Oh Come All Ye Christmas Beetles

In the lead up to Christmas last year, MBH (my better half) and I invited friends visiting from overseas, Bob & Peter, to join us for a home-cooked meal. I was determined to pull off a Bree Van de Kamp culinary experience and make the catch-up an evening to remember. Memorable it was…

There’s a split level in our home between the kitchen and the dining room that we had forgotten to warn our guests about. Disaster struck when Bob missed the step on his way to the loo and stacked it against the toilet door in a tumble worthy of a Cirque du Soleil show. Rushing to his rescue, MBH checked for broken bones while I sourced a bag of frozen peas for Bob’s sprained thumb. Luckily, the rest of him was intact.

Moments later, a bottle of bubbly was opened and champagne flutes filled and distributed. Things were looking up. After toasting each other’s good health and Bob’s crooked thumb, I took a sip from my glass and winced. The bubbly had gone flat and tasted like cat’s piss.

“Right, that’s two strikes,” I said to myself, as Bob scanned the room looking for a place to ditch his mouthful. “Time to step it up!”

MBH replaced the drinks while I pulled the baked lasagne out of the oven and placed it on the dining table. Once everyone was seated, I handed the serving spoons to Peter. “Please dig in,” I said. Lifting the lid off the Le Creuset dish, I did a double-take. The pasta had turned into béchamel soup and had sunk quicker than the Titanic to the bottom of the dish. Note to self: Next time leave the lid off while baking!

“It smells lovely,”said Peter reassuringly. “Yes, it looks…interesting,” added Bob, helping himself to the cheesy liquid. “Bad luck always comes in 3s,” I joked, guffawing like Woody Allen caught in an awkward moment.

Several minutes into dinner, I felt something brushing against my leg. Assuming it was the table cloth, I thought nothing of it until I glanced down. Making its way towards the opening in my shorts was a giant cockroach. Trying not to choke on a mouthful of food, I brushed the insect to the floor. Rather than scuttle away discreetly, the mutant roach flew across the table and landed on the wall in full glorious view of our guests.

“Isn’t that a cockroach?“ asked Bob, squinting his eyes to get a better look. “No, it’s a Christmas beetle,” I offered. “Yes,” confirmed MBH, winking at me while refilling everyone’s wine glasses. “Australian variety…Love ‘em!”

Bree Van de Kamp couldn’t have made a better save.

Overcoming Childhood’s Obstacles

“Antisocial?” I stuttered, picking up the graded exam from the teacher’s desk. I can still remember the stern look on the man’s face as his words, delivered like a judge’s sentence, cut right through me.

“Brighty, you’re an introvert,” he continued, “That makes you antisocial and therefore you’ll never succeed at anything in life.” Even as a 12-year-old I knew he’d overstepped a line. I felt betrayed as I walked back to my seat amongst sniggers and whispered comments in the classroom.

I couldn’t believe anyone wearing socks and sandals and a scraggly beard would dare point a finger at me. Seriously! This man was meant to be a role model; someone kids could look up to.

That day I made a vow to myself. If I ever held down a teaching position, I’d do my best to inspire others. I’ve since had the opportunity to put theory to practice by tutoring school kids and teaching adults how to better their lives through health and fitness. It’s a rewarding journey.

I’d always been a shy kid, but never thought of myself as a pariah. Being different to most boys my age and not sharing their passion for sports and an interest in the opposite sex didn’t seem such a big deal at the time. I didn’t quite get the point of chasing pigskin around a football field. I could however name every character on Happy Days and The Love Boat. Now that’s something to be proud of!

My parents once told me, “Challenge yourself and break your own records. Don’t worry so much what people think about you. Most often they’re just as worried what you think about them!” And it’s true. No one should have to bear the responsibility of living up to any expectations other than their own.

When I understood it was ok not to constantly conform, I began taking risks and realised that I could get back up again if I took a tumble. Being able to break out of my comfort zone and push boundaries was a new and satisfying experience. Funnily enough, every job I’ve had since leaving school has required public speaking.

Decades later, I happened to be walking past my old school. Spray-painted on a sidewall was an angry message to the very same teacher who’d mangled me in sixth grade. How many children had he damaged, I wondered. I smiled as I read the one-liner and then thought back to the 12-year-old boy I once was. If I had any words of encouragement to share with him, they would be:

“You have more inner strength than you know. Be true to yourself, embrace your sexuality and never lose your love of life. It does get better, kiddo!”

I Am What I Am

MBH (my better half) and I were recently discussing our respective childhoods when Sally Field’s name came up in the conversation. Sally had just made a speech about her gay son while accepting the Human Rights Campaign’s Ally for Equality Award. Her words had stuck in my mind.

“Nature made Sam, it wasn’t a choice,” said Field. “Sam was different, and his journey to allow himself to be what nature intended him to be was not an easy one.”

Field’s statement reminded me of my own journey. At school, I was quite shy and not particularly good at team sports – ok, I was terrible and once even scored a goal for my opponents’ team! Like many kids, I struggled with self-esteem issues. Being overweight, gay, dyslexic and saddled with a stutter didn’t help. You could say I was a hexagonal peg trying to fit into a square hole.

