Oy Vey My Daughter's Gay (19 page)

“I was
nauseous and tingly all over.
 
I was
either in love or I had smallpox.” - Woody Allen

Is there a protocol for a lesbian couple planning to
marry?  Who proposes? For heterosexuals it’s still usually the man’s call,
although I was the one who eventually proposed to John when he’d given up hope
of me ever accepting
his
proposals.

It turned out that Miranda had the same romantic instincts
as John and she first proposed to Lila three months after they got together.
Like mother, like daughter. We are obviously irresistible.

It was New Year’s Eve and Miranda and Lila were at a 1950s
theme party, dressed up in retro garb and dancing the night away. Not
surprisingly, it was very loud and Lila’s hearing is not her best quality.
(Lila maintains that actually all her senses are a bit wanting. Not ideal for a
doctor, although a perfect attribute for a pathologist using formaldehyde.) It
was just a few minutes before the bells rang for New Year when Miranda turned to
Lila and shouted something.

Lila thought she was asking if she wanted more champagne.
“Yes please,” she said. She was a tad confused by the joyful expression that
came over Miranda’s face. Could she really be that excited by Lila accepting
another glass of champagne? She thought she’d better check exactly what was
happening. “Sorry, what did you say?” Lila enquired.

“I just asked you to marry me,” Miranda said. “And you said
‘yes’.”

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t hear you. I love you so
much, but it’s too early in our relationship for me to be able to say yes, yet.
Sorry.”

“Oh.”

Miraculously, they were able to recover from that pretty
major faux pas, drinking the champagne Lila had already so happily said yes to
and enjoying the rest of the New Year celebrations together. I’m guessing they
both knew that, although Lila had refused the proposal, it was just a matter of
time until she accepted. After all, she had softened the blow by telling
Miranda she loved her. It was just a matter of time.

The next proposal took place almost a year later. As she
regularly had back pain, Miranda had often joked that her perfect wife would be
a masseuse. With this in mind, Lila booked them a couple’s massage lesson. “Now
I’ll fulfil your final specification for the perfect wife,” Lila hinted. The
subject of marriage had been on the table for a while now; there was an
implicit understanding that Miranda would be the one who proposed and that, in
her typical romantic style, it would take the form of some grand gesture.

After the massage class, they had dinner at the National
Portrait Gallery and watched the sun set over the rooftops of London. They
smiled at each other.

“I
so
want to ask you to marry me,” Miranda
admitted.

“I’d
so
want to say yes,” Lila replied, smiling shyly.

Then, forgetting all about the grand gesture, Miranda took
Lila’s hand and said nervously, “Well… Will you marry me?”

”Yes!”

Lila phoned us almost immediately to share the news. It
means so much to us that, even to this day, if Lila has any important decision
to make, or news of any kind to share, she wants to share it immediately with
us. We were genuinely excited and thrilled for them both. It wasn’t that much
of a surprise, as we knew how they felt about each other and were happy beyond
words that Lila had found her soulmate. However, we didn’t know what the
protocol would be for a gay couple making a legal commitment in England at that
time.

“Can you actually get married?” I said.

“Well, not ‘married’ per se; but we can have a civil
partnership, which is much the same thing, other than the name,” Lila said.

“We’re so happy for you both,” I said. And I meant it.

“What about Dad? Remember he said he’d never go to a gay
wedding?”

“Well, judging by the grin on his face, I’d say he’s
probably changed his mind on that one.”

“I never dreamed it was possible that the day would come
when I’d be planning my own wedding,” Lila said.

I was too choked up to speak and the tears were streaming
down my face. I marvelled at how far Lila had come and how perfectly things had
turned out. I thought back to what John had said after Lila’s first graduation
day:
“I’ve accepted that Lila’s gay, but I’ll never be happy about it.”

“Do you think I am?”
I’d replied at the time.

Now here we were: genuinely thrilled, because we wouldn’t
change a thing. It was impossible to imagine Lila being any happier than she
was at that moment.

As Miranda’s proposal had been spontaneous, she hadn’t
given Lila an engagement ring. It turned out to be a very expensive purchase,
because they each wanted a ring. Miranda had a clear idea of her perfect ring
and they planned on matching ones. However, when they arrived at the jewellery
store together, Lila balked at the price of Miranda’s diamond of choice. “An
extra 300 pounds for a tenth of a millimetre? That’s crazy!”

An argument ensued in front of the bemused sales clerk, who
didn’t appear to have encountered a lesbian engagement before. Given the
circumstances, I’m pretty sure he was a fan and was more than likely rubbing
his hands together in anticipation of his huge commission on two rings. They
didn’t even ask for a discount. Come on Lila, are you kidding me?

