Yule has passed. It's 1:00 a.m., and I've just returned from the Christmas Eve candlelight service of hymns and lessons at the church Marcus and I attended as children.
At 13, we diverged for the first time in our lives. Marcus and I had been acolytes and altar boys, and it all felt wrong to me. More than ever, I felt that we were "those two cute twin boys at the service." And the Anglican/Church of England view of the world seemed, to me, limited, as I began to be truly aware of my sexual identity. And I began exploring other paths.
Marcus continued, steadfast, progressing over the next few years to crucifer and scriptures-bearer, assisting at communion, and at 18 he was told that he would soon be asked to fill a position in the vestry that had recently been vacated - temporarily.
I was there as he assisted in giving communion for the first time. His face was beatific. I've never seen him look more beautiful.
And out of respect and love for him, I took communion. I intended to take it at Christmas and Easter, for the sake of Marcus and the Parentos. But just before Advent, at the tail end of the long, green season of Pentecost, Marcus died.
I'd been in a coma, coming out of it to see Mum. And with one look at her face, I began screaming, because I knew Marcus was gone, and we'd never meet in this life again.
After that, I was well-nigh catatonic for months. I was aphasic - couldn't/wouldn't speak. And I was blessedly amnesiac about the whole episode of the car crash. I found out later that Marcus had died in my lap, killed almost instantly. I still have no memory of it.
Time passed, bones healed, and the aphasia resolved into a recurrence of childhood stuttering and stammering that had made me fodder for bullies. But this time, there was no Marcus to be my champion.
And so I began pretending that I was him, doing what he would do, speaking boldly and acting quickly and decisively. I was acting "as if" I were him. It was a game we'd been able to pull off a few times in grades four through our sophomore years. And Marcus, I discovered, was still with me . . . every memory, every moment of him.
My dreaming was blessed with his visits. We'd run and wrestle and dash into the surf on the beach, as we always had, and we'd talk of many things. Not cabbages nor kings, nor sex (Marcus had told me he was bisexual when I told him I was gay). Unlike our actual real-life conversations, these were about life and after-life and Heaven and the Summerland. I think of these meetings with him as comforting manifestations of the Australian Aboriginal dream-time.
As my stammering smoothed out, I relied less and less on playing the role of doing things as Marcus might have.
Years later, around Ancestor Night and our birthday, I still dream of him. He is still my champion, and the dreams are so vivid that I consider them true. "Dreaming true" is a way of divining, of tapping into the universal knowledge of good, evil, truth, and masks.
This was written six years ago, very early Christmas morning, remembering my bro, and grateful for the time we did have:
SACRAMENT
You would rise to take your place in line
Solemn as I never saw you
And seem almost to glide
Past the rank on rank of pews.
As you went up the aisle, your face
Seemed elsewhere, your eyes, downcast
Focused on someplace other:
Past the time and place,
Beyond present or past
Or future to a place where the three
Found themselves as one in union --
In a perfect moment removed from time
Or space or any human thing.
Sharing the communion
And turning after bread and wine
With brimming eyes,
Your voice lifted to sing:
My brother.
(love ya, bro)
Showing posts with label disability. Show all posts
Showing posts with label disability. Show all posts
Friday, December 25, 2009
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Life with Long Hair
I've been transferring all my blog posts from the Lovelyish site to here. Lovelyish is "lovely," but its focus is on beauty and health . . . mainly beauty.
I re-connected with one of my favourite chat rooms on Gay.com: "Intellectuals," found under "Topics." And dear old C---, who I've known on-line for some eight years, complimented me on my new picture, but kept urging me to cut my hair short.
I'm not going to, and although C--- somewhat annoyed me, it did prompt the following journal entry:
Life with Long Hair
Marcus and I had always had rather longish hair, worn to collar-length in back, shorter in front. If our bangs hadn't been trimmed, they would have touched our chin.
Today, I came across a photo of the two of us playing in a park near the beach. We were about seven or eight, running about in shorts, and our hair was almost white. We were what they call in the South "tow-heads" (a term that confused me until Mum explain that "tow" was a kind of flax). And she only took us for a trim about once a year, as she fancied the look. She'd been a child of the sixties.
In our graduation picture, we're sporting what I think they called it a bi-level cut. Marcus joked that it was perfect for him, since he was bisexual.
I was not. I am gay.
By the time we were in high school, our hair had become a basic light blonde.
We once dyed it, just to see the effect. The Da came home to find Marcus with raven, blue-black hair, and me with a deep chestnut. He wasn't angry, but he did say that it brought out the Bengali in us. We bleached it out again to something approaching our natural color later in the summer, using lemon juice to restore our highlights.