Hoping my confidence would grow, my parents enrolled me in the cub scouts. I took the pledge, learned new skills and fell in love with an older boy scout. When, as a 7-year-old, I announced to my mother that I was going to marry him, she sat me down and lovingly explained the boy-girl dynamics. But, never did she make me feel bad about myself. Nor did she play down my boy crush.

My parents were very accepting. They even indulged me one Christmas when I asked Santa for a doll that could pee when fed with a bottle. On receiving the toy, I was the happiest toddler on the block and made sure the doll never went thirsty. So much so that it was suddenly able to go potty through its head when held upside down.

Back in the 1970s, we didn’t have gay support groups to turn to. Nowadays, there are places such as Twenty10 that offer same-sex attracted and gender diverse young people a safe environment to hang out and be themselves. Anyone under the age of 26 can benefit from free and confidential services including counselling, assistance with housing, conflict resolution and legal problems.

There are so many gay children who don’t get the opportunities I had to explore and understand their sexuality. Some face prejudice from parents fixated on the notion that being gay is a choice. Others get tossed to the street because their families abandon them. Whether society accepts it or not, there will always be little boys and girls who realise somewhere along the way they’re different from their other brothers and sisters. As Sally Field puts it so eloquently in her speech: “…and so the f**k what!”

Keeping Up Appearances

MBH (my better half) and I had been preparing our trip to New Orleans for weeks and were hoping to shed some winter weight in time for Southern Decadence. Still a few kilos off the mark, we felt a little self-conscious about the prospect of turning up to an underwear-themed party looking like gravity had gotten the best of us.

While packing, I began to wonder why a slight increase in girth should even ruffle our feathers. It’s not as though we were suddenly confined to wearing muumuus or had to consider lapband surgery. Truth is, my partner and I are just average guys lugging around a little extra weight. As we’ve aged, our metabolisms have slowed down and the slim waistline we once took for granted has given way to middle age spread. It’s a natural process that most of us deal with through healthy eating and moderate exercise.

For some, however, the process isn’t that easy. Unrealistic goals can get in the way of common sense resulting in body image conflicts and eating disorders. And, if you believe that women are the only ones affected, think again! Apparently, a quarter of Australian men in a healthy weight bracket consider themselves fat. A majority of these are gay and bisexual men. Hardly surprising given the unrealistic images of ‘perfect’ people, seemingly living on dust and water, splashed across our screens and magazines.

Whilst it’s great to be able to drool over models and fantasize about celebrities, it’s good to bear in mind that their appearance is the result of gruelling private training sessions, strict diets, grooming, not to mention heaps of airbrushing. Who wouldn’t look fabulous saddled with a chef, trainer, hairdresser, fashion/makeup experts, and a gifted photographer. The trick is not to mistake illusion for reality and allow media to set society’s benchmarks of health and beauty. If we do, we only really have ourselves to blame.

Back from New Orleans, I mustered up enough courage to step on the scales to face the fallout. My screams could be heard all the way from Sydney to Perth. Surely the dial had to be broken. MBH, who’d had the good sense not to put himself through similar trauma, reminded me that we weren’t exactly big enough to pull off an act at Sea World. Thankfully, reason kicked in before the scales flew out the window. Returning to light training at the gym, we both kept off booze and chocolate for a while and assigned ‘naughty’ food days to the weekend. Slowly, we got back in shape.

And that’s the thing. You shouldn’t have to sweat over slip-ups. If you gain unwanted weight enjoying your favourite foods, balance out your diet. If you fall off the fitness wagon, get back on it. No need to punish yourself with hard-to-follow diets or military-like workouts. Moreover, it’s ok to have different ideas about body image and not aspire to a common ideal of homogenised beauty. There is no such thing as a perfect body or perfect looks.

Besides, if everyone looked the same, the world would be a far less interesting place to live in. As the French say, “Vive la différence!”

Revisiting Rydell High Part 2

Fun and adventure were always present on the set of Grease, even when things didn’t go exactly to plan. Sean Moran, who worked on the movie as a dancer, remembers a particular instance when he and cast mates showed up to work beat red after a weekend of sunbaking. “The producers had a fit,” he says. “We all got horribly sunburnt and it took make-up forever to cover it all up.”

Despite arduous conditions on set, Moran’s favourite scene to film was the dance contest at Huntington Park High.

“The gymnasium was like an oven. Cast members prone to sweating were blow dried between each take,” he said.

“An extra fainted and was rescued by the set medic who was a 30-year-old hottie that half the boys fawned over. We loved him.”

Adding to the heat was the challenge of coordinating the couples’ dance routines and dialog.

“Olivia Newton-John was very nervous about the dancing,” Moran said. Originally, Sandy wasn’t meant to perform. But when choreographer Pat Birch saw that Olivia moved well, she included her in the Hand Jive number.

The iconic Summer Nights was shot in two segments.

“The girls filmed their part in June; the boys in early August,” Moran said. At one point between rehearsals and filming, Director Randal Kleiser and the Venice High principal got into an argument. Summer school was in session and the music was distracting students and teachers. The principle was so irate he asked cast and crew to leave.

