Chapter 14 - Brothers

Chapter 14 – Brothers

This is a story of 2 brothers, I’m not sure how long this will take to tell, there is so much time missing in their story.

I have 2 brothers, Justin my younger brother born 4 years after me and an older brother Blane, born 16 minutes before. Blane is the focus of this page, or rather his influence and relationship with me is the focus of this page. 

Born in a small village in central Scotland we were quite the novelty from the moment of our arrival. In a village where everyone knew everyone we were the talk of the town. Being an identical twin had many positives. We were never apart, same pram, same bedroom same attention from visitors. We grew up almost as a single person. For most of our childhood, youth and teenage years it was not unusual for us to receive gifts that were exactly the same apart from a change of colour. This went for how we were dressed to the toy helicopter Santa brought us for Christmas. 

When school began of course we were placed in the same class. Things like that were so much the norm that no one would think of one of us without the other and we often used the fact that people couldn’t tell us apart to our advantage. We used to change seats in primary school to see if the teacher would even know. Which they never did until we had a teacher’s aide who was dating an uncle join our class, she had spent enough time with us to see what we were up to and shared our secret joke with the teacher which ended the game. Or later when we had a teacher who was notorious for giving students the belt across the open palm for the slightest infringement of his rule. I don’t think any of the boys in our class were immune to this punishment but the discomfort was momentary the scaring minimal that it became a rite of passage to have received the belt at least once. When this was no longer a challenge as everyone who was prepared to pay had made their way to the front of the class, hand held straight in front of them wondering if he was going to use the end with the hole punched out of it or not. This end didn’t hurt any more, or less, but it did provide an extra badge to show off in the playground as it left a white circular mark in the middle of an otherwise red palm. We soon changed the game from achieving a single belt to a total for the year. Many of the boys found it extremely easy to annoy this teacher and their numbers grow rapidly often achieving 3 or 4 in a week but we had an extra advantage. Blane and I would become a team, Blane decided that he would win and save me from further belts (more on why shortly) so whenever I managed to frustrate the teacher enough to be told to make my way to the front we would wait until he was distracted retrieving his infamous belt from the drawer and swap seats so Blane would then make his way to the front to increase his number count. By the end of the year the tally was added up but even with us double dipping I don’t think we won, we did have some really naughty boys in the class.

Back to explaining why Blane was the one to take my numbers rather than the other way around. This all happened in grade 5 of primary school so we must have been about 9 years old. Although we had been brought up as children in exactly the same environment, been given exactly the same toys to play with and exposed the exactly the same activities when it came to the playground we were showing a distinct difference. I would spend my free time with the girls on the playground while Blane would be down on the football field with the boys kicking a ball around. There was never much of an issue with this, yes I was called Cissie by the boys but that had been going on since grade 1 and I was used to it. I was seen as weak because I didn’t play football like ‘normal’ boys, I’d sometimes make my way down to the field to join a game to try and show that I was ‘one of them’ but I had no interest, my skills weren’t at the same level and I always played badly. That’s not to say I wasn’t an active child but the physical hand-eye games the girls played revolved around tennis balls and walls or skipping ropes and rubber bands. The girls loved having me around and I felt comfortable in their company, I didn’t have the need to try and prove myself like I did when with the boys.

 But back to Blane and me.

Because of Blane’s involvement with what was seen as boys’ activities I was always able to move freely between groups. This phenomena remained true throughout my school life. We were never seen as individual identities but 2 parts of a single whole. Even through high school whether in Scotland or later in Australia where I would be part of the musician or nerd group Blane would be with the ‘real men’s’ boy’s group we could both move freely between both and be accepted without a second thought because of the other. This makes me think about Grant, he was another Cissie from primary school, and like me he found comfort and acceptance with the girls on the playground. We quickly became close friend, we would both receive the same bullying from our class mates for who we were but it was so much of our normal day that we felt we had to just accept it, but Grant coped much worse than me. Just the presence of Blane within their ranks made them hold back with the abuse I suffered in comparison with what Grant received. Being a twin, in the strangest of ways made my life a little easier.

I remember at the age of 4 being separated from Blane for the first time. I was admitted to Falkirk Royal Infirmary to have my tonsils removed. It was a large open hall of a ward painted white from ceiling to floor, beds lined up around the walls with white sheet and white painted bed frames. A single white desk sat in the middle of the room where the nurse sat in her starched white uniform, a white hat perched on her curled brown hair. She sat and watched over the children on the ward, not to make sure we were comfortable or happy, not to make sure we weren’t upset at being abandoned in a strange place but to ensure that we remained quiet and behaved. Her stern look if you tried to get out of bed quickly sent you back under the covers in the hope that she wouldn’t come to your bedside to tell you off. 