In the end, Lila’s thrift won out and they chose two
identical smaller carat ones. Miranda was delighted at the time, but, over the
years, it’s become a small bone of contention with her, especially when other
newly engaged women proudly flaunt their ‘rocks’ in her company. I don’t own an
engagement ring. (In fairness to John, it was my choice.) On our last
anniversary, he got all romantic and decided he wanted to buy me one: then he
checked out the prices. Like father, like daughter. However, I clearly lacked
Miranda’s persuasive powers because, needless to say, I still don’t have an
engagement ring.

Lila and Miranda’s engagement period progressed happily,
until the wedding planning began. This is one area in which a lesbian wedding
is exactly like any other wedding: disagreements with parents. The ‘round 1’
phone call took place one night.

“Miranda and I have decided we want a small wedding: Just
you and dad, Lee and Ainsley and a few close friends. We’re going to have an
intimate ceremony, then go to a restaurant for a meal after,” Lila said.

“That’s fine,” I said, “But you’ll need to invite your aunt
and cousins.”

“But mum, that’s not fair: Miranda has hardly any family,
so she’ll feel uncomfortable with the imbalance. And that would mean we
couldn’t have the small wedding we want,” Lila reasoned.

“That would be fine if it was only a few people, Lila, but
you’re planning on thirty or so and only four of them are family. You need to
at least invite your aunt and uncle and cousins.”

“Okay, I suppose we can try to squeeze them in, but only on
their own.”

“What?”

“I’ll invite them, but not their husbands.”

“You can’t do that! John, do you believe this?” He didn’t,
and was behind me.

“I can,” Lila protested, “I’ve been to lots of small
weddings where I was invited without a partner.”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing. I don’t know what kind
of craziness goes on in London, but it’s not going to happen in our family.”

“Okay, Okay. I’ll invite them all. But it’ll mean getting a
bigger venue and rearranging the whole wedding, so it’s not what we actually
want any more.”

“Thank you.”

The menu proved to be another stumbling point. Both Miranda
and Lila were vegetarians by now and Lila was adamant that no meat would be
served at the reception dinner.

“But you can’t dictate to guests what they should eat,” I
insisted.

“Yes we can,” Lila said. “We don’t want animals killed on
our behalf.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. These people are your guests. They’re
entitled to eat meat if they want to.”

In the end, Lila and Miranda compromised by putting a ‘meat
option’ on the menu as an alternative and an uneasy truce was called. The
invitations were sent out and we thought the worst was over. Then we received
another call from Lila.

“I’ve just had my cousins’ replies to the wedding
invitations. ‘They’re not coming!”

“Oh... yeah... they... eh... said they wouldn’t come
without their children.”

“There is no way we’re having children at our wedding.”

“Oops! Maybe I should have checked with them first… Oh,
well, at least you invited them.”

“Marriage is nature’s way of keeping us from fighting
with strangers.” - Woody Allen.

Instead of a wedding list constructed by the bride and
groom (or, in this case, bride and bride) Lila and Miranda opted for a novel
idea called ‘Honey Money’. It was a relatively new concept and we’d never even
heard of it. They posted a list of very specific, cool and quirky activities
they planned to undertake on their New York honeymoon − everything from
theatre trips, to meals in fancy restaurants, to ice-skating. Each activity had
a price listed next to it and guests simply clicked to pay for their activity
of choice on the specialist website.

I had mixed feelings about ‘Honey Money’, as I do about all
wedding lists. I’m torn between being indignant and delighted. Why should a
couple get exactly what they want? When we got married, John and I had to put
up with three toasters and a punch bowl with the £1.50 label still on the box.
On the other hand, it means I don’t have to traipse around shops, or even
websites, searching for the perfect gift. A couple of well-directed clicks and
the job’s done and dusted. Also, I can rest assured that the gift will be
appreciated.

Conscientious girls that they are, Lila and Miranda took
the ‘Honey Money’ idea a step further. They set up a honeymoon blog, through
which guests who had contributed could read all about the activities they’d
paid for. They posted on a daily basis, with comments like: ‘Went ice-skating
this afternoon, courtesy of Mike and Ann. We didn’t fall down too much and we
had a ball. Thank you so much. At night we had dinner at a top vegetarian
restaurant. The food was brilliant. Thanks so much Sue and Linda.’

Are you supposed to have so much free time on your
honeymoon that you feel the need to fill it with blogging?
I wondered.
Nevertheless, it was a novel idea and it gave us an opportunity to enjoy New
York with them vicariously. Three years later we got to enjoy it for real, when
Lila and Miranda paid for us to have a version of their honeymoon experience in
a three-day all-expenses-paid stay in Greenwich Village. We love you, girls!