But of all the classic scenes in Grease, You’re The One That I Want is without doubt the most talked about. Who can forget Sandy’s tight sharkskin pants. Moran said that, because the zipper on the pants was broken, it had to be stitched up while filming proceeded.

“A seam ripper was employed whenever Olivia had to use the facilities. She’d have to be sewn back into the pants afterwards.”

You’re The One That I Want, the brainchild of John Farrar, was an instant international hit and has since become the best-selling duet in pop music history. Based on its success, Farrar was recently asked to write another duet for Travolta and Newton-John. The track, I Think You Might Like It, is part of a new album that the two stars of Grease collaborated on.

Released in Australia on November 9, the holiday album, entitled This Christmas, also features Barbra Streisand, Tony Bennett, James Taylor, Kenny G, Chick Corea and Cliff Richard. Keeping within the Christmas spirit, all sale proceeds are going to the Jett Travolta Foundation and the Olivia Newton-John Cancer and Wellness Centre.

Olivia says that she and John have always connected and that their bond is as strong as ever. “We’ve been through some amazing experiences together,” she said.

Who could have imagined back in ’77 that Danny and Sandy would still be rocking the charts over three decades later!

INFO: Follow Luke Brighty on Twitter via @brightlights_66

Revisiting Rydell High

 

Grease has been the word for 35 years. It is the most successful movie musical ever. According to recent stats, the film was shot on a budget estimated at just over $6 million –equivalent to $20 million in today’s economy. Since its 1978 release, it has wowed audiences of all ages, cultures and generations and has grossed almost $395 million worldwide, a return close to twenty times its cost.

Allan Carr, the movie’s producer, said in an interview that making Grease was a pleasure, from first to last day. Cast and crew were like a big family. Openly-gay actor and dancer Sean Moran, who plays Moose in the movie, agrees.

“We all became very close,” he said.

“I met the love of my life on that shoot.”

A lot of the cast members had worked on Broadway doing the play so they knew the characters well. However, much of the film’s success is owed to choreographer, Pat Birch. She was instrumental in setting up complicated scenes and always put the dancers to good use. They weren’t just itinerant figures. They were the heart of the high school.

“Pat always felt that Greased Lightning was one of the most intricate numbers to film,”Moran said.

“We shot it in two long days. Because we only had a couple of outfits each and the prop tyres were so greasy, wardrobe was a big concern.”

In the stage version, the number is heavy with sexual innuendo. The show refers to Saran wrap as a substitute for condoms.

“As the movie was PG they had John Travolta running around the car with plastic wrap, which really made no sense at all,” he said.

There is a brief glimpse of him rubbing his crotch with it in the sequence. Blink an eye and you’ll miss it. Younger audiences usually do. But then again, so do most adults. What a fascinating time the 1950s must have been.

Jeff Conaway, who plays Kenickie in the movie, was initially meant to perform Greased Lightning. Moran says that Conaway wasn’t at all pleased when changes were made to the script and the song went to Travolta.

“There were a few meetings over it. Jeff had played Danny Zuko on Broadway. John had only played the role of Doody. But John was the star of the movie…”

These days, the cast are spread out all over the world. They all stay in touch by email, phone or through Facebook. Every now and then, they reunite when one of them directs the stage show or when the sing-a-long plays at the Hollywood Bowl.

“Picture it: 18,000 people all dressed up in Grease costumes watching and singing with the movie. It’s amazing!” Moran said.

INFO: Follow Luke Brighty on Twitter via @brightlights_66

Embracing The Spirit Of The Deep South

“Are you crazy? Didn’t you hear Hurricane Isaac is now headed our way?” said the airport porters as MBH (my better half) and I arrived in Louisiana. “We’re Aussies,“ I argued. “We’re used to natural disasters.” My partner and I had made travel arrangements with friends to visit New Orleans, eager to experience the “Gone with the Wind” style plantation homes and meander through the jazz-filled streets of the French Quarter. The bonus of the gay Southern Decadence weekend also meant that nothing, including Mother Nature, was going to keep us away.

Keen to get our bearings, we immediately headed out to explore the city. Whilst most businesses were busy stacking sandbags in doorways and boarding up windows, Bourbon Street, the city’s famed gay stretch, had ‘Yes, we’re open during the hurricane’ signs appear on bar doors faster than you could say ‘Katrina’.

As inner west Sydney gay men, MBH and I are spoiled with the diverse mix of culture and people, gay and straight, on our doorstep. The Big Easy is similar yet unique in its down to earth 1950s neighbourly feel. Because of the lock-down and a curfew imposed by city officials, the storm had the community banding together. They kindly opened up their beautiful homes and mansions – some the size of Tara - to friends and strangers, including us, the new kids in town.

A highlight of our stay was enjoying the local tradition of sitting out on the stoop in front of our friends’ homes in the evening, relaxing and chatting with passers-by over a beer or a glass of wine. Background, sex, origin, income, age and race didn’t seem to matter. So long as you were agile with a bottle-opener and enjoyed a good yarn, you were invited to park your bum on a step. Now that is something you don’t see in Sydney very often.

