That Butch PE Teacher

I’ve been spending some time reflecting on my school life throughout the years. I readily admit to finding life in the closet in a middle-class girl’s school a bit of a trial, and so I must express some sympathy for those still there – and I don’t mean the pupils.

Parents, I think, are of the opinion that gay teachers don’t exist, but I know for sure they do. Being a lesbian teacher is something I can’t imagine myself doing – those who do it have my utmost respect.

The more ‘obvious’ among us will experience rumours. I charge you to find a school, which doesn’t have rumours about the butch, short-haired sports teacher. I know mine did, I know they were true.

Even those who don’t ooze homo must surely not have an easy time. Schools are full of nosey little pupils wanting to know all about the single teacher’s ‘boyfriend’. If it’s your career – there is not always an end in sight.

Teaching is not an easy career. You face a room of obnoxious little madams who will no doubt spread rumours about you and generally be as disruptive and upsetting as possible. If you are gay you face the possibility of unfounded allegations being tackled by a homophobic board of governors who may have somewhat outdated views. Like any job, you face work colleagues who may not be accepting, but pupils may be even less so – particularly if you give them detention.

Teaching is also one of the most rewarding careers. All those who do it have my kudos – I know it isn’t easy. I believe that LGBT teachers are underrepresented in an education system that seems to want to hide anything that might bring disrepute on a school.

Oh, and don’t worry if you think I’m being one sided, Christian Music TV has something to say on the matter too!

Normal Service....

Oh my poor neglected little readers! Fear not – I have not been eaten alive by my copy of “Oedipus Rex” just yet. I am still here in some shape, calling out into this great abyss that is the internet.

My activities have of course been somewhat restricted by the imminent exams. I am looking forward to a busy summer after them. It is much easier to revise when you have somewhere to aim for that isn’t the same monotony of school life.

In between my breaks in revising I’ve been entertaining myself greatly looking at you all on my new SiteMeter. I like to see where you’ve all come from and where you are accessing my little home from. Big hello to all my readers from Denmark, Germany, Australia, New Zealand, India, Brazil, Dubai, Malaysia and loads of other totally exciting places. I am easily amused.

I could suggest some concern about just how many people stumble upon my blog from male porn sites, but I’m not a prejudiced person, so you are also welcome.

Make yourselves at home – normal service will resume soon.

Exam Time

Oh, how I may laugh! As I headed into my two and a half hour long exam yesterday, my fellow English Literaturites laughed at me for having a sports strapping on my right wrist.

Two and a half hours later, who was laughing?

Revision now – another exam later. Sorry blog-readers. Normal service will resume soon enough.

For now, why not entertain yourself search for lesbian videos on YouTube. I particularly like the “Fingersmith” and “Tipping The Velvet” ones.

Forwarding Fun

Forwarded emails annoy me intensely. They are generally meaningless, and no matter how often you tell people that the child will not lose an arm if they do not email the letter to all their contacts, nor will they really have a car crash on the way home, they just don't listen.

They are also ridiculously heterosexual. How many forwards automatically presume all guys want a girl, and all girls want a guy? How many surveys ask girls if they have a boyfriend? Forwards exist for most causes, anti-racism, anti-sectarianism, anti-Iraq war, but yet there are very few anti-homophobia forwards. And what is perhaps worse, if there were, people (closeted or closed-minded) would be afraid to forward them, lest they are presumed gay.

I don’t mind getting sent forwards that are funny, although most of them I’ve seen 10 times before, and the rest are either not funny or highly politically incorrect.

There is also a certain amount of hypocrisy in a world that consistently screams ‘Information overload!’, which spends much of it’s day typing in surveys, forwarding pictures of puppies/kittens/chicks.

Yes, the thought is there. It’s nice to know someone who hasn’t actually bothered to pick up the phone to you in 6 months still has you in his or her address book. But how can a ‘Friendship Prayer’ be sincere is it’s sent to 150 other friends, work colleagues and acquaintances?

However, if you would like to send me a forward, or even better – a personalised message, email me. Details at the side.

Radcylffe and I

I was going to write this earlier, but I got sidelined by a Tatu video which is, to put it mildly, awful, and yet strangely provocative.

To be fair there is also little to report in my life. School has ended and I am in my yearly study hibernation. My first exam is next Tuesday, and I am patiently wasting time before that. Every year I say I’ll study really hard, and end up doing little more than I did the year before.

Perhaps the only thing pushing me this year is the need to get away to England for University. However, apparently browsing GaydarGirls for the Midlands is also not a beneficial use of my time as my exams approach. It is however more interesting that the Act of Union in 1800.

My mother has been scolding me like the child I am. I apparently drive too fast, and every time I open the door I get begged to drive safely. I’m only going to get a pint of milk. Also, apparently, looking forward to my future is forbidden. It may make people here feel insignificant. Sorry for having ambition mother.