The ‘Honey Money’ project was small potatoes compared to
their on-going ventures at that time. Lila and Miranda had already set up a
‘lesbian art exhibition group’, where gay women could meet socially and attend
the latest art openings around London, occasionally (as in the case of a
surrealism exhibition) dressing up to reflect the theme of the exhibition.
However, their biggest project was sparked by their desire to live in a more
glamorous area of London. Unfortunately they couldn’t afford to do this, so
they embarked upon a crusade to transform their home area by setting up a
website called, ‘Gay Camberwell,’ their rationale being, ‘If you can’t be with
the one you love, love the one you’re with.’

Gay Camberwell was a huge undertaking, all done in their
free time. They listed all the more genteel bars and restaurants, writing
reviews to tempt locals who might normally travel into the city centre to
socialise, even creating a tongue-in-cheek ‘gay friendliness’ rating. Then they
set up a ‘launch’ month, engaging numerous local businesses in putting on
events ranging from cabaret nights, to a film festival, to a literary salon.
Their efforts transformed perceptions of the area. They hosted a weekly
gay-themed film screening, ‘Pink Screen Sundays’. They also ran a monthly book
club and a comedy night and they publicised every cool event in the area, from
storytelling to theatre.

Lila was appointed to the Board of the local theatre. MPs
rushed to get their views published on the increasingly influential Gay
Camberwell website, where they were all obliged to talk about how they would
improve the area for gay people, amongst other local issues. More and more
events started happening. Lila and Miranda were rewarded with an article
published in London’s ‘Time Out’ magazine, marvelling at how Camberwell had
become the gay centre of South London.

The website was also responsible for securing Lila’s job as
Deputy Medical Director of a big private healthcare company. As the focus of
the job’s remit was communications, the interviewer enquired as to whether Lila
had an online presence through which to assess her skills. It presented a
dilemma for Lila, as do many everyday situations. Citing the highly
sophisticated and successful ‘Gay Camberwell’ website would undoubtedly impress
the interviewer and bag her the job, but it would also reveal her sexuality.
This was something that would normally remain private and could make her
vulnerable to potential homophobia during a job interview. After brief
consideration she revealed the website. The interviewer was suitably wowed. “I
used to live in Camberwell myself,” she said, with obvious delight. Not
surprisingly, Lila got the job.

“Forty
for you, sixty for me. And equal partners we will be.” - Joan Rivers

It was Lila and Miranda’s wedding day. We were winging
our way − or more accurately,
crawling
our way, with John glancing
surreptitiously at the taxi meter the whole time − from our London hotel
to Lila and Miranda’s flat. Not only was John attending his daughter’s lesbian
wedding, but he was doing it with such love and grace that he threatened to
ruin my expensive eye make-up.

When we alighted from the taxi, John, attired in full
Highland dress kilt, caught the eye of a local East End worthy, who studied the
outfit for a few moments with a look of confusion on his face. “Where are you
goin’?” he enquired at last.

“We’re en-route to our daughter’s wedding,” John said.

“Well, can I just say… you look as smart as fuck!” he said.

As compliments go, I think that one’s pretty hard to beat!
The kilt maker was one of John’s clients. I suggested that said client might
want to build an advertising campaign around it. I could see it now: ‘Want to
look as smart as fuck? Get your kilt here!’ I think it has a certain ring to
it.

Sadly, I received no such compliment on my attire, even
though I was, of course, oysgeputst myself. Damn it. I’d spent a lot of money
on that outfit. Okay, that’s a lie. I actually bought it from ‘George’ at Asda.
What can I say? It was a great dress, and I stand by my choice. John stood by
it, too. For most of our married life he had barely glanced at what I was
wearing. Then, out of the blue, a few years ago, he had transformed into a big,
bald, Scottish version of famous fashion consultant and television star, Gok
Wan. And the most annoying part of this transformation is that he’s usually
annoyingly right about what clothes suit me.

My choice of outfit had caused considerable angst amongst
my teaching colleagues. They had even brought in their ex-wedding outfits for
me to try on, fearing that: a) I was too mean to buy a proper outfit; and b)
I’d make a fool of myself at a fancy London wedding, and they’d feel guilty for
letting me. I made a show of considering other outfits, but none of them was as
flattering as mine. Gok McCay agreed.

Shoes proved to be a bigger headache (or foot ache). After
much searching, I found some lovely strappy sandals. “What do you think?” I
asked Evelyn.