Launched in the early 1970s by fifteen friends marching through the French Quarter in drag, Southern Decadence has mushroomed over the years to a world-famous gay celebration attracting more than 110,000 revellers. Unlike Sydney’s Mardi Gras, it’s smaller and more intimate with lots of private house parties. Surprisingly, everyone behaves and there’s practically no violence on the streets or in the bars – Kings Cross, listen and learn!

As Sydneysiders, MBH and I presumed we’d seen everything a gay scene has to offer. Well, in New Orleans, anything goes and I mean… anything! Pushing us to the bar counter for drinks, our new friends laughed as our eyes popped. There before us, danced two hot go-go boys, naked and semi-erect, collecting dollar bills around their ankles. And even at private parties, many men were naked and ‘playful’ whilst we felt overdressed wearing nothing but our aussieBum underwear.

Although Sydney is our home of choice, the genuine side of southern hospitality and the caring nature of “Naw-linians”provided MBH and I with great memories of a close-knit community that welcomed us with open arms and reminded us what true friendship is all about. For that we’ll always be grateful.

A Little More Conversation

Could you go a day without emailing, tweeting, using Facebook, sending a text message on your android/smartphone, or interacting with anyone online using your desktop, laptop or iPad? Food for thought! Most of us rely heavily on technology to keep in touch with each other. But how well do we actually “communicate” and is our dedication to virtual living killing off our social skills?

Like magpies attracted to shiny objects, gay men and women have the reputation of embracing (usually first!) any new gadgets and applications that hit the market. They are also more likely to engage in online activities. Keep us from our toys and we sweat with separation anxiety. But as much as we enjoy the fun and freedom our devices provide us with, knowing when to take a break from them is important.

MBH (my better half) and I were at the movies recently for a chilled, fun afternoon of mindless entertainment. The movie was “Magic Mike” starring Channing Tatum and Matt Bomer, the openly gay “White Collar” actor. No plot, but plenty of eye candy. The first scene of a group strip act filled the screen when some woman’s mobile phone went off in the audience. And she took the call! An emergency? No, just telling a friend where she was and what she was ogling at.

Afterwards, my partner and I headed to a local café where we tucked into coffee and dessert while having a laugh and enjoying the wide social mix of Newtown. Within minutes, a group of men were seated at a table next to ours. MBH signalled discreetly towards them. All had their phones out and, heads bowed as if in a prayer meeting, were tapping away at their screens.

“Just checking in on Facebook to let everyone know where I am,” said one guy. Another explained he was playing Words with Friends. A third squealed about a gorgeous date lined up on Manhunt and then the table fell silent. All six men stared at the screens in their laps, interacting with anyone in the virtual world, but each other. To their credit, they did look up for at least 2 seconds when MBH and I mentioned Channing’s name in conversation.

Now, don’t get me wrong, my partner and I use social media most every day and think it’s an incredible invention. Whilst recently overseas our iPad was a lifesaver. Without it we’d never have been able to communicate our safety to family and friends during a hurricane we were caught in. However, we did make a point of not bringing it along while meeting new people over dinners and sight-seeing.

And just a few nights ago, social media came in handy again. Lying in bed next to me, MBH got stuck into Facebook on his iPad. When time came to get some shut eye, I was able to “pm” him from my android to ask him to switch off the lights. Who knew technology could be so amazing! It has no doubt made our lives better, but has also taught us to reassess our social and communication priorities. For us, real life will always take precedence over virtual life.

Gay Retirement

If most retirement homes are run by church groups who don’t support equal rights for the gay community, then what will happen to us when we are forced into care?

The subject of “old age” has preoccupied me for many years. As a child watching a Tarzan movie, I can remember a group of greedy treasure hunters raiding an elephants’ graveyard for the ivory it contained. What tugged at my heartstrings most wasn’t the stolen tusks, but the thought of older elephants having to retire to a place far from their herd to die alone.

I was horrified that any living creature, mammal or otherwise, should have to face the final curtain on its own. Surely, nature had a better plan. Recently, the scene popped back into my head as I pondered over life’s third act. What happens to gay and lesbian seniors after retirement and are they offered a happier ending than that of a pachyderm starring in a black and white movie?

Believing I was being original – turns out I was wrong, I suggested to MBH (my better half) that a retirement village for the gay community might be the answer to the conundrum. Wouldn’t it be great if we were able to enjoy our golden years amidst like-minded people in an environment where one could feel safe and accepted? Common interests would bring residents together. Quoting lines from “Little Britain” to neighbours would no longer raise blank stares.

And just picture the array of activities and entertainment that would be on offer! Sure, the thought of a Priscilla talent show for seniors might not be everyone’s cup of tea, especially if the performers are residents reliving their drag days decked out in dusty, old sequined costumes. But I rather like the idea of a village where people can gather, enjoy each other’s company and rely on one another for support.

A study by Witek-Coombs reveals that 25% of the gay community will be aged over 60 by 2020. Many of these potential retirees will be seeking a community where they can relax and be themselves whilst being cared for. These requirements are often overlooked in mainstream facilities where residents are at risk of getting mistreated for being openly gay. Some are split from their partners. Others experience physical or mental abuse from their peers and long-term care givers.