In other news in the world of Straight Talker, I have obtained a copy of “The Trials of Radclyffe Hall” which I am reading by night and hiding my day. It was actually my mother who found it in the second hand bookshop; I just popped down later to buy it. It is rich in detail, and suggests the wonderfully scandalous life of Hall’s lovers who appear to bring husbands and all into the domestic arrangement. Also, apparently Hall was dyslexic and had to get someone to correct all her spelling mistakes (usually her partners). Imagine what life must have been like without Microsoft Word.

I am babbling, because I have left this late for a study-tired-caffeine-fuelled-student. To bed and Radcyffle Hall I go.

Fundamentalist Watch 2

Well the sun has been peeping its head out in preparation for the long summer days, and so the religious bigots have been getting out their summer gear for a long season's worth of being bigots!

However, all is not well, as the Ohio House has approved a bill, which will ensure that the groups what protest outside dead soldier’s funeral’s there have to stand at least 300ft away from the mourners. That’s a whole 91.44 metres. I guess they’ll need bigger ‘God Hates Fags’ signs then.

Although not strictly religious nutters, the British Nationalist Party has voiced its fears that homosexuality may become compulsory, saying that “Some unfortunate people suffer from homosexuality so we will just have to tolerate them.” Oh well, I guess we’ll just continue being “revolting” but “happy”.

Opus Dei (you know the one in “The Da Vinci Code” with the crazy torture bits and bobs?) has had some political success, with their member Ruth Kelly being promoted in Tony Blair’s reshuffle to “Minister for Equality and Women”. Isn’t it nice to have a person who has been conveniently absent from pretty much every gay rights bill in charge of writing them? It’s a real pity actually – I genuinely thought Ms. Kelly had potential for being a raving lezzer, and she does have a very pleasant accent.

I do hope all of the peoples I have mentioned above shall be joining in the “International Day Against Homophobia” minute’s silence tomorrow. If not, they could at least shut their big gobs for a minute’s peace.

Failing to Fit In

As a young teen I always felt very different and alienated. I had friends, but to a certain extent I never felt like I could connect. I put it down to having friends that weren’t as academic as me. I made friends with the more bookish types, and I still felt an outsider. I then thought it was because I didn’t drink or smoke, so I tried that, and it was equally unsuccessful. I thought it was because I didn’t hang around with people from church backgrounds like me – I befriended some evangelical Christian types and felt more alien than ever.

I then put it down to having too many groups of friends – so many people who I knew, but so few of them that actually knew much about me. I tried to get closer to a few select people, and they hurt me.

I then came to realisation I was gay, and that must therefore be the reason for this distance between prospective friends and me. I made some gay friends, and they accepted me, and I was happy. I was however still at a distance due to circumstance. I think they pitied me too, and I didn’t want friends who pitied me. However, I must thank them, for they were a great help then.

Having tried almost everything, I finally gave up. I gave up hoping someone would think to invite out on a Saturday night. I gave up hoping to keep track of conversations about the complicated friendship webs. I gave up trying to fit in.

Eventually I’ve found myself fitting in with a group who don’t fit in. Not that we’re rejects, most of us are popular enough. However we’re more the group that came together because we were always arriving alone to parties. I’m close to this group, but I’m still quite a closed person. I’m a bit afraid of opening up.

I’ve yet to find someone terribly like me. I’m a fairly quirky character. There are few I can really be honest with, and there are few who I can talk and listen to well into the night.

I am different. But it’s got the stage where I don’t really care that much. I look at them and am glad I’m not another one off the conveyer belt of copycats.

Dykes In Cars

Today I passed my driving practical test. I can now legally drive alone, and even do things like illegally speed and park badly. This is obviously a great achievement, because every proper dyke drives.

Admittedly it is my mother’s Ford Ka, with it’s little teddy bears she insists on keeping in the back seat. It’s not a cool motorbike, a sports car, or even a land rover. But it does have a nice CD player, and I can drive it.

So I’ve been buzzing around town, safe in the knowledge I can now drive alone, as in without my dad whinging in my ear, or my instructor being patronising about the fact I didn’t signal early enough. My logic is always clear, he just never understood me.

I thought I put on an excellent performance for my license. I was really nice to the man taking me out; I wore a relatively low cut top, and even made jokes about him trying to distract me by driving past topless (male) builders. Haha, I really crack myself up sometimes. And apparently my frantic head movements and general concentrating face paid off, with only 8 minors – I’m an R driver.

I won’t now have to rely on my parents for lifts all the time – and who knows where the road may take me. A few wrong turns and I may well be kidnapped by lesbians.

So Long School Days

This is slightly later than usual, yesterday was a busy day. However, I am now finished school. I greeted this news with many, many drinks. I also told a teacher I loved her, and was propositioned by two girls who told me they heard I was a lesbian.

