Oy Vey My Daughter's Gay (13 page)

“Anytime a person goes to a
delicatessen and orders pastrami on white bread, somewhere a Jew dies.” -
Milton Berle

We hadn’t brought Lila and Lee up in either of our
religions. However, our motto, ‘We’ll celebrate anyone’s religion, as long as
there’s food involved’, held fast throughout their childhood. We gave presents
at Christmas time, Lila joined her grandmother at church on occasion and we
celebrated Passover with my sister’s family. When Lee was almost thirteen years
old, I received a phone call from the very same Jewish religious group I
had slated in my ‘Jewish Echo’ article all those years before. They wanted Lee
to consider having a Bar Mitzvah and weren’t easily put off. In the end, I
left the decision up to him and he gave the matter some serious
thought. After much soul-searching on his part, it came down to two
pertinent and philosophical questions. ‘What presents would I get?’ and
‘How much work is involved?’ (We have clearly brought our son up to have
values.) In the end the prospect of gifts was outweighed by the effort required
and he decided against it.

We had mixed feelings about attending the annual Passover
Seder* at my sister and her husband’s house. On the plus side, it was a chance
to spend time with family and have a good meal. On the minus side, we had to
endure my brother-in-law, Maurice, in his annual show of being publicly Jewish.
It was the highlight of his Jewish calendar and every year he sported the same
soft, worn, blue holiday shirt with huge pockets. It became part of the
Passover Seder ritual and we used to take bets amongst ourselves as to whether
he would be wearing it yet again.

When we were all dutifully seated round the table and the
yarmulkes* were handed out to Lee and John, Maurice would stand proudly at the
head of the table. He would then open the Haggadah*, and begin the Kadeish*. We
all sat round trying to feign interest while eyeing the plates of food and
trying to keep our stomachs from rumbling. The Palwin wine (with the bottle
artfully arranged to show off the label bearing the words, ‘Number 4’) lay
opened in pride of place on the table and we prepared for the sugar rush that
would ensue at the first sip.

My mum told me that Maurice’s shortened readings were
nothing compared with what she had had to endure when she was a child. “In
those days, by the time my father was finished reading, we children were all
sleeping under the table,” she said, clearly enjoying the memory.

When I was a child, my own dad had painstakingly tried to
teach me to read Mah Nishtanah (The Four Questions)* in Hebrew. Traditionally,
that honour (or, in my case and my family’s, that ‘horror’) falls to the
youngest child present at the Passover meal. Sadly, three generations later, my
eldest niece is the only one equipped to do the honours.

Now that my brother-in-law has passed on, we have long
ceased to uphold the tradition, but I remember both Maurice and his Passover
dinners fondly. I can clearly summon a vision of him in his soft, blue shirt
proudly presiding over the proceedings.

Apart from my own family, Lila and Lee had little
involvement with other Jews whilst growing up. Lila once told her classmates that
she was Jewish. They looked disbelieving and one countered with, “You can’t be
Jewish! You don’t come from Israel.” 

Lila and Lee inherited a smattering of Yiddish from my
parents, who, incredibly, just one generation before me, were both raised with
it as their first language. The children were often embarrassed to discover
they had inadvertently used a Yiddish word at school, thinking it was one of
their Dad’s Scottish ones. My favourite Yiddish word is ‘oysgeputst,’ meaning
dressed up, or overdressed. My Greek friend has further enhanced it with the
phonetically-written ‘cojagery’, which is Greek for ‘old woman’. Together,
‘oysgeputst cojagary’ forms a fun insult to have in your armoury, ‘mutton
dressed as lamb’ − especially as no one has a clue as to its meaning.

Although John and I were brought up in different religious
faiths, I don’t remember us ever arguing about it. Maybe we were too busy
arguing about other things and we just couldn’t fit it in. I sometimes reflect
on whether Lila and Lee missed out by not being affiliated to one religion and
participating in all the rituals involved. 

When Lila was twenty-one, a unique opportunity presented
itself. Young Jewish people who had never visited Israel were offered the
chance to do so at a bargain rate with a programme called ‘Birthright’. Never
one to refuse an opportunity − or turn down a cheap holiday−Lila
opted to go. It was a formative experience for her and she loved every minute
of her ten days. The highlight was watching the sun rise over the Holy Land on
the first day of the new millennium. She met lots of new Jewish friends. Her
popularity was premised upon two things: she greedily finished any food that
the other girls wouldn’t eat and her hair remained poker straight, despite the
humidity.

Lila was deep into her black velvet phase at that time and
her wardrobe constituted two distinct elements: black dresses with holes and
black dresses without holes. When we arrived at the airport to pick her up on
her return from Israel, we couldn’t spot her. When we finally glimpsed her
waving furiously in our direction, we were flabbergasted. Was she wearing
jeans
? She also sported a T-shirt emblazoned with the name of a kibbutz and
− this was the clincher − a baseball cap. She had turned into a Kibbutznick*!