When we arrived for admission there was my mum and Blane, I was 4 but I can’t remember if Justin had been born or if my mother was pregnant. My world revolved around Blane as his did me. We never really needed anyone else but each other so after all of the paperwork was done and we were led to the above mentioned ward I couldn’t understand how Blane was leaving when it came time to go. Up until that moment in time we had never left each other’s sides, ever. That was the worst moment of my childhood, standing at the window 3 floors up staring at the street trying to catch a glimpse of Blane as he was dragged down the street looking up trying to find me. The shock of that separation was no one’s fault, it was just what was needed at the time. No one could understand how traumatic that experience was for twins whose only experience revolved around the presence of the other. 

So if anyone ever needs to tell us apart check our throats because as far as I know Blane still has his tonsils.

Of course as with everyone there is that moment in life where the magical happens, puberty. 

Puberty hit as usual when we were about 13, and it was this event that started a chain of events that shaped our relationship to this day. All of the angst, confusion and chaos that arrives with the onset of puberty was certainly made a little easier by having a brother who was going through the same thing at the same time. Even if we didn’t fully understand what was going on with our bodies it was a much easier process to accept by seeing that you weren’t the only one. But so much happens during this period apart from the unexpected and unwelcome erections while sitting in class, knowing that it’s going to be visible through the blue stubby school shorts you’re wearing. Knowing the ridicule you’re receive in an all-boys school if you leave class with a hard-on and hoping it goes down before the bell goes for morning tea. But of course it’s not just physical changes, the hormones running through my body were starting to bring desire and attraction to the front of my mind. Going to an all-boys school made life difficult for someone who was beginning to realise that the names he had been called his whole child hood, the taunts and ribbings he had been receiving as a child were actually true. I would find myself staring at other guys around the school, those who I thought were good looking then realizing what I was doing and quickly look away. I very quickly realised at this time that this wasn’t a good thing to be seen doing but also knowing that it felt good to imagine these guys thinking the same thing. I remember going to a friend’s house to swim in his pool, there were about 5 of us just having fun in the water. One of these friends disappeared at some stage and hid in the shed which was beside the pool and had a large open window in one side like a takeaway food truck. We all kept talking, with him contributing from inside the shed and I instantly knew what was going on. He must have had an erection which would definitely show through his Speedos and was too embarrassed to let us see. I so wanted to say something, so wanted to see what another boys hard on looked like but I knew I couldn’t, knew that I would expose myself to hate like only teenage boys can administer. 

I’d always known I was different, grown accustomed to the childish taunts from other children and adult alike for being a fairy or ‘gentle’ but it wasn’t until all the hormones produced a surge in lust and desire that I began to think that I really was broken or damaged. I couldn’t understand why I was more attracted to the guys playing rugby than the girls on the sideline. Everyone, everything I saw told me that I should be chasing girls but all I wanted to do was chase the boys that were chasing them. And lust is a powerful urge, particularly when all cylinders are just beginning to fire and fire they did. I soon discovered places where I could meet guys, men really who were more than happy to teach me and let me explore these new found desires. I know some people will be shocked to think of a boy 13 or 14 years old having sex with men in their 20’s but I have no regrets no feelings of anyone taking advantage, instead I am so grateful to those men. They taught me so much, they were gentle and understanding, they showed me love when I was realizing that the world was full of hate and showed me most importantly of all that I wasn’t alone. Of course this was something that I couldn’t tell anyone about not even Blane. 

I quickly learnt two things, I was gay and began to understand all that that meant and I couldn’t let anyone around me know. So all through high school I would have a girlfriend so no one would question me. By senior high school I had my cover well-arranged even to the extent of developing a relationship with a girl who I knew had just had an abortion. Everyone was having sex and my greatest fear was that any girl who I was linked to would want to have sex which was the last thing I could imagine doing with a girl. Having just come out of a traumatic experience I felt that she would be perfect for a girlfriend for my final year of high school, surely she wouldn’t want to risk pregnancy again so soon so maybe she wouldn’t question my abstinence with her. It seems so deceptive and calculating looking back but safety was in anonymity and by 16 I had built quite an arsenal of covers to protect my true self from being exposed.

