FEARS

Phobia:  an abnormal intense and irrational fear of a given situation…

When I was a kid there was a place called Dunlap’s Pond that was within walking distance of my house.  There were big fish to be had in that place – and it was found at the end of a stream that you could fish as well.  For a young kid the possibilities of a walk through the woods were endless – and as soon as I was old enough I set out to get there.  First, however, you had to pass under the Massachusetts Turnpike via a bridge that was long, dark and loud.  I hadn’t even thought about this fact before I set out to walk to the pond – but when faced with the cold realities of the bridge, the trucks roaring by overhead, the water dripping from the abutments – I froze.  I don’t know why – I drove under the damn bridge in the school bus every day – but I just couldn’t get my feet to move.  Feeling like a fool I turned around and walked home.

A week later I was back.  After two false starts I made my way under the bridge.  It was divided into two sections (the east and westbound lanes) so I ran through the first one and, steeling myself, walked quickly under the second.  I did the same on the way back.  Anyone coming along would have seen a maniac kid tear-assing under a bridge like he was being chased by all the demons of hell.  For that whole first summer I gritted my teeth every time I went under the bleeding bridge.  Hell – I still wouldn’t be thrilled to pass through the thing – but I did it, and spent many great days hiking the woods on the other side. 

An even deeper fear could be found within the walls of the high school cafeteria.  Actually, the cafeteria itself wasn’t terrifying (maybe if some of the food had been analysed in chemistry class I’d change that statement), but in its alternate role as the venue for school dances – then things got pretty scary.  I was gut wrenchingly, toe curlingly, sweat mustachingly shy when it came to those sorts of social interactions.  I wasn’t alone in this boat.  There were plenty of us there to keep each other company for the first hour or so of the evening, but we’d eventually have to face the fact that this was supposed to be an audience participation event – and we weren’t participating.  It was like going to the barbershop to watch other people get their hair cut. 

I knew this was not the way things were supposed to be.  There was no need to visit a wise man sitting in the lotus position high on a mountaintop to receive an answer to this dilemma.  I knew I should relax – these were the same people I went to school with every day.  I also knew that I needed to get over this fear if I was ever going to have a social life beyond sitting on the hallway radiator in the mornings reciting old Monty Python skits.  But girls were like the Turnpike bridge times ten – deeper, more mysterious – and with breasts.  So you would sit there, make a lame joke or two every once in a while, and watch the clock slowly toll the minutes as you plotted a strategy (“I’ll ask after the next slow one”…) which, somehow, always seemed to fall apart when the time came (“Layla! – how the hell are you supposed to dance to Layla?…”).  The music played on, you became more and more miserable, and told yourself to have fun dammit, whether it killed you or not.

Eventually I did form a strategy – and one that has served me fairly well.  I decided that if I was going to go through this torture every time I went to an event I was at least going to make sure it was worth it.  I would force myself to ask someone to dance – but it was going to be the best looking girl in the building.  So that’s what I did – every time.  For each dance I went to throughout my high school career I’d go up to the person I thought was the prettiest in the class and ask her to dance  (I won’t embarrass her by revealing her name, but a clue is buried in this essay for those who care to look).  Despite probably having no idea why this sweating, stumbling, stammering idiot kept showing up each time there was a dance, she was great about the whole thing.  She’d smile, laugh, chat a bit and off we’d go - a really nice person, whom I appreciate to this day.  Once that was out of the way – well, if I could ask her, everything else would be, if not easy, at least not so difficult.

So this became my standard approach – when in doubt (which was typical), punch above your weight.  When feeling a bit daunted – head for the best looking one in the room.  Eventually, a number of years later, I was at a get together after work when I employed the tactic and found myself talking to a great looking brunette for a long period of time.

Married her.

So why am I telling these stupid stories about fears I had when growing up?  What’s the point?

It is now time for me to make a confession – I am, by the clinical definition of a “phobia” given in the first line of this essay, homophobic.  (Now is the time for you to go back to the top and look at the definition again.  That's OK - I'll wait...)