Australian federal laws do not currently recognise discrimination on sexuality or gender as they do on race or age issues. Gay activists hope to get this changed as more than half of the aged-care sector is made up of church-run facilities. Luckily, plans have been approved by the Australian government to build the nation’s first gay and lesbian retirement village near Ballan, in regional Victoria. This complex will hopefully set a benchmark and inspire other states to follow suit.

In a perfect world, there would be no discrimination and no need for separate retirement facilities for gay people. However, judging by our religious and political leaders’ stance on civil partnerships, gay marriage and civil rights, that perfect world isn’t likely to come about in Australia any time soon.

So perhaps, for those who are able to afford it, an alternative to mainstream retirement homes is worth considering. After all, gay retirement should mean retiring from work, not retiring from being gay. MBH tells me he’ll think about it, so long as I never make him dress up in drag. Pity as I’ve got great ideas for a new double act!

The thought of being forced back into the closet or ending up the only gay in the village is far worse a fate. On that we both agree.

Facing Middle Age

You may insist you’re in your early thirties. I have for more than a decade, much to the amusement of MBH (my better half), family and friends. However, the fire extinguisher I keep at hand every time I blow out my birthday candles tells another story. Let’s face it… escaping the effects of gravity is impossible unless you’re an astronaut.

So, wouldn’t it be great if we could dip into the fountain of youth and maintain a fresh appearance as we got older! Just think about it, no more wrinkles and grey hairs to cover up. No more fat fibs to tell. Plastic surgeons would be out of business and everyone, whether gay or straight, male or female, would look equally as fabulous on the day they shuffled off this mortal coil.

You see, I’ve always thought it unfair how one sex is favoured over the other when it comes to ageing. Consider the number of men who are labelled “distinguished” as they move towards the autumn of their years. Women rarely benefit from the same kindness. Gay men can relate to this injustice and are probably more empathetic towards women than their straight counterparts, simply because of the nature of gay culture which places so much emphasis on looks and youth.

Just flick through any gay magazine featuring a tanned and chiselled Adonis on the cover and you’ll know what I mean. It’s enough to make one sign up to Boot Camp or invest in a hyperbaric chamber.

So should we give in to Mother Nature’s vagaries and age gracefully or should we punch age in the face by ingesting antioxidants and jumping on the treadmill? I believe finding balance between the two options is the key. Personally, I like the idea of ageing disgracefully and have always been up for a challenge. If Mother Nature throws me lemons, I hurl them right back at her because I don’t do lemonade. I will however give her kudos for her hearty sense of humour.

In our twenties, she blesses us with a full head of hair and a body that requires little if no manscaping, only to reverse everything when we reach middle age. As if touched by a magic wand, we begin to lose our hair and see whiskers appear in unwanted areas. Nostrils and ears go berserk, sprouting forth as if preparing for an Arctic expedition. Eyebrows take on a life of their own and, before you know it, you’re starring as a furball in Disney’s Fantasia.

Some men embrace their un-tampered beauty and newfound werewolf status. Others run screaming to the nearest spa or hair clinic where they undergo expensive treatments to remove hair on one body part while promoting follicle regrowth on another. It’s a lucrative business and, just in case you lose heart, a plethora of advertisers out there will remind you that you are “worth it”.

It is easy to give in to insecurity and obsess over one’s looks. We’ve all been there at one point or another. What works for MBH and I is remembering that for every yin, there is a yang. Grooming is necessary, however, we’re mindful not to spend more time in the bathroom than our toothbrushes. Exercise is important to us, but we balance it out with regular catch-ups with friends over a home-cooked meal and perhaps a piece of rich, chocolate cake...or two.

Yes, ageing may not be for the faint-hearted, but we’ve accepted it and enjoy every day as it comes. As famous French musical comedy actor Maurice Chevalier once said, “Old age is not that bad when you consider the alternative.” You’d be hard put to disagree…

Mental Health Care in NSW – A State in Crisis

To mark World Mental Health Day today (10 October), I decided to feature an updated version of an article I wrote two years ago about mental health care in NSW on this blog. The story never saw the light of day. Although not specifically targeted at the gay community, the subject concerns everyone. Mental illness doesn’t discriminate. We all have a friend, family member or know of an acquaintance that has suffered from depression or needed counselling.

I believe it’s vital that politicians be made aware and deal with the stigma attached to mental health care in order to help those in need. Any society or nation is judged on the basis of how it treats its weakest members. It’s time for Australia to realise that sweeping the problem underneath the carpet isn’t going to make it go away!

When Australian actor Matthew Newton displayed schizophrenia-like symptoms a couple of years ago during a trip to Rome where he allegedly physically assaulted his then-girlfriend, Rachael Taylor, in a hotel lobby, the troubled actor was able to fly back to Australia and check into a private clinic in Sydney’s west. Unlike Newton, who can afford the best available treatment, most Australian families have a harder time finding adequate care for their mentally-ill loved ones.

With the closure of Callan Park’s Rozelle Hospital in New South Wales four years ago, one of the last public sanctuaries for people with psychiatric problems disappeared for good. Many patients such as Joan Harrow’s* two children, both formerly treated at the mental institution for schizophrenia, were relocated to busy hospital emergency wards.