“They look perfect,” she said.

“I’m not so sure. It all depends on what Mr and Mrs Bunion
have to say on the matter.”

“Are they Miranda’s parents?” she asked.

“No. They’re my feet!” I replied.

I bought the sandals, even though Mr and Mrs Bunion made it
perfectly clear in the shop that they were not happy. Alas, pride comes before
a fall. In this case, I’m glad to say, not literally. It was worth the pain,
for the pleasure of taking them off. Luckily I had also invested in a pair of
‘auxiliary’ pumps.

“We’re in the bedroom,” Lila called, as Miranda’s friend
opened the front door to us. I went to investigate, whilst John attempted to
sit on the sofa without crushing the pleats in his kilt or being impaled on the
sgian-dubh*
tucked into his sock, as per Scottish Highland
tradition.

“Loosen it, Lila! I can’t breathe!” I followed the screams
into the bedroom. The first sight of my daughter on her wedding day made me
smile. I found Lila fully dressed and good to go (that’s my girl). She was busy
pulling on two silk ribbons that were attached to Miranda’s cream silk corset.
Fits of giggling were hindering their progress. It was such a lovely picture
and I knew it augured well for the start of their new life together as wife and
wife.

Lila looked stunning in her knee-length, white, halter
neck, Marilyn Monroe-style 50s wedding dress, with layers and layers of purple
netting just visible underneath it. It had been designed and made especially
for Lila by the costume designer from her old Rocky Horror shadow cast. “I
might as well take the chance to be a fairy-tale Princess,” she told me, and
indeed she had. Her shoulder-length brown hair was flicked out at the sides,
making her look like a little girl. I noted that she’d taken my advice about
not wearing her glasses, but hoped her big day wouldn’t be a blur because of
me.

Lila wore a short veil, as did Miranda, who complemented
Lila perfectly in a cream tuxedo over her sexy, now fully laced-up corset.
Lila, having inherited my flat feet, is more of a ‘sensible’ or ‘quirky’ shoe
girl, but, on this occasion, she had invested in strappy white high heels.
Unlike Miranda, who looked comfortable and relaxed in her towering pearly
Vivienne Westwood stilettos, complete with red hearts, Lila was mostly focused
on remaining upright. Miranda still has a huge collection of sexy stilettos and
they remain a talking point with her co-workers. In contrast, one of Lila’s
favourite gifts of all time was when Miranda bought her six pairs of identical
patent black flat schoolgirl shoes from Marks and Spencer, so she’d never run
out again. (Miranda, on the other hand, is still recovering from the
embarrassment.)

It was a golden day. The tear-jerking civil partnership
ceremony was held in Marylebone Registry Office in central London. My sister
commented that she’d never seen brides quite as happy as Lila and Miranda. To
be fair, she had never seen
brides;
at least, not at the same wedding.
Lila was touched and delighted that her grandmother acknowledged her special
day with a generous cash gift in addition to helping make tablet (a traditional
Scottish sweet) for wedding favours.  Lila was also moved to notice that their
framed wedding photograph was later proudly displayed on her grandmother’s
mantelpiece. Maybe she
did
care about her after all.

A traditional red Routemaster bus whisked us to the
reception, which was held in the restaurant of the London Design Museum. Lila’s
fairy-tale dress perfectly complemented the fairy lights twinkling over the
River Thames and Tower Bridge. The golden day melted into a shimmering night.
Everything was perfect, from the gay
a cappella
singers who had
performed at Gay Camberwell events, to the swing band who were playing the
following night in the Royal Albert Hall, to the wedding cake made entirely out
of cheese (not cheese
cake
, but round cheeses, stacked in diminishing
tiers), to the individually personalised cartoons Lila had drawn for each
guest’s wedding favour, to the chips served in paper cones that Lila had spent
hours fashioning from Miranda’s favourite newspaper, the ‘Financial Times’.
Outside, a perfectly-timed fireworks display over Tower Bridge added to the
magic. (Sadly, I failed to convince Lila and Miranda that we’d arranged it.)  
As I looked around me, it was impossible to believe I had ever wanted anything
different than this for my wonderful daughter.

By far the funniest part of the evening was trying to teach
a group of Londoners Scottish country dancing during a swing music break.
Providently, John decided not to be a real Scotsman and was wearing underpants.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” I asked one of Lila’s old
friends from medical school.

“Yes, and I’m hoping to meet a nice man,” she said,
laughingly.

“I think you’ve come to the wrong place for that,” I said.
“Most of these guys already have boyfriends.”

