Don’t Blame Your Homophobia or Racism on How You Were Raised

Because I am not buying it

My Dad’s best friend was Charles. I wrote briefly about him in the article See Queen Or Help Your Best Friend?

Charles was an incredibly talented pianist and session musician who played with many big names. He also played the saxophone, clarinet, and flute. My first real memory of Charles is him playing the piano and singing happy birthday to me down the telephone. I thought it was amazing and so fancy! He had even bought me a mini piano so I could learn to play like him!

As I said, Charles was a brilliant musician, a wonderful singer, and an animal lover. He had three dogs and two cats. Charles also happened to be a gay man. To me and my brothers and sisters; that was nothing more than a fact. I don’t ever remember it being explained to us. It just was. Charles had a long-term boyfriend, the same as Uncle Nick had a long-term girlfriend. We met his partner once, he was a lovely Spanish guy, but I forget his name.

We loved Charles. He would tell us stories of travelling the world and playing for famous people. I would later ask my Dad if those stories were true, and he said they were. It would make sense because his house was breathtaking. Big, open spaces and a living room featuring what I was told was a Steinway Grand. That meant nothing to 6-year-old me, now…… holy hell.

Charles was a feature of our lives. Everyone in the family embraced and loved him without question. Everyone apart from my Mum. I never understood why she didn’t like Charles. There was no conceivable reason not to like him. But her attitude towards him was awful. She was curt and said nothing more than the bare minimum. She made it awkward and weird and made no bones about the fact that she didn’t like him.

I remember asking my older brother, Gavin, why she was so rude to Charles and he gave me the answer I was looking for.

“Because Charles is gay, and she’s being a bitch.”

“What do you mean?” I inquired

“You know, he has a boyfriend.”

“Yeah, [Spanish guy],” I confidently stated.

“Yeah, well, Mum doesn’t like that.”

“Why? [Spanish guy] is lovely!”

I remember Gavin chucking about me not fully grasping the situation. I always hated it when older people laughed at me for not understanding. But thankfully, he did what people don’t usually do for children, and he elaborated.

“Yeah, it’s not him that she doesn’t like. It’s the fact that Charles and [Spanish guy] are boyfriends.”

“Why?” I questioned.

“Some people just don’t like gay people,” Gavin replied.

“Why?” — That must have been very annoying.

“They just don’t. They don’t think it’s right.”

*Visible confusion*

“Look, just don’t listen to anything she says about Charles and [Spanish guy] none of it’s true, and she’s just being nasty.”

My confused brain could only muster a nod as we returned to what we were doing.

Over the years, we would all collectively call her out on her homophobia and racism. Apart from my sister, Mandy, who chose to take it on board. I even threw a wig at my Mum, because she was being transphobic. And she would always say the same things. Her bog-standard excuses were:

I can’t help it. It’s how I was raised.

You don’t know what it’s like coming from an Irish Catholic family (Neither did she, her mother wasn’t remotely religious, and neither was her stepfather).

It’s how my mother was.- That one was true, apparently grandma was a racist.

My sister, Sam, would often argue the last point. Saying that was rubbish because it’s how she was, and none of us were like it. The argument always fell on deaf ears. All arguments did. We chose to ignore Mum’s vile words, to see people for who they were, not what she said they were. And despite my mum’s protestations, my father would continue to visit Charles, but he came to the house less and less, which we all hated. I remember when I was about seven or eight, overhearing (eavesdropping) an argument between them.

My mother said she didn’t want my Dad to be friends with Charles anymore, and in a rare display of backbone, he stood up to her. He told her in no uncertain terms that Charles was his friend and had been for over 15 years. And he didn’t care if she didn’t like the fact that he was gay. He was still going to be part of his life. She could get used to it or get over it.

We knew that Mum was behind the decline in visits, and none of us forgave her for it.

So no matter who raises you, who tells you what you should and shouldn’t think about people, you always have a choice. It might not go down well, but it’s still your choice. So you can choose to be a racist/homophobic/transphobic/sexist/racist dirt bucket, but you can also choose not to.