Because of a lack of bed space, acute inpatient units are often under pressure to discharge patients prematurely to make room for new admissions. Just like putting a Band Aid on a gaping wound, they are only a quick fix solution.

 “A very large number of girls who develop schizophrenia will be raped because they are not being kept in hospital; families can’t protect them because they run away,” says Joan.

“My daughter has been raped, and pack-raped.”

Joan and her husband have four children, two of whom are affected by mental illness. The symptoms began when Joan’s 46-year-old son and 52-year-old daughter were in their late teens and experimenting with marijuana.

“My son tried to cut his throat with a carving knife. He then tried to hang himself. The marks of the cord on his neck were visible for ten days,” she says.

Her son has since tried to commit suicide several times, the last time jumping from the second storey of a building, breaking both legs. 

Joan believes that psychiatric hospitals are needed to provide a place where patients can feel safe, connect with nature and heal. She says it’s not just about protecting the community; it’s also about protecting the vulnerable. Using general hospitals as dumping grounds for the mentally ill isn’t going to solve any problems. It only heaps stress onto frontline workers such as doctors, nurses, paramedics and police who are already overstretched.

Psychiatric bed numbers in Australia have decreased by 80 per cent in 40 years while the population has doubled, but there are no plans to restore Rozelle Hospital. Development proposals for the land that sits on the shores of Iron Cove, in Lilyfield, have included an aged care facility, private housing and a university campus.

Roslyn Burge, a historian and member of Friends of Callan Park, emphasises the importance of retaining Rozelle Hospital’s mental health services.

“We have people coming to our monthly meetings who have terrible stories to tell about a family member getting turned away from overcrowded emergency wards, ending up homeless or in jail.”

Joan Harrow agrees that not enough services are available for people who need them. She says holidays such as Christmas and Easter are especially dangerous for people with mental illness. They are more likely to harm themselves.

“Very often the services that you can call on close down for the holidays and you’re left in a really difficult situation.”

The day before Australia Day 2010, Roslyn Burge lost a close friend to suicide.

“When it happens to someone who is close to you, your feelings hit another degree of emotion,” she says, tears in her eyes. Roslyn’s friend was in and out of hospital for two years and underwent many treatments including ECT and drug therapy. She committed suicide at Sydney’s Gap, leaving behind a husband, and two daughters in their mid and late-twenties.

 “Extraordinary amounts of public money and private donations go towards patients suffering from physical illnesses,” says Roslyn. “Unfortunately, the same can’t be said about mental illness.” As a result, much of the patient’s care falls upon family members and their own community.

“You wouldn’t expect someone with cancer to take their chemotherapy treatment at home,” she adds. “It’s a huge cost to the public, yet no one objects.”

Joan Harrow says her children have been doing better since taking the drug Clozapine and that her daughter now lives on her own. She admits she is worried about her son’s future as he is less independent. For now, he will continue living with her and her husband.

“He’s good company, very likeable and helps us around the house and garden. A person who is mentally-ill isn’t necessarily miserable and useless.”

With four million Australians suffering from mental health problems in any given year and only one third of them getting treatment, it is obvious that government should no longer be allowed to sweep the issue under the carpet. More funding is needed and the lack of resources must be addressed. Every Australian deserves to be treated with dignity and to have access to the right kind of help, whether a celebrity like Matthew Newton or the average man on the street. In the end, it’s all about vision and will.

*Not her real name

Families Come In All Shapes And Sizes

MBH (my better half) and I contribute to society. We own a house, a car and pay our taxes. We value the sanctity of marriage and, despite our union not being recognised by Australian law, we define ourselves as a family. You might say we are as boringly normal as it is possible to get. So normal in fact that, years ago, we considered filling our home with the pitter patter of tiny feet.

I’ve always suspected MBH was keen on becoming a father so that he could share blame for the mess in our home frequently left in his wake. “Babe, what’s a pile of dirty laundry and several pairs of shoes scattered across the bedroom floor compared to shitty diapers and baby’s puke?” I can hear him say. Apparently, we’re not the only gay couple with deflection issues.

Current statistics reveal almost 34,000 same-sex couples living in Australia, more than 10 per cent of which are declared by Census as parenting a child. This is just a rough estimate due to underreporting but, given these figures, you would be right in assuming that adoption and surrogacy are commonplace. As MBH and I found out doing our research, welcoming a child into your life can be a journey filled with obstacles.

The major stumbling block with adoption is the waiting game. Although it is legal for same-sex couples to adopt in New South Wales, the process is lengthy and costly. It can take up to eight years or more from start to finish and may cost anywhere up to $40,000. Surrogacy can be just as complicated.

Commercial surrogacy in some states is a criminal offence which leaves same-sex couples with two choices, either to discreetly go ahead with an overseas commercial arrangement and risk prosecution or opt for an altruistic surrogacy. The latter requires finding a birth mother who may be willing to carry your child without payment other than the costs associated with the pregnancy. A challenge in itself!   

