I remember him

Tarry, in his mid-thirties, works in the IT industry. He likes to keep up-to-date with his electronic gadgets.

I have a photo of his tombstone here on my handphone. Here, you can see it. I took it recently.

The very first time I met Nasir was at the SAFRA gym in Toa Payoh. He approached me and we exchanged phone numbers.  He rang me later and we went to a hotel where we spent the night. The next morning, I called but never heard from him in return.

He was my first sexual partner, and I was naïve. I thought something had happened to him, as I didn’t know that some people would have sex with you and totally ignore you afterwards. I was pretty worried for days but there was nothing I could do, with no other ways to contact him as he wasn’t answering my calls and didn’t respond to my messages.

So after a while I just forgot about him, and started going out with someone else. We spent a lot of time together, but when it came to the crunch he said he wasn’t ready for a relationship, and not long after that, we stopped seeing each other. And just when I was most upset, I met Nasir again, a year after our first meeting. Because I was feeling so down, he decided to invite me to spend time with him in Kuala Lumpur. I don’t remember what we did there, but on the train ride back to Singapore, he asked me to be his steady boyfriend.

It was a rocky, roller-coaster kind of relationship. We would fight a lot, scold each other, then talk on the phone again and make up and cry over it. There were a lot of highs and lows. Since then, all my subsequent relationships have been less emotional and dramatic. There has not been any passion since Nasir. They were just very comfortable relationships.

*     *     *

My memory is really bad, but I guess there are some things that you just don’t forget.

This year is the tenth anniversary of Nasir’s death.

He was an air steward, and had been flying for around two, three years when I met him.  Less than a year after we started getting together, he told me that he was afraid of flying, which obviously wasn’t normal for someone in his job. He said he would feel really scared and shiver on board, and couldn’t really explain why it was happening. He showed me a letter from an overseas doctor and told me he had depression. I can’t remember if he was on any medication, but he was afraid of seeing a local doctor for fear of losing his job.

I didn’t know much about depression at the time, and how serious it was for him. I suggested that he change his career and even helped him apply for a fitness instructor course with the Singapore Sports Council. I think he attended the first lesson a couple of weeks before his death, and whenever we met he would tell me he was feeling depressed but was trying to control it. A week before his birthday I went and bought him a present, a mattress which was to be delivered to his home.

Then one morning, a few days before his birthday, I received a call from his dad who sounded really upset over the phone. The police had just called to say they found Nasir’s body. His dad was not sure what was happening, and asked if I could go over immediately to talk to the police.

I couldn’t believe what I had heard.  I kept hoping it was a joke, that there was some misunderstanding or mistake.  As I drove from Toa Payoh where I lived, down to their flat in Bedok, I was telling myself that even if it was all true, perhaps he was injured. It couldn’t be happening.

At the time I didn’t know that would be the start of three months of intense drama. I remember waiting for the police to tell us what happened. This is what we were told: earlier that morning, some kids playing at the void deck heard a loud bang, and found Nasir’s body on the ground.

Apparently he had jumped to his death.

I was in a state of disbelief.

Then the police had to interview us, and wanted to look through his things. I thought there was no point hiding further, and told them that I was his boyfriend. As they went through his stuff I just answered whatever questions they asked. After that they sent the body to the mortuary at the Singapore General Hospital, and I went with his parents to identify it.

Muslim custom requires that the body be buried within the same day, and the funeral is usually held on the evening of a person’s death. I made a few telephone calls to his friends to inform them, and some of them came over. I didn’t know many of them, but I was able to recognise some.

Then, most unexpectedly, the mattress I bought for his birthday was delivered during the funeral itself. You can imagine how that upset everyone even more.

*     *     *

Above all, I was haunted by that one big question: “Why did he jump?” I didn’t know if it had anything to do with the depression. We tried to figure out what happened – did somebody push him off? Was he up there that night to meet someone? Was he troubled over our relationship?

Sometimes I wouldn’t even know how to describe the feeling I had inside. There were no words for it. I would be asking myself questions like: What happened? What did I miss?

Why did it happen?

