A photo of a crane lowering a concrete staircase into a metal ribcage.
I started this newsletter with a story about exorcism. Except it wasn’t really a story about exorcism, it was a story about growing up in the church. And about how that meant it took half a life-time for me to finally accept that I was gay. I didn’t give any gory details of the exorcism in question (did you want them?!) but it made a kicker of a starter sentence, didn’t it?
I don’t know why exactly that story presented itself as the one to start things off with. Timing was part of it; submissions on the conversion therapy bill closed on Wednesday. Up until last week I wouldn’t have said that I went through conversion therapy per se, I never sat in a counsellor’s office and had hours of conversations angled at coming up with a psychological theory as to why I was attracted to women. But I read something about the conversion practices bill last week and it hit home, of course that was what I went through.
The exorcism against a “spirit of lesbianism” which I experienced was profoundly damaging. Not only did it name something I was not ready or able to name at that time, even to myself, but in the very same sentence that it named it, it also took it away. I’ve thought about that moment a lot over the last few years, and tried to find the words to describe how intensely screwed up it was. That pronouncement which was a purging in the very same breath. To be told that you are something, or that you have something, and then to have it taken away as instantly as you are given it. I can’t find the words for it except; it was a total mindfuck.
I know this makes difficult reading, and I really appreciate the messages of support you sent me last week in various ways. I especially appreciate the messages from those of you who knew me from that time in my life, or who grew up in a similar kind of church and get it. Putting the story out there without shame or embarrassment has been really freeing. My own kind of exorcism, if you will. My own naming of the thing which was so damaging and yet at the same time, in a twisted way, which spoke to something true.
I’m teaching some English classes full-time for a couple of weeks (incredible to be well enough, touch wood, that’s a story for another day) and in one of the senior classes we’re preparing to do speeches. We watched a TED talk by social psychologist Amy Cuddy about the power of body language, and her premise was not just that your body language influences those around you, it was that your body language influences you. She’s run studies which show that participants’ cortisol levels drop and testosterone levels rise after standing for two minutes in what she calls a “power position.” She demonstrated an example in the TED talk; simply standing up and stretching her arms out wide either side, and holding that pose. Like a freeze-frame of a sun salutation.
It reminded me instantly of standing in church, the infamous church of the exorcism, with my hands raised. If you haven’t been to a pentecostal church (AKA happy clappy) you’ve probably seen images of the kinds of mega-churches in the US and Australia that most of our pentecostal churches imitate on a smaller scale. Stadiums packed with people surrounding or facing a stage, with a lighting rig set up like a concert, and a band leading modern hymns which sound like pop or soft rock. The congregants behave like concert-goers, standing to sing, and lifting up their hands with passion in what is basically a version of Cuddy’s power position. So it must feel pretty good, right? I haven’t been in that kind of environment for more than a decade, but once upon a time it was my jam. I would even say I got a lot out of it. That in spite of the fucked-up-ness (and that’s not exaggeration for effect) it helped make me who I am.
I took the photo above yesterday. We were driving out to Port Chalmers (so good to see the harbour and smell the salt air after having stayed in the valley all through lockdown) and as we turned to drive past the stadium I suddenly saw, out of the corner of my eye, a brand new building rising up behind the Mobil on Anzac Ave. It felt like it had appeared out of nowhere. And above it, hanging from a crane, was a complete concrete staircase, one set of stairs and a landing at each end. Looking like something cut out from an Escher drawing.
I was instantly transfixed. I know that buildings get built this way all the time. But there was something about seeing that staircase hanging in the middle of the air that caught my imagination. And the thought that one minute there was no staircase, and each level of the building, marked out by its metal ribs, was separated. And then in the next minute (let me get poetic with engineering) there was a staircase. And everything changed.
A staircase is transformative. It allows you to move. It grants access to spaces which otherwise would be inaccessible. (If you use a wheelchair, imagine I’m talking about a lift, same point). I feel like I spent a lot of my life trying to find a way to get to myself. I knew I was in here somewhere, but I was separate from myself. And then one day, a staircase was craned in. Did I order it? Did my subconscious order it? Did God order it? Or was it already there and I just wasn’t ready to see it until right then. Who knows. The point is, for most of my life part of me was separated off, inaccessible. And then one day, I got a staircase. I walked up it, that steady permanent thing, and there I was. In all my gorgeous gay newness.
There are so many stories I want to write here. Stories about this incredible second-chance life I’ve been given. A life which, despite the recent years of chronic illness, is peaceful and free in a way I had no idea was possible. But the stories about how I got here are good too. They are sad, some of them, and some of them a bit twisted, but they all reflect the complexity of life, the way that no one life is all good, or all bad. And that when you accept that all of it offers you something, even the dark bits, well, that’s when things get interesting.
Comments are open. If you’re reading this on email, the link at the very bottom will take you to the newsletter itself and comments are below the story. If you want to watch the Amy Cuddy TED talk (which is fascinating) I’ve linked it below. Thank you for reading, and for being part of this story. Feel free to share.
Hey friend, I so enjoyed reading your words and looking forward to hearing more about your journey, which I love! I'm so grateful that our lives crossed and intertwined, all the phone calls, the sharing to and fro, the honesty and vulnerability about the nitty gritty-ness of our lives. It's a treasure trove of goodness, beauty (in all it's glory and bruising), and love. I'm so proud of you, the person you are and continue to unbecome (in your becoming)! Much love dear friend xo