The only blot on the day was when one of the guests reduced
Miranda to tears by telling her that her veil looked ridiculous with a trouser
suit. How could someone be that insensitive? Or was it simply jealousy?

Miranda’s best man had once been responsible for writing
the Queen’s Speech and was, at that time, speechwriter for the Lord Mayor of
London. John couldn’t (and wouldn’t) follow that, especially as he’s someone
who fears public speaking only slightly less than death. The thought of
delivering the traditional ‘Father of the Bride’ speech had given him
considerable angst before the wedding. I hit on a compromise. With Lila’s
approval, I wrote the speech and we performed it as a double act.

It was a difficult speech to compose. With almost half of
the guests being gay, I felt it was important to hit just the right note.
Should we just not mention Lila being gay and side-swerve the whole issue?
Maybe nobody would notice. We were so afraid of offending people.

“But isn’t the whole point of a wedding speech to offend
people anyway?” I asked John.

He pointed out that while it’s de rigueur to offend the
bride and groom− or in this case, the bride and bride− offending
the wedding guests is generally frowned upon. I was disappointed. I’d recently
heard of a Jewish storyteller who worked at weekends performing as a fake
Rabbi. Hired to give a spoof speech at a Bar Mitzvah, he duly insulted every
member of the boy’s family. The only heckle he got from the audience was the
boy’s aunt, demanding to know why she’d been left out of the insults.

In the event, it felt like we got our speech just right. It
was funny, moving and we enjoyed giving it. (Well I did. John survived it,
which was
his
main criteria for success.) When Miranda stood up
afterwards and, with a shy smile, started her response with, “My wife and
I...,” we were genuinely moved to hear about how happy she was to be joining
our family.

We were also deeply touched by the number of gay guests who
came over to compliment us on our own speech: ‘If only all parents were like
you,’ was the general consensus. We felt like celebrities. Luckily they didn’t
know how badly we’d reacted when Lila first came out. John and I smiled at each
other; proud of how far we’d both come.

In addition to creating individual cartoon place settings
for every guest, Lila presented John and me with two tiny notebooks entitled,
‘Bringing Up Lila’. We opened them to reveal tiny detailed cartoons, each page
depicting an episode from Lila’s childhood.

It was immediately apparent how much work and thought had
gone into each page. We were overwhelmed and were desperate to settle down
somewhere quiet to devour the contents. Lila warned us, “You might shed a tear
or two when you read them. I certainly did when I was making them, so it’s
probably best to read them in private.”

She was right. Having sobbed my way through both books, I
thought they would be a lovely treat for John to read on the plane journey
home. Within two minutes, he was sobbing and inconsolable, attracting worried
stares from other passengers. Maybe the plane wasn’t the ideal venue after all.

John had always been in awe of Lila. He was her biggest fan
and, in his eyes, she could do no wrong. I pitied any teacher who gave her less
than perfect marks. John had to be held back from demanding an explanation,
while Lila patiently tried to explain that in reality, her work just hadn’t
been that good.

“Not that good? Yeah,
right!
” John scoffed,
dismissing the ridiculous suggestion.

When Lila came out, John feared that their special
relationship had ended. For him, the worst part of Lila being gay was that he
felt impotent. He was in uncharted territory and, for the first time in his
life, he was at a loss as to how to support his beloved daughter.

He genuinely had had no idea how much of an influence he’d
been throughout Lila’s life and now here was the evidence, in black and white.
He was surprised and delighted to discover that he featured in every single
page. While I was the all-singing-all-dancing parent at the forefront of every
event (the ‘corpse at every funeral’, as my brother-in-law enjoys saying), John
was there in the background: loving, supportive, and indispensable. These books
meant a lot to me, but to John they were the greatest gift Lila could have
bestowed on him.

On our way home, we heaved a sigh of relief that it had all
gone without a hitch and it had been perfect. Lila and Miranda’s wedding was a
golden day, one we’ll remember with joy for the rest of our lives. But laws
evolve, thankfully in the case of the UK, towards equality. From the 10
^th
December 2014 Lila and Miranda have officially had the right to convert their
civil partnership to a marriage. While civil partnerships are similar, in
almost every way but name, to marriage, Lila explained to me that the right for
gay people to officially marry each other has been an important fight for
equality and, of course, they plan to do it.

I tried to remain calm and cheerful when they told me, but
it must have been obvious from my voice that I was silently screaming, ‘Oy
Vey!’ Or maybe it was coming from Mr and Mrs Bunion, horrified by the prospect
of being crammed into another torturous pair of strappy sandals!

* Sgian-dubh: a small, single-edged knife worn as part of
traditional Scottish Highland dress along with the kilt.