Although I’m not a religious person, I always hoped that he would come back as a spirit to talk to me and tell me what happened, and explain why he killed himself.

*     *     *

I think what really helps people to move on is time. Some people require more time, some less. From my personal experience, one way to cope with losing someone is to just remember your time with them. You soon realise that people come and go, through death or other ways. Basically life is just full of memories. Just remember them, however you want to do so, and try to move on with your life. You can choose how you want to put those memories to good use and to cherish them. Some people do significant things in the name of their loved ones who have passed away. Different people do different things. The idea is that you try to move on, and you will, eventually.

Although I didn’t do anything special in Nasir’s name, I just remember him. Like talking about it now, this is my way of remembering him.

*     *     *

The above are excerpts from Tarry’s full story, which can be read in the book.

Mother

Bradley was born in the United States of America and has lived for many years in Singapore, where he works as an English teacher. He is in his early 40s.

I had just come home from college one Christmas, expecting to spend some time with my family over the holidays. My Mom was waiting for me, and she said,

“I’ve been getting some phone calls from a man named Rex, and I think there’s something you need to tell me.”

Then she added, “I am your mother, and I will always love you no matter who or what you are. You can tell me anything.”

“Mom, I’m gay.”

Unexpectedly, she turned on me.

“I’m ashamed of you. I will take this secret with me to my grave because I’m so ashamed of you. I don’t know why you’re doing this to me. I can never forgive you for this.”

*     *     *

The first family member I came out to was my uncle, who dragged me to church the next day, put me in front of the choir, and told everybody that I was sick. They then came up and anointed me with holy water and laid their hands on me, while praying and babbling in tongues. It was a terrifying experience, and I remember my uncle telling me, “You have chosen a sick, sinful lifestyle.” After that I told him that I was not sick, and he never spoke to me again.

One of my closest friends, a Mormon girl, sensed that something was not right, and one day offered, “I know that you’re going through something. I can help you, please tell me.” After I came out to her, she said goodbye and never talked to me again. When we graduated from high school, she put a note under my front door which read,

“I think you’re the way you are because you don’t love God enough.”

After my first sexual experience at the age of 17, I began to feel a lot of shame about what I had done. I still hated myself for being gay and was very angry at God for making me this way. I was also angry with my religion, which I blamed for programming me for depression and suicide. I began to make plans to kill myself, and started telling my friends and family members about it. Their common reaction was, “Don’t talk about that.” I went as far as reading labels at the drug store to see what I could combine with alcohol in order to mix an overdose. But I never attempted it, since at that age, I didn’t have the guts to carry out my suicide plan.

I turned to my theatre teacher, a Catholic woman, whose view on homosexuality was that “it’s alright as long as you don’t have sex”.  In college, I also turned to other Christian friends, but was only met with their rejection and hurt. I lived in the student dormitory, and there was another openly gay guy who was there. But one day someone with a gun fired a shot at him while he was walking in the parking lot; another time his front door was set on fire. My room-mate was also threatening me, and I was pretty scared that the same thing would happen to me too.

I decided to seek outside help by calling a gay men’s crisis helpline in New Mexico, and was befriended by an older man called Rex. He said he was the director of the organisation, gave me his telephone number and invited me to his home, where we met up. I was 20 years old, he was 30, and we started a sexual relationship that went on to become verbally, emotionally and physically abusive. He would talk down to me, intimidate me and demand to have unsafe sex. I initially consented out of fear but when I later changed my mind and wanted to use a condom, he started to become violent towards me. When I tried to leave him, he would grab me and pin me down on the floor, holding me there and screaming at me, before throwing me against the wall. I eventually broke up with him, which prompted him to phone my Mom in an act of revenge, and made it known to her that I am gay.

When my Mom confronted me that Christmas, I was really shocked and scared and ran from her house over to see my theatre teacher, who gave me this advice.

“Your Mom’s trying to tell you she’s OK with it. I think you should tell her the truth.”

So after a few days, I gathered up enough nerve and came out to my Mom. I remember that conversation word for word, as it’s burnt into my memory. I had just returned home for Christmas, looking forward to spending a safe holiday with my family. Instead, I was painfully rejected by the one person I loved the most. When I went back to college I wrote her a three-page letter pouring out my feelings about what happened, which included these lines,

“I’m still your son, I still love you and I hope we can work through this. I won’t let you do this to us.”

