after all, live in a perfect world. And the needs of the child, of course, need to be paramount. I discovered, when we were going through our own adoption process, that even here in South Africa, social welfare will try, as much as possible to pair like with like. So, for instance, if there is a black child, black parents will be preferred. If there is an Indian child, a coloured child - these would be matched, as far as possible with their racial equivalents.

Of course, it isn't always possible - and then the default position is to match a child with loving, willing and able parents, rather than let the child languish in a home. And I think also, though it was never said, that if a child can be placed in a heterosexual home, that would be preferred to a same-sexed arrangement.

And the reason would be this - that it is just easier! It is much easier not to stick out like a sore thumb in public. It is much easier not to have to explain why you are a different colour from your parents. It is much easier to be in a "normal" environment, than one which is uncommon. That is why it would be preferred.

What do I think about that? I think it is probably correct. Does that mean that we should put an end to trans-racial adoptions, or adoptions by homosexuals - not at all! But I don't think we should be so naive as to ignore the problems, both potential and real.

The link to the article is

http://www.parent24.com/Content/Getting_pregnant/adoption/2151/2ee5d683100f4ac6b86695187a065fdf/31-08-2009%2011-08/My_white_son_