So let’s get back to brothers… soon.

There was one person who knew, or at least had an inkling of what was going on and that of course was Blane. You can’t share a bedroom and spend every day with someone and not get to know secrets and details that no one else would. On weekends I used to make my way into the Valley in Brisbane, it was a common statement in the school yard that that was where the poofs hung out, so I would sneak in by myself in the hope of finding them. I don’t know what I was expecting to find, a sign that said “POOFS THIS WAY”, how much I would have loved to have seen that. Instead I would walk around the streets trying to recognize anyone who I thought might be gay, hoping they would introduce themselves and tell me where to find everyone else. Instead what I discovered was a local gay rag “Q News”, it had stories about gay events, gay history, gay right, remember it was still a criminal offense to be gay at this point, it had ads from local businesses and personal ads that I would never have been game to respond to but it was fantastic. Seeing those black and white photos of events opened up the promise of a world where I could belong, and finally be honest with someone else about who I was.

It was a copy of this newspaper that my mother found under my bed which prompted her to tell me how disgusted she was, that she wasn’t going to tell my father about it while telling me to destroy it without returning it to me to destroy, then leaving me standing at my bedroom door not knowing what to do, wanting to simply vanish. This wasn’t porn, this was a newspaper for and about the gay community, a community I was feeling a stronger and stronger connection to. My childhood ended that day, to lose the love of your mother because of who you were realizing you were, to realise that not even family would accept you for that brought my world crashing down. But the worst was yet to come.

Blane was also heading into the Valley on weekend like I was, never together and unlike me never alone. He and his mates were also looking for the poofters on the street but not to try and make a connection but to trap them in an isolated spot and beat them up for sport. He would tell me in the morning about their achievements, how they had left some guy bleeding under a bush from all the punches and kicks they had managed to land before they had to run from the scene. I told him I was gay, I asked him to stop but he wouldn’t listen. One day he told me that I should be pleased because if it wasn’t for him I’d be on their radar. It was like the bond we had had through childhood where we were always looking out for each other but this was ugly. I couldn’t accept that he felt that protecting me from his gang of gay bashers was something I would feel grateful or pleased about. Why would I be happy with that knowing that he was attacking others like myself for no reason other than ‘fun’. Our relationship died that day. I could no longer see the brother that had been closer to me than anyone else in the entire world only someone filled with hate who didn’t care for what I was going through, the hurt he was inflicting on me every time he went out to have some ‘fun’ was something I could not forgive.

As soon as I finished school I moved out. How could I be honest with myself and stay in my mother’s house sharing a bedroom with Blane. I packed my meager possessions and took them out through the bedroom window so that I wouldn’t have to carry them through the house and risk my mother seeing me. My new flat mate was straight but he knew I was gay because at 17 ½ I was never going to deny who I was to anyone. I burst into life at this point, old enough to drink, even if not legally, I began to visit the gay bars and clubs and the world opened up. At the same time I discovered the fear of running for your life while a bunch of guys tried to catch you, your heart pounding so hard your mind blank filled with the terror of not knowing what they’ll do if they catch you. The pain of that first punch to the head when you weren’t quick enough to get away. All I can think about was Blane’s gleeful comments about his own conquests, I wonder if the countless guys who have kicked and spat on me had brothers they told should feel lucky because they wouldn’t attack them? There has only been one time when I went to the hospital after one of these attacks, probably many where I should have but how could you. This was the 80’s, if you went to the police and told them the truth, that you were bashed because you were gay then most likely it would be you that would be questioned, you that would be blamed. You’d be asked for the names of other poofters, humiliated or thrown into the back of a paddy wagon and driven out of town so the police could continue with the sport the bashers had begun. You’d talk to guys who had been stupid enough to contact the police only to be driven to Mt Coo-tha, beaten and dumped in the bush.

 What has this got to do with brothers?

The police were always looking for new recruits and for the Queensland police there couldn’t be a better match than Blane. It wasn’t long after he joined that I realised how much this new power was going to his head. He found it amusing to let me know that he had told my local station who I was and where I lived. It wasn’t hard for the local police to spot me, they only had to see Blane to find me on the street. The next couple of years became a constant barrage of police harassment. I’d be pulled over day or night only to be questioned about absolutely nothing, it was a tactic just to let me know I was being watched. It culminated in an incident where a patrol car pulled up behind me one night in the middle of the high street, I saw the car but decided to keep walking. They never called out to me, never asked me to stop they simply turned on their spotlight pointed it at me and followed me slowly up the street as I walked home. I kept waiting for something to happen, to be asked to stop but it never happened which just made the situation more terrifying, wondering what was about to go down. They followed me all the way home and parked outside my house, the spotlight following me up the drive way and into the front door. Once inside I let myself breath even though they sat there for another 10 minutes shining the spotlight through the front window so that I would know they were still there.