A few months after high school, we were hit by a drunk driver. Marcus was killed, and I was pretty much out of it for a while. My hair continued to grow, of course, but I'd decided not to cut it. I'm not entirely sure of the reason. Perhaps I'd become accustomed to it.
I know that long hair can be a great shield when people stared. It helped to conceal the right half of my face, which had been badly scarred. The bones of it hadn't quite set right, which meant I later had to undergo having it re-broken in order to restore it to a semblance of itself.
And when I looked in the mirror, seeing Marcus (of course), it was easier to have the image softened by the veil of my hair. And my hair continued to grow.
I gave various reasons for not cutting it: I liked the look, it made me distinctive, it challenged conventional stereotypes of masculinity, and it was mine, dammit.
And it was a tribute to my bro.
Eleven years after the crash, I decided that since my hair was long enough, I'd donate it to Locks of Love, an organization that provides wigs for cancer patients, children, and others who have no hair. Since Locks of Love require that the hair not have been chemically treated, and be at least a nine-inch length, I qualified. I had it cut November 16, 2008: the anniversary of the crash.
I did it as a tribute to my bro.
I've realized, as time has gone by, that something that began as a defense mechanism and developed into an dearly-cherished affectation had become useful to others.
My hair is now below my collar again - almost to my shoulders in back, and (if not held back) reaches my chin in front.
I've come full circle.
Who knows, if Marcus had lived, we might have diverged in our hairstyles, as we did in our religious and spiritual lives. Mohawks, mullets, crew-cuts, buzz-cuts . . . endless possibilities.
But for now, I like being able to do pony-tails, French braids, fish-tails, Legolas braids . . . and I even braided blue ribbons into it when Brian and I hand-fasted.
It is what it is, as Life is - and so it goes on growing.
I re-connected with one of my favourite chat rooms on Gay.com: "Intellectuals," found under "Topics." And dear old C---, who I've known on-line for some eight years, complimented me on my new picture, but kept urging me to cut my hair short.
I'm not going to, and although C--- somewhat annoyed me, it did prompt the following journal entry:
Life with Long Hair
Marcus and I had always had rather longish hair, worn to collar-length in back, shorter in front. If our bangs hadn't been trimmed, they would have touched our chin.
Today, I came across a photo of the two of us playing in a park near the beach. We were about seven or eight, running about in shorts, and our hair was almost white. We were what they call in the South "tow-heads" (a term that confused me until Mum explain that "tow" was a kind of flax). And she only took us for a trim about once a year, as she fancied the look. She'd been a child of the sixties.
In our graduation picture, we're sporting what I think they called it a bi-level cut. Marcus joked that it was perfect for him, since he was bisexual.
I was not. I am gay.
By the time we were in high school, our hair had become a basic light blonde.
We once dyed it, just to see the effect. The Da came home to find Marcus with raven, blue-black hair, and me with a deep chestnut. He wasn't angry, but he did say that it brought out the Bengali in us. We bleached it out again to something approaching our natural color later in the summer, using lemon juice to restore our highlights.
A few months after high school, we were hit by a drunk driver. Marcus was killed, and I was pretty much out of it for a while. My hair continued to grow, of course, but I'd decided not to cut it. I'm not entirely sure of the reason. Perhaps I'd become accustomed to it.
I know that long hair can be a great shield when people stared. It helped to conceal the right half of my face, which had been badly scarred. The bones of it hadn't quite set right, which meant I later had to undergo having it re-broken in order to restore it to a semblance of itself.
And when I looked in the mirror, seeing Marcus (of course), it was easier to have the image softened by the veil of my hair. And my hair continued to grow.
I gave various reasons for not cutting it: I liked the look, it made me distinctive, it challenged conventional stereotypes of masculinity, and it was mine, dammit.
And it was a tribute to my bro.
Eleven years after the crash, I decided that since my hair was long enough, I'd donate it to Locks of Love, an organization that provides wigs for cancer patients, children, and others who have no hair. Since Locks of Love require that the hair not have been chemically treated, and be at least a nine-inch length, I qualified. I had it cut November 16, 2008: the anniversary of the crash.
I did it as a tribute to my bro.
I've realized, as time has gone by, that something that began as a defense mechanism and developed into an dearly-cherished affectation had become useful to others.
My hair is now below my collar again - almost to my shoulders in back, and (if not held back) reaches my chin in front.
I've come full circle.
Who knows, if Marcus had lived, we might have diverged in our hairstyles, as we did in our religious and spiritual lives. Mohawks, mullets, crew-cuts, buzz-cuts . . . endless possibilities.
But for now, I like being able to do pony-tails, French braids, fish-tails, Legolas braids . . . and I even braided blue ribbons into it when Brian and I hand-fasted.
It is what it is, as Life is - and so it goes on growing.
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