I never got a reply from her.

*     *     *

I’ve had my share of bad therapists; my first refused to accept the fact that I was gay and encouraged me to ask women out on dates. Another Christian counsellor referred to me as a “homo” and called me “weird”; she also sided with my mother and suggested that I masturbated while thinking about women.

Someone who actually helped pull me through was my AA sponsor, whose name was Bob. I called him one Christmas, drunk, crying and feeling suicidal. I told him I was thinking about killing myself, and after a long silence he said, “Please come and talk to me.” At his home I remember seeing that his Christmas tree was up. I laid down on his couch and cried my heart out to him. When I was done he said,

“I hope you make it. I won’t be surprised if you don’t, because I have seen so many young people like you who don’t get better. They don’t quit drinking, and they die. I really hope you stop drinking.”

Then he gave me a big hug, and that was the last time I ever saw him alive. He died two weeks later of AIDS, and I never forgot that although he must have been really ill, yet he still made time to help me through my suicide crisis.

*     *     *

I went back to see my Mom again a few months ago, and for the first time we were completely comfortable with each other. We went on a road trip together, and could actually joke about things, like the boys I had crushes on when I was a kid.  She told me,

“Your mistake is you didn’t realise that over the years, I was changing. And you didn’t notice that I’m a different person now.”

She was right.  I hadn’t realised that my Mom had changed during all the years I was running away from her. A few years ago during a previous visit, she sat me down with her at home and said she wanted to watch a TV show with me.  It was “Will & Grace”, the first mainstream television programme in America which featured an openly-gay male character in a positive light. She really loved the show, and saw for the first time that it was perhaps normal to be gay. I think that was when she started to turn around and wanted to talk to me about it.

She is an amazing woman. Now when she hears people making negative remarks about gay people, she confronts them by saying “I have a gay son and I don’t want you to talk like that.” When church groups come to her house to evangelise, she tells them “I don’t like your religion’s stance on homosexuality. I have a gay son, and I don’t like what your religion is saying about gay people.” In my hometown, when people hear that someone has just found out their child is gay, they would actually say, “Well go talk to Sue, she’ll help you. She’s been through all that with her son Brad.”

It makes me really proud that I have a mother like that. I wish we hadn’t wasted those 20 years of being angry with each other, all those years when I wasn’t interested in having a relationship with her as I was so caught up with the alcohol, drugs and sexual acting-out. I sometimes feel like those were precious 20 years we can never get back. It still hurts, but it hurts less now.

*     *     *

The above are excerpts from Bradley’s full story, which can be read in the book.

Let go of your fears

Wee Lee, 29 years old, works as a marketing executive, and has been in a relationship with his current boyfriend for many years.

There was this guy in my secondary four class who was very effeminate. We called him “prostitute” because he was really animated and flamboyant in his actions, and with his limp wrists, he often behaved like a whore. He was also very easy to bully, as he wouldn’t retaliate. His name was Jeremy.

I was the class monitor as well as the ringleader who would influence people to do all sorts of things. One day I decided we would make fun of Jeremy. I broke up pieces of coloured chalk and gave them to all the boys in the class. We then surrounded him and on my count, threw the pieces of chalk at him. We had such a good laugh about it.

I remember the noise we made as we stood around Jeremy, how he was seated, recoiling with his legs up to his chest as we attacked him.

I also remember the coloured marks the chalk left on his shirt.

*     *     *

It wasn’t easy sexually experimenting with other guys while dating girls at the same time. It’s like you know it’s wrong, but you want to try it anyway before going back to your usual routine.

At that time I was still afraid, deep down, that people would ask if I was gay.

*     *     *

It was sometime in September that year, while at Carl’s place, that he made a move and initiated something.

That was when it hit me. Now I’m gay. I came to terms with it eventually, and accepted him as my first boyfriend. He was good-looking and very sweet, but as we know, good things don’t last.

