The Art of Breathing Underwater

Chapter 18

1995 saw the Irish economy looking to the future, enticing IT giants, through low corporate taxation and a tech-savvy workforce, to set up a base in the country. By contrast, other sections of our society were looking to the past for inspiration. From pop culture to the fashion industry, one word dominated. Retro. Our entire culture became encompassed by a dewy-eyed adoration of the swinging sixties and early seventies.

Seven years ago, with my father unemployed and money scarce, I was forced to wear hand-me-down clothes to school. One item of which, a pair of brown bell-bottomed trousers, caused me no end of embarrassment and endless ridicule. Those crimes against couture proved the bane of my life. I got christened with the unflattering monikers, 'Flares' and 'Fashion' by the other less than understanding school kids. Flash forward to now. Flares and tight-fitting nylon shirts were all the rage, again. Instead of being labelled a weirdo; I would likely be considered a trendsetter. Ironic, huh?

I suppose it is literally in our DNA to look backwards. How can we not when our genetic composition is a mixture of previous generations? All our favourite artists are inspired by what went before them. Suede were heavily influenced by David Bowie—whom both Robbie and I listened to religiously. Contemporary art is not original. It is a homage, a pastiche of the past. Even Suede appropriated a line from a Lord Byron poem in one of their songs.

As I pondered this, I remembered the blond-haired guy from junior school. I recalled how obsessed I had been with him. The captain of the soccer team, Alan, wore cool trainers with laces out. I assumed my fascination was because he was everything that I, the shy kook in the corner, aspired to be. Popular with the other kids. Talented with a football. What my nine-year-old mind indoctrinated in Catholic dogma would never have allowed me to accept; he was my first legitimate crush. Well, if you discounted Madonna.

No wonder it had hurt when he started blanking me. Of course, he wasn't talking to anyone back then, save for the lads he huffed glue with behind the school prefab.

I always found guys attractive. It was not some recent fad, influenced by music and books. It was something deep-seated, rooted in my psyche. Part of who I am.

It was who I am.

That revelation smacked me harder than any of my primary school teachers ever did.

I wondered if I had an inkling back then? Some tiny realisation? Did I bury that knowledge in the darkest recesses of my mind? Out of fear. In a playground where the words bender, queer, sissy, and fag were the most derogatory form of insults. The most demeaning character assassinations one could level at another. Worse than jibes about a kid's mother, or parentage.

As children, were we not programmed to believe what I am offended God and nature? So sinful and degenerate you dare not speak its name. To the point where I had suppressed the very notion without being consciously aware I was doing so. Was this so outlandish? Hadn't I convinced myself that any attraction or desire I had for Andy resulted from aesthetic appreciation and friendship? Nothing more. Johnny Depp—hero worship?

A pattern was forming.

The love I felt for Robbie was undeniable.

Irrefutable.

Where would it lead? I knew where I wanted it to go. But. There was always a but. I wasn't ready. Wasn't mentally fortified to cope with the exposure, the taunts, the insidious whispers, the ridicule. The price you pay for wearing a different uniform. Forever pigeon-holed, defined by one aspect of my make-up.

All these years, I had kept my desires and needs under stringent lock-down. Had kept them hidden even from my conscious thoughts. Held them at bay until now.

The storm was gathering force.

Fury building.

Armed with the knowledge of certainty, how could I keep up the pretence? How long before the façade shattered, exposing me to a world of hateful prejudice? I could come clean and risk alienating friends and possibly my family. How would my parents react to the prospect of their offspring not prolonging their lineage? No adorable little Aaron clones to bounce on their laps in their dotage. Suffering as they sat through a pious priest's sermon on how homosexuals' future dwelling place would be the flaming bowels of Hell?

And what of those messengers of God? Alan's first port of call after his release from the hospital was the local police station. Accompanied by his father, he made a statement detailing the horrific abuse he had suffered at the hands of our fire and brimstone spouting priest during the three years he served under him as an altar boy. The same priest who mounted the pulpit every Sunday to deliver endless tirades against the twisted evils of homosexuality, the pure Shepard whose job it was to tend to his flock and guide them on the path to righteousness.

We'd have been better off taking our spiritual guidance from Jules Winnfield, the Bible-quoting hit-man in Pulp Fiction. Sure, Jules would end your life after delivering a passage from Ezekiel 25:17, but what life did Alan have? I met him last week at the bus stop. I had double-history looming on the horizon; he had an appointment with his therapist. His weight had ballooned, and he slurred his words, a side-effect of the medication he was taking. He flinched when I patted his arm.

Many people in the neighbourhood didn't believe Alan's story.

Many people contend that sexual orientation is a matter of choice. It is. A choice between hiding your true nature until internally you resemble that portrait of Dorian Gray, hideous, and disfigured. Or be true to yourself and trust the reaction to the current trends in societal attitude. Who knows, in fifteen years, being gay might be considered chic? The world was changing. Ireland was changing. Like my flared trousers, my sexuality might one day be in vogue.

Alas, I lived in a world where our former priest preached to a new congregation who were unaware of the allegations surrounding him, and the notion of two men being in love was condemned as sinful.

It was enough to send you crazy.