Soon after she arrived home (via a sports shop to reinvent
her wardrobe), a letter appeared in the national weekly newspaper, ‘The Jewish
Chronicle’, stating that the ‘Birthright’ programme was being used to fund
cheap holidays and offered little or no return for its sponsors. Still fired up
with enthusiasm and having inherited inflammatory Jewish newspaper
letter-writing genes from me, Lila dashed off a strong letter. The gist was
that Birthright had changed her life, made her a better person and even turned
her straight. Okay, I made that last bit up, but imagine if she had actually
written that. The sponsors might have considered that feat well worth their
money. Her letter, alongside a headshot of her in her baseball cap, beamed out
proudly from the front page of the following week’s newspaper. Here was a
youngster all our young Jews could look up to and aspire to emulate and a
medical
student
to boot: A cover girl for modern Jewry − literally and
metaphorically.

Readers with long memories may have shaken their heads at
this point, marvelling that a rebel such as me should have spawned such a
worthy maidel*. This apple had apparently fallen so far from the tree that it
was in another orchard. However, Lila’s religious conversion lasted only
slightly longer than her wardrobe one and, by the time her letter was
published, she had already lost enthusiasm for both.

This proved to be an unfortunate turn of events, both for
Lila and the young and enthusiastic Rabbi determined to claim her as a prize
for his fold. She tried to let him down gently, using every excuse in her
rapidly-growing dating repertoire, including the old chestnut, “It’s not you,
it’s me.” However, he was not easily dissuaded. He eventually tracked down our
telephone number and begged us to encourage her to reconsider. Lila was right.
This was not a man prepared to give up without a fight. If only I’d had the
chutzpah* to say, “I’m so sorry. Lila’s out at a gay bar tonight with her
lesbian girlfriend. Can I take a message?”

* Passover Seder:   Jewish
ritual feast that marks the beginning    

                                 
of the Jewish holiday of Passover.

   Mah Nishtanah  (Four
Questions) Questions one is obligated to

                                 
ask on the night of the Seder.

   Kibbutznick:         someone
who lives on a kibbutz, a collective

                                 
rural community in Israel.

   Maidel:                 teenage
girl, unmarried girl.

   Chutzpah:            nerve,
guts.

“Even
when freshly washed and relieved of all obvious confections, children tend to
be sticky.” - Fran Lebowitz

In a nod to my Jewish heritage, Lee thought it would be
nice for his children to call me ‘Bubbe’* (pronounced ‘Bobby’), even though
Lila and Lee hadn’t called my own mother by that name.  It attracts a few
confused looks but makes me feel special.

My grandson Iain, Lee’s eldest child, is a typical
six-year-old. He’s great fun to be around, has a delightful sense of humour and
he asks questions endlessly. He has obsessions. A recent one was about death.
He was becoming so preoccupied by it that Lee and his wife tried to steer him
into other conversations and activities. His mother, Ainsley, was pregnant with
Iain’s soon-to-be sister, Molly, when I bought him a book about the life cycles
of animals.

“Mum, why is the hen sitting on the egg?”

“So she can keep it warm.”

“But why does she need
to keep it warm?”
“Because there’s a chicken inside the egg and if it’s not kept warm it will
die.”

“Hmmm…what if the baby inside you dies?”

“…My baby is safe and warm inside me,” Ainsley said,
squirming uncomfortably.

“But what if it dies?”

“Okay,” Ainsley said in a brisk voice, “how about we put
this book away for now and get out another one?”

When he brought his favourite subject up with me, Lee
(knowing my taste for long and searching discussions) begged me to go easy. All
went well until I took Iain to our local Science Centre. He was immediately
drawn to the exhibit depicting the first heart transplant. The people were
represented by dolls and, after the actual operation, the next frame had the
heart plant patient (doll) lying down to show him having died, as he did, ten
days after the operation.

“Bubbe, what happened to that man? Why is he lying down?”

“What?” I said, faking nonchalance. “Err…nothing happened
to him. He’s just resting!”

“I think he died,” Iain said.

“Died? Ha, ha. Noooo! What makes you think that? He was
just tired out after playing football.”

“Well, I think he died,” said Iain, looking at my
curiously. This was a Bubbe he’d never encountered before and it was obvious he
was unimpressed by her.

“I know, let’s go upstairs and look at something else,” I
said.

Half an hour later…

“Isn’t this ‘Alice in Wonderland’ house fun?”

“Bubbe?”

“What?”

“I think that man died.”

“What man?” I asked innocently, knowing immediately to what
he was referring.

“You know what man, Bubbe.”

“Oh
that
man. No, I don’t think so.”

“I think he died, Bubbe!” (…And furthermore, you and I both
know he died, so why are you lying to me?)