Carl was also very violent. This emerged about a year into our relationship, and you cannot imagine the level of violence he would use on me. It started with him being impatient, sometimes shouting loudly and quarrelling with me in public. I wouldn’t respond when he did this, as I was worried that other people were staring at us. But he didn’t care.

Then it became slapping. He would slap me on my face when he got angry. It was frightening for me, but I still didn’t do anything. I would give in to him instead. Once I tried to retaliate, grabbing him very tightly and bit him. He cried, and when he did that, I got all soft-hearted and let him go. He told me not to bite him ever again, and I never did.

But he never stopped. At home he would hit me with the bamboo poles we used for hanging the laundry, leaving bruises all over my body. Other times he used shoes or stools, or just kicked and punched me. Sometimes when we were asleep in bed together, he would wake up suddenly and hit me. When I asked him what had happened, he would just say “Go back to sleep”. He once hit me in the face with a pair of roller blades; another time he pushed me down an escalator and left me there, bleeding. Each time I would just recoil, and he would keep going until he was tired or when he saw that I was exhausted.

Sadly, I got used to living with him like that. He had the whole flat to himself as his sister and mother lived elsewhere; they let him stay there as our school was nearby.  I was 17 and he was two years younger when we met, and basically we were living on our own without any adults. Looking back I know it wasn’t a healthy arrangement. That three-room flat was my jail. Often a day didn’t go by without a quarrel, and most times there was also a big fight where I would get beaten up.

*     *     *

Each time I wanted to break up with him, he would threaten suicide. He would say things like “This will be the last time I’m talking to you, so take care.” It got me really worried whenever I heard that. Once I even saw him trying to jump out of the window; that was a frightening image that stayed with me. Up till about a few years ago, I would get jumpy whenever I heard a loud thud. Or I would walk past an HDB void deck and feel jittery with the mental image of someone falling. I was so afraid that one day Carl would jump to his death.

He even bought a knife and said it was for me. It was a steak knife which he kept by his bedside. One time he lost control and tried to stab me. I was trying to block him, and one of his stabs grazed the skin on my chest. I started bleeding through my t-shirt, and that’s when he stopped and said, “Go and see a doctor”. He didn’t go with me of course. I still have a scar here on my chest from that attack.

The family doctor knew about all my injuries, but I said they were caused by a violent brother. I said I just wanted him to know what was going on, but didn’t want to take things any further. He respected my wishes, and did what was necessary to treat my wounds. I saw him when I fell from the escalator and hurt my nose, when I had the cuts on my face from the roller blades, and again when I was stabbed in the chest by the knife.

*     *     *

My mum didn’t know about any of this. She knew that I had moved in to live with Carl because we were good friends, and was fine with it as she trusted me.  Besides, I told her we lived near my school, and I would still go back to see her once in a while. It was only after four-and-a-half painful years that we finally broke up. Towards the end I could tell he was already very tired of the whole thing, but was still holding on until he eventually met someone else at a gay club. When I found out I told him that I was willing to let him go, and he did. On that December day I must have been the most relieved person on earth.

*     *     *

What if someone said my story was far-fetched? I wouldn’t blame them. Instead I would just remind them that they are lucky because they didn’t go through what I did. Maybe it would be easier for someone who has actually gone through similar experiences to believe my story. I don’t think I need to convince anyone.

I wish I could apologise to Jeremy, the effeminate boy I bullied when I was in secondary school. I would tell him about what I was going through at the time, and why I did what I did. I really just want to say “sorry”. As for Carl, there is nothing left to say to him. Perhaps I could manage a “hi” and a “bye”. I don’t want to be associated with him in any way, anymore.

If I could turn back time and speak to my teenage self, I would tell him that he can walk out of an abusive relationship.  Just walk out bravely. Let go of your fears about losing him; this is your life, you take control of it or you will be ruined. I would also tell him not to be ashamed.  The saddest thing in life is to deny to yourself who you are. Rather than conform to what others expect of you, you have to first accept yourself.

Above all, the most important affirmation for me now is the realisation that we shouldn’t need to feel ashamed of ourselves.

*     *     *

The above are excerpts from Wee Lee’s full story, which can be read in the book.