MBH and I met relatively late in life. We were both in our forties which, for many of the nations participating in the inter-country adoption program, is considered past the cut-off point age-wise. We were also acutely aware that, if we were made to wait too long, we might not have the energy needed to raise a child. Middle of the night diaper changes and feedings are hard enough on a young couple, let alone a couple fifty or over. Besides, we wanted our offspring to have parents young enough to kick a ball with around the yard, without either dad risking a dislocated hip.

Ultimately, we made an informed choice, taking into account both the child’s needs and what was best for us, and decided with heavy hearts to forgo parenthood.  It is however heartening to see the number of same-sex families in Australia increasing year by year despite strong objections by traditionalists and religious groups who seem to believe that heterosexual couples make better parents than same-sex couples.  

In reality, any couple, gay or straight, who provides a stable and secure environment for their child to grow up in, qualifies for the job. To MBH and I, being a good parent doesn’t boil down to gender. It is about dedication and teaching kids core values whilst making them feel wanted, loved and cherished.

The Wedding Gift My Parents Gave Me

Muffled sobs could be heard from the table of gay boys at the back of the reception room as my father addressed the crowd. “You sure know how to work an audience, Dad,” I thought, feeling a lump rise in my throat.

I had felt a similar knot several decades earlier when sitting in a café with my mother. We were sharing a huge dessert comprising of twelve scoops of ice-cream, melted chocolate and a heap of cream. She was aware I had something important to tell her and I knew I would be stalling hence the big order. Half an hour later I’d come out to her. She told me she loved me and would support me, and we ordered coffee to warm up our frozen teeth. I’m still surprised to this day that we didn’t lapse into a diabetic coma before the end of the conversation.

Opening up to my father was a lot harder. I couldn’t pin point the reasons why. The anticipation was definitely worse than the outcome. Perhaps it had to do with natural instinct, masculinity issues, fear of rejection or fear of disappointing him. I may also have been worried about lineage and how he’d react to not having the family name passed on. Generally, heterosexual men are more inclined to accept the idea of same-sex partners if the couple is female. For some reason, gay men are perceived as more of a threat to them.

For a young man or woman to come out to their family takes a lot of courage. Sadly, many of these gay adolescents end up rejected and living on the streets. One recent study reveals that more than thirty per cent of young homeless people in Australia are same sex attracted. According to another study, gay and lesbian youth are two to three times more likely to commit suicide than their straight counterparts. As difficult as it may be for parents of gay children to adapt to their child’s sexuality, it is that much harder for a child to come to terms with his or her own sexuality and then talk about it.

Luckily, I never experienced anything but love and acceptance from my father. He and my mother not only adapted to the situation seamlessly, but they also welcomed MBH (my better-half) into the family when we announced our engagement and subsequent wedding. The greatest gift my parents could ever give me was to fly half-way round the world to attend our commitment ceremony. One of the many highlights of the reception occurred when my father took to the lectern. Having ditched his notes in favour of an improvised speech, he spoke from the heart.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I wanted to do this right, so I looked up Australian toast. All I found was a piece of burnt bread covered in Vegemite, so I’m afraid you’ll have to have an old-fashioned European toast. By now, you’ve heard that my wife and I live in Switzerland and we spend a lot of time in the mountains trekking. Every time we take on a new path, we always ask ourselves, ‘Is it going to be steep. Is it going to be rough?’ It’s always hard going, but ultimately you get to that place where it’s level.”

“The weather is marvellous. You’re looking down the valley at cars the size of bugs, trains the size of caterpillars and all your problems seem quite small in comparison.” Pointing towards MBH and myself, he added, “I think these guys have gone through the steep part. They’ve spent half a lifetime looking for each other. Perhaps now that they’ve found each other, they’re on the flat part. The wind’s behind them. The sun’s in their face. They can relax and enjoy their journey…” As my father lifted his glass to toast us, several of our gay friends took to tissues, wiping away their tears.

“I wish my father would talk about me and my boyfriend that way,” commented one of them at the end of the speech. “You guys are so lucky.”

“Yes,” I thought to myself, “we truly are.”

Colour Coding Your Gay Wedding

There are moments in life that can be planned for and colour-coded. Others seem to fall into place as if by magic.

 

Our Big Day had begun with MBH (my better-half) and I feverishly working our way through a meticulously-organised “to do” list on a spreadsheet that my partner, a product manager, had spent ages colour-coding:  morning tail suits… check, rings… check, speeches… check, plenty of alcohol at hand… check, spray tan… check. Well, you didn’t expect us to walk down the aisle as pale as Madonna, did you?  

 

The seating arrangements had changed more times than a game of musical chairs and the chart was beginning to resemble a Quentin Tarantino script with Mr. Blue sitting next to Mr. White across from Mr. Orange. Everyone was accounted for thanks to MBH’s Excel rainbow creation.

 

Our bridesmaids looked amazing in their long, flowing red 1940s dresses with vintage hairdos styled with enough hairspray to withstand a tornado. “Don’t get too close to anyone holding a ciggie,” warned our hairdresser, Wade. The thought of two human candles bolting for the loo to extinguish their heads in a toilet bowl wasn’t a party trick I’d thought of adding to our colourful spreadsheet. Besides, third degree burns and bandages wouldn’t mesh with the bridesmaids’ dresses and could upset young children attending the wedding.