I felt terrible. I had let my grandson down. When he reads
this, I hope he’ll understand. He’ll probably yell triumphantly, ‘I
knew
it!’

Given his keen eye and his persistence, I was interested to
hear what Iain made of Lila and Miranda’s wedding photo, which is displayed in
both his house and ours. They were married just after he was born, so he’s
grown up with that photo and, of course, he’s been in Auntie Lila and Auntie
Miranda’s company (albeit not very often, since they live in a different
country). I expected that, as he grew up and became more aware of the photo,
he’d be fascinated with it and demand to know why there were two brides, as
opposed to his mum and dad’s wedding photo which featured one bride, one groom
and one-year-old him.

I predicted that, like the dolls in the Science Museum, two
brides would become a regular and fascinating topic of conversation for him
(and endlessly tiresome for his mum and dad). I imagined him demanding to take
the photo to school for Show and Tell. So we are all amazed by the fact that he
hasn’t mentioned it once − not ever! His mum revealed that he is indeed
fascinated with Auntie Lila and Auntie Miranda, but for a different reason
altogether.

“Mum, you know Auntie Lila and Auntie Miranda?”

Here it comes. “Yes?”

“Why don’t they eat meat?”

He’s intrigued that Lila and Miranda are vegetarians. I’d
love to ask him if he’s ever wondered why there are two brides in the photo,
but I’m not sure how to handle that conversation. Knowing him, I can’t accept
that he hasn’t noticed. He’s apparently just not that interested. He’s grown up
thinking that’s just the way things are. Or maybe he’ll start taking an
interest in it later. Either way, I can’t see him being traumatised by it.

Since hearing Lila’s theory that most extended families
have gay members, one of my friends has become obsessed with identifying gay
member(s) within her family and, not being able to do so, is feeling rather
left out. My generation was the first to be able to come out knowing that, by
choosing to live a gay life in a Western country, they wouldn’t be doing
anything illegal. How far has the situation progressed? It would be great to
think that my grandson’s generation are now growing up thinking that
auntie-and-auntie or uncle-and-uncle couples are just an ordinary part of every
family.

Just before I took early retirement from teaching, a new
sex education (SHRE) pack was introduced in Scotland. Now that the new pack
¹²
was ‘out there’, I was anxious to hear from colleagues how it was being
received by pupils and teachers. I had been told that homosexuality was
included as one of the topics and my interest was piqued, both as a teacher and
as the parent of a gay daughter.

My teacher friend confirmed that a nod to homosexuality
appeared in the final lesson of the primary school curriculum. The lesson was
based on families and included eight photos. The theme was that families are
people who love and care for you and that modern families come in all shapes
and permutations. One photo depicts a child going to stay with her two dads for
the weekend. Another depicts a child with her two mums. The photographs open
the door for discussion and that’s always a good thing. My friend says that, at
least in her school (which is in a poor inner-city setting), my prediction
seems to be correct: the pupils are largely unfazed by the photos and have made
comments to the effect of, ‘That’s like my Auntie Susan’, or ‘Yeah, my uncle
has a partner like that’. It appears that perceptions are changing.

However, I was reading an article in a Scottish newspaper,
recently, which featured some depressing news in light of the new sex education
pack. The article claimed that homosexual bullying is rife in Scotland’s
schools, especially secondary schools. “Almost nine out of ten secondary
teachers and four out of ten primary teachers… said that homophobic bullying
took place in their school, but only 16 per cent had received training on how
to handle it.”
¹³
Also, disturbingly, three quarters of primary
teachers and almost half of secondary teachers were still unsure if they were
permitted to even discuss LGBT issues.  This comes almost 15 years after the
abolition of Section 2A, which prevented the ‘promotion of homosexuality’ in
the classroom. I wonder how many teachers are even aware of the lesson in the
SHRE pack which addresses gay issues. When I was a teacher, only a small
percentage of my colleagues were offered training on the pack’s content and
use. Also, as only teachers of the older children are teaching that particular
lesson, there may be a perception that it’s not permissible to discuss gay
issues prior to it being taught. These issues need to be addressed with some
urgency.

Teachers, including me, largely ignored pupils’ mentions of
the ‘gay stair’ in my school. This article claims that almost two thirds of
primary teachers had heard pupils use expressions like, ‘that’s so gay’,
meaning ‘that’s something bad’. My teacher friends confirm this trend. Whilst
disapproving of its use in principle, many turn a blind eye to it. Why? I can’t
imagine any of my colleagues ignoring a reference to a ‘black stair’ or a
‘Muslim stair’. Why is it any more acceptable to insult gays?

When my grandson comes to that sex education lesson, in
approximately five years’ time, I’ll be interested to see how things have
progressed. Will he take Lila and Miranda’s wedding photo in to show it off or
will gay weddings have become so commonplace as to not have any novelty value
anymore?

* Bubbe: Yiddish –
grandmother