Now, of course, in general parlance “homophobia” is not used in the dispassionate manner defined above – instead it is commonly used to describe behaviour that indicates hatred, manifesting itself in the form of overt insults, discrimination or violence.  While this may be a result of an underlying fear of homosexuals or homosexual behaviour (debatable but, I think, in many cases likely) it is not really indicative of a true “phobia”.  There are plenty of people out there who, I suspect, attack gays, either verbally or physically, not because they have some sort of deep down clinical fear of homosexuality, but because they see it as an opportunity to bully, release aggression, assert their unearned, unjustified and purely imaginary “superiority” or to otherwise compensate for their own shortcomings.  There is a clinical term for this type of person that doesn’t involve invoking phobic behaviour.

They are called “douchebags”.

But back to my own homophobia – where do I get off admitting such a thing?  Look – I’m not proud of the fact that I feel uneasy speaking about issues that I know are important.  I'm fully aware that of all the words contained in the above definition of “phobia” the two most telling are “abnormal” and “irrational”.  I understand intellectually that it is my aversion to homosexuality that is not normal – it is virtually indisputable at this point that homosexuality is no more outside the realm of normality than being a redhead, left handed or able to do that really gross thing where you can touch the tip of your nose with your tongue.  Avoiding anyone for having these traits would mark the avoider as the one outside the realm of normalcy – and the same goes for anyone who harbours a fear of those within the LGBT community. 

I also understand intellectually that any such fear is irrational – in that it is derived from something other than “reason”.  The real problem with an irrational fear isn’t admitting it’s irrational – it’s in trying to rationalise it.  At least I’ve given up trying to do that.  However – I’m sure you’ve heard plenty of people who continue to attempt to find reasons behind their anxiety.  You’ll hear that those within the LGBT community are “unhealthy” (no more so than the general population), “inherently anti-family”, (strange – it seems many are advocating for family status), “a danger to children” (nope) or represent a “weakening” of the general populace (Martina Navritalova never struck me as particularly weak and if being LGBT really is “playing for the other team” – well,  that team just signed up the person who was the world’s greatest athlete when I was a kid.  The “other team” just got a good bit stronger).   Give up folks – you’re not right to be afraid – you’re just afraid.

But look, I have to be honest - so am I.  How could I not be?  I grew up in a time when homosexuality was defined medically as a “disability”.  When John Lennon was asked what his manager’s autobiography should be called he answered “Queer Jew”.  (He once also beat up the emcee at The Cavern for intimating he was “queer” himself).  Arlo Guthrie’s best known song, “Alice’s Restaurant” contains the line “they might think they’re both faggots so they won’t take either of ‘em”.  News flash: neither Lennon nor Guthrie would be considered redneck conservatives.   Every classroom, locker room, pamphlet, handbook and public service announcement indicated this “condition” was something to be shunned.  Oh – and there was nothing remotely illegal or “prejudicial” about this attitude – it was public policy.  C'mon– if John Lennon and Arlo Guthrie were homophobic what the hell chance did I have?  So yes – I, and a good many people of my age and upbringing, still harbour a deep seated, though wholly irrational, fear of things touching on “that” subject.  But mere fear is not worthy of condemnation.  I assume you wouldn’t attack agoraphobics for being afraid to go outside, or arachnaphobes for feeling uncomfortable when you bring up the topic of your pet tarantula.  Phobias are just the baggage we carry from our past, but they don’t define the person - fears can be overcome.  You can walk under a bridge.  You can ask someone to dance.

You can, in short, grow up.  Ireland, in a referendum to be held later this month, is being asked to collectively grow up, to put aside its irrational fears and instead take the steps necessary to allow the extension of marriage rights to a portion of its population that has been excluded.  If I were to pretend that it was easy for me to talk about this subject I would be doing a disservice.  It’s not easy – I still don’t understand gay issues, I still shift uncomfortably when the subject of sexual preference comes up and, while getting better, I probably still make clumsy and inappropriate comments from time to time.  But those are my problems – and I certainly do not have the right, or the desire, to make my problems into someone else’s.

There is no rational argument that can be made for causing people to be excluded from an institution that has brought me great happiness and opportunity.  There is no irrational fear so great that I can justify bringing even the possibility of genuine despair, misery or loss on other people.  Yes I am afraid, but it is time to cross bridges, it is time to dance.  It is time to grow up.

Vote yes.