It appears I’m not as good at hiding myself as I might have thought. Not even my lesbianism. Although to be fair seeing as I won’t have to see most of those girls ever again, I’m not really that fussed. A teacher who I haven’t even spoken to in nearly a year pulled me aside to tell me she knew I was glad to be leaving because she knew I felt I had outgrown the school.

Sorry – what? That’s my observation. And it appears she picked it up from seeing me plodding around school. I almost felt bound to ask her for a further analysis of myself, but my glass was empty, so I went to the bar instead.

I have this fascination with what people derive from me. It may just be because, like many other people, my favourite subject is myself. However I think it’s more because I know how much I have to hide. I like it when people observe things about me, because often I don’t see them myself.

So it’s “so long school days”. A few more exams, and I will be officially rid of the place, and it will be rid of me.

The Gay Community's Bond

I was at a concert last night. “Gloria”, a gay and lesbian choir from Dublin who were, for the record, excellent. A rather mixed repertoire, from Mozart, Stanford and Tallis for the choir buffs like myself, and some show tunes and Queen for the rest of the world.

In between the musical pieces some of the choir acted out humorous parts from their own coming out.

“Mum, I’m singing in a lesbian and gay choir”
“I didn’t know you could sing.”

Indeed, the gay community are very good at putting on a brave face. Many people see us as happy-go-lucky types. We’re all Jack from “Will & Grace”, we’re all the carefree types with no children and no worries. We’re the life and soul of the party.

And yet the undertone is always there, and sometimes it feels like non-gays just don’t get it. We may be a bright and proud community, but in some way or other every one of us has struggled to be where we are now, and still are struggling.

Every one of us has had to battle with inner demons, with friends, family and work colleagues who are unaware, tactless or just plain malicious.

So we make it humorous. We make jokes about closets and manic mothers. We hide behind figurative walls. And in hiding we make it all the more obvious to those around us that while we may be who we are, it wasn’t as easy as we made it look.

Many observers say the gay community is strange in the friendliness and general respect it shows each member. But given circumstances, even in the 21st century, is it any wonder?

Our common bond is not same sex feelings, but the pain of coming to terms and continued persecution.

And the award goes to......

As school draws to a close, plans for the Leaver’s Dinner are in full swing. 150 little girls are lathering into a frenzy by talk of dresses and drink. I am the other hand and am only glad that this time I can get away with wearing trousers, and no, I won’t be wearing heels.

And as if having another excuse to dress up wasn’t quite enough excitement for girls about to enter into major exams, they are having their own version of the Oscar’s. This awards ceremony it would appear will be totally bitchy, and totally naff.

The awards being nominated for include “Best Ginger”, “Best Malteaser” brunette who is blonde inside), and even the tactfully named “Best Dyke”. As I’ve said before, the awards totally reflect my year, bitchy and generally meaningless.

Now there are a few I should be in the running for, although I’m happy enough to pass over “Most Like Vicky Pollard”. However, much to my amazement (and slight tinge of disappointment), I’m not even nominated for “Best Dyke”. Everyone who is nominated not only has a boyfriend, but I could totally beat them in a KD Lang pop quiz.

But then, of course I’m not nominated. Nominating me for such an award would almost certainly make me burst into tears, because I am (to the best of their knowledge) in a deep, deep pool of denial.

It’s also the unwritten law that you don’t vote for the person who really deserves the award in case they are offended. I mean, the person in the lead for “Best Ginger” went brunette at least 5 years ago.

It may also be a sign that I have succeeded in pulling the wool over every single one of their probing little eyes.

And to think, I have my coming out/acceptance speech all ready.

Dying to Diet

Dieting is the meal of the day this week. One friend is on the particularly strenuous cabbage soup diet (urging me that she has lost 7 pounds in a week). Another friend is eating off a strict plan from the Doctor and spending every spare moment sweating it off in the gym. Although winning in the eccentric stakes this week is another friend who assures me that by keeping her body in a state of constant motion she will indeed reach her desired weight. All very well, but her consistent toe tapping and drumming on the table is rather infuriating.

At voting time for the Leaver’s Dinner Awards (Northern Ireland’s answer to the Oscar’s) a rather pass remarkable acquaintance told me she was voting for a girl in the aptly named “I’m so vain” category because she was ‘skinny’.

This is also the time for the art coursework, and I do hope that after it’s completion one of the art students will start eating again. Her work, entitled ‘Thinspiration”, while being very good, is making me worry for her health. I have tried subtly wafting thai sweet chilli crisps under her nose, but to no avail. Not even smoky bacon flavour entice her. Something is seriously wrong.

I am not on the cabbage soup diet/ the atkins diet/ the weight watchers diet/ the zone diet/ the south beach diet/ the blood type diet or indeed any other diet than watching my weight.

But I seem to be alone. All the more chips for me.