 

As the stretch limo arrived to pick up the bridal party, we all piled into the vehicle with the help of a shoehorn and some lubricant. The interior was not only designed to accommodate midgets, it also sported a protruding bump covering the axel that had to be climbed over to reach the back seats. This wasn’t as much of a problem on the way in as it was on exiting the limousine. Captured for posterity is a shot of me falling head first out of the vehicle on arrival at our first stop, the location of our photo shoot, and I’d only had one glass of champagne by then.

 

We had opted to do all the wedding photography before our ceremony so that guests could make their way from the service to the reception without any delays. Our hyperactive photographer, who also suffers from attention deficit disorder and possibly even Tourette syndrome, was meeting us at Yurulbin Park, a scenic spot in Balmain with an almost 360-degree view on the harbour, the bridge and the city. He showed up decked out in several cameras outfitted with lenses big enough to put any paparazzi to shame.

 

Herding us to the waterfront, he began snapping away while keeping us and passers-by, including some puzzled-looking fishermen, entertained with a non-stop flow of instructions flavoured with a fake French accent.

 

“Closer togezer. Oui, oui. Don’t look at ze camera. Now kissy, kissy, kissy. L’amour, l’amour. Step backward but not too mush becoz you will fall in ze harbour!”

 

In a blink of an eye, our frenzied photographer had captured every possible pose, angle and composition. We headed back to the limo with our lips slightly chapped, happy to get out of the hot sun and looking forward to the next and final destination, Araluen, the venue of our commitment ceremony.

 

MBH and I had expected a dozen singers at our ceremony and were delighted when over forty members of the Sydney Gay & Lesbian Choir turned up and lined the back of the quaint, non-denominational chapel where the service was taking place. As part of the ceremony and to surprise my partner, I had pre-recorded my singing of Peter Allen’s “I Honestly Love You” and had the choir perform the backing vocals. The combination of setting, choir, and having the man I love by my side, exceeded the magic I had hoped for.

 

What I hadn’t anticipated was the reaction of the crowd. Those who know or work with MBH, the man who is always prepared and not a fan of surprises, took great pleasure in seeing the look on his face when the non-colour coded moment was sprung on him. Some things in life require planning and preparation. Others are best left to fate. There isn’t a spreadsheet out there that could have made this moment any more special.

Everyone Has The Right To A Wedding

Politicians would have us believe that gay marriage is a threat to straight marriage, to families, to children, to civilization and should never be accepted. But how many Aussies, straight and gay, agree with our leaders? 

Surprisingly, there are many within the gay community who condone the government’s actions, either because they agree with the consensus, don’t want to mimic a heterosexual ceremony that celebrates domination of Church over man, fear for their gay sexual freedom, or simply aren’t willing to fight for their rights. The word “marriage” seems to stir up an array of reactions as MBH (my better-half) and I found out while discussing the subject with our gay friends in the lead up to our civil partnership ceremony. 

“Why not just draw up wills and leave marriage to heterosexuals?” one of our friends suggested. Another brought up religion as a stumbling block. Few considered that marriage could mean more to us than a contractual agreement. “While marriage should include property or legal issues,” MBH and I agreed, “it should also be about two people coming together, becoming family and having their union recognised by society. Granting homosexuals the right to marry has nothing to do with religion. It is ultimately about equal civil rights. Whether you’re for or against it, shouldn’t everyone, gay or straight, be able to get married if they choose to?”  

And that’s the thing. There are almost 34,000 same-sex couples in Australia, many raising families, who don’t benefit from equal civil rights. This number is most probably a huge underestimate given that many gay couples choose not to be counted in the Census. So should these couples be denied recognition and protection in health care, pensions and immigration simply because they don’t fit into specific social roles, don’t procreate or are considered immoral by certain religions? 

Marriage is an institution that has changed with the times. Nowadays, many straight couples opt to adopt over having children the natural way. Some forgo church weddings in favour of civil ceremonies. Others marry and divorce as many times as they like without anyone batting an eyelid or questioning the sanctity of marriage. Children raised by gay parents are no less well-adjusted than children brought up in a heterosexual environment. And that’s because family isn’t just about biology. It’s about building a life together, sharing memories, both good and bad, and facing hardships together.  

When MBH and I chose to get married, we wanted everything that defines a family. We wanted our “unofficial” union to be made “official.  As the UK recognises same-sex marriage and I am the holder of a British passport, we decided to seal the deal at the British Consulate General in Sydney. A few days before our commitment ceremony, we gathered around a table of witnesses at the consulate, in front of a portrait of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth 2, to exchange our vows. Picture it, three queens cooped up in a room the size of a goldfish bowl and everyone getting along!  

Being able to celebrate our love in front of family and friends and have our partnership recognised by British law was a defining moment in my life and one that I am very proud of. Everyone, whether gay or straight, should have the right to experience a wedding. With sixty per cent of Australians on board with same-sex marriage, why are our politicians so loath to support it? If other countries can do it, so can we. And, believe me, the world will not come to a grinding halt. So, let’s keep fighting the fight!  

There’s nothing wrong with having your cake and eating it, especially if it’s gay wedding cake.