I no longer had a brother at that point, any bond we had was severed. He found entertainment in my suffering as if by tormenting me, by setting his colleagues onto me he somehow proved that he was every bit the homophobic, beer swilling, straight bloke the police wanted. Whether it was his need to distance himself from me to show that we were twins but not identical I don’t know, what I do know is that he killed a part of me through those years.

This has become a far longer post than I thought it was going to be. I thought I was going to skim over the details like the dialogue that has been running around in my head for the last 24 hours but it wasn’t to be. If you’re still reading there is just one more episode that I want to discuss, the episode that drove me to write all this down in the first place.

It’s been 36 years. 

36 years where I have spoken to Blane a handful of time where we have found ourselves at the same family event. We don’t talk, it’s like greeting someone you met years ago through a friend of a friend, ‘hi, how are you?’, or ‘We must catch up soon.’ we never do. I focus on being civil as the anger wells up at the very sight him and try to avoid an interaction that may upset whoever’s event we are attending.

Out of the blue 4 months ago I get a call from Blane asking if I want to have lunch. I was at first surprised that he was in Brisbane but also curious why, after all this time, he was initiating a meeting between us. When we met he quickly told me that he was down here from Bundaberg because he was on extended leave from the police. It seems that years of dealing with gruesome crime scenes had taken their toll and he was suffering from PTSD. He was here to see psychologists and psychiatrists as part of his work cover program. He went on to tell me that he wasn’t finding these services helpful but what I could hear was that he wasn’t opening up to the process and those barriers were preventing him from getting anything out of the sessions. I decided to test the waters so I told him about my own experience talking to a psychologist which also meant telling him about why I was seeing one. I told him that I had HIV and a little about the trouble I was having coming to terms with that. He seemed appropriately shocked and supportive with that news so we continued to lunch. At lunch we spoke solely about his life, what he was going through and he was doing, I so wanted to talk a little about what was happening in my life but there was no breath in the conversation to do so and as he was paying I let him control the discussion. This has gone on for months now. Every time he’s down in Brisbane I get a text message in the morning to say he’s coming to my work to visit. We sit outside for my tea-break and catch up on his life for ½ hour, he’s never mentioned my HIV again never asked me if there is anyone in my life, I don’t seem to hold any importance to him, am I just someone to visit in a free moment. 

I got back from Sydney after Mardi Gras on such a high, I’d marched in the parade which I hadn’t planned on and I ran into the one true love of my life, the one that got away, which just made the whole trip perfect. Blane sends me a text asking how ‘mardirga’ was so I told him.

 “GREAT!!! Ended up marching, ran into the one real love of my life and just had a fantastic time”.

 His response was “I don’t want to know the details”. 

What details? What about having a fantastic time made him cringe? What did he not want to hear?

I’m not going down that road again, he’s not going to bully me when I’m around him, he’s not going to make me feel uncomfortable about who I am, so I told him that his comment came across as a little homophobic, a little too quick to shut me down considering the message I sent.

 I’m too touchy he says.

 Like fuck!!! Saying I had a fantastic time is not me telling him about a guy shoving his dick so far up my arse I could taste his cum on my tongue, which unfortunately didn’t happen. I thought after all this time we might have been able to build a relationship as adult. He hasn’t been a part of my life since we were teenagers and I did miss the bond we had as children, but no. I sent him a text about some of the actions he’s taken which hurt me that I’ve outlined here, I give him time to read it before calling to see if he was prepared to listen to how I feel but he didn’t just not answer he rejected the call. 

My parents had 3 sons yet I sit here in the knowledge that I have a million brothers. None of those brothers share my blood but they are brothers that I care for and that I love. They are brothers who accept me for who I am and have been there when I need them. A shoulder to cry on, someone to share joy with. Back when I was 17 I told myself that I wouldn’t let anyone into my life who wasn’t prepared to accept the real me and I stand by that today, life is too short.

I used to be a twin.