I was 17, slumped against the wall of my bedroom in Medway, Kent in the United Kingdom. My face was puffy and blotched from crying. I was surrounded by posters of Pamela Anderson and other scantily clad women – a desperate attempt to dupe people into thinking I was straight. Simply Red’s forlorn “Holding Back the Years” played on repeat on my hi-fi system. My howling had morphed into a quieter, staccato sob – the result of years of denial, self-loathing and isolation.
I heard a gentle but definite knock on my door.
“Come in,” I croaked.
A mocha-skinned hand appeared, followed by my dad’s distinctive jet-black hair. He rarely came into my room. He must’ve heard me crying.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
I took a deep breath. “I hate being gay.”
I saw little that was positive in living life as a gay man. I’d grown up in a world that told me being gay was worse than wrong: it was sick
My dad had discovered I was gay a month earlier, after catching me with my then boyfriend.
I saw little that was positive in living life as a gay man. I’d grown up in a world that told me being gay was worse than wrong: it was sick. Newspapers said we were an immoral threat to family values. At school, “gay” was the most demeaning insult that could be hurled at anyone or anything.
When I was 14, a teacher who’d been tasked with de-escalating amorous activity between students said, “And if you’re boys kissing boys, you’ve got a real problem.” Everyone laughed and made vomiting noises. The teacher joined in.
Gary at 14, absorbed in a book. Source: Supplied
Although I wasn’t out yet, people guessed I was gay because I didn’t fit masculine stereotypes: I was studious rather than sporty, for example. Over the years, I’d endured taunts suggesting I had HIV (even though I was a virgin), demeaning nicknames and outright violence on the school bus. More than once, I’d come home with a black eye, having retaliated at being called a “foul fairy” or “disgusting faggot”, or having caught someone’s limp wrist imitation (a gesture mocking the perceived effeminacy of gay men) and thrown it back in their face. I was a fighter. But inwardly, I felt defeated.
That day in my bedroom, Dad walked over to my hi-fi and pressed stop on Simply Red. “Let’s start by turning off this sad music, shall we?”
Gary as a toddler with his father. Source: Supplied
Usually a man of few words, Dad shared with me something he’d never spoken about before: at one time, he’d been subjected to racist bullying at school. A kid told everyone in his year: “Oh, my god – Les Nunn’s dad is a Paki!” The others laughed and pointed at him. He’d felt humiliated.
Usually a man of few words, Dad shared with me [that] he’d been subjected to racist bullying at school
In the British working-class town where I grew up, gay people and Pakistani people were the bottom of the pile. Never mind that Dad had Anglo-Indian heritage, not Pakistani. Racists don’t care about such details any more than homophobes care that a 14-year-old virgin cannot spread HIV.
Dad had responded to the bullies by beefing up as a bodybuilder and hitting the gym obsessively so nobody dared bully him again. He later became a gym instructor and Medway’s most formidable nightclub bouncer.
In years to come, I sharpened my wit with self-deprecating humour and an acerbic tongue. Nobody can laugh at you if you laugh at yourself first!
After that conversation with my dad, I realised we both had something the other wanted: he’d wished he was white, like me; I wished I was straight, like him. It was the first time I’d even thought of him as a person of colour.
Baby Gary and his father at Christmas. Source: Supplied
Looking at pictures of Dad and Granddad now, it seems ludicrous I once assumed they were white. I suppose my colourblind obliviousness was a form of ignorance and denial – a “racial closet”, if you will.
My granddad was half-Indian; my dad a quarter-Indian – yet their racial diversity was never discussed when I was growing up. Unfortunately, both men have now died: Granddad when I was 11, and Dad seven years ago when I was 33. I’m sad we never got to learn about our roots together. We have no family members remaining in India, but I’d love to visit one day.
I have ginger hair, like Simply Red’s lead singer, Mick Hucknall. That comes from my mum’s side – she’s also ginger. Ironically, the fact I appear so white helped enable the whitewashing of my own family. I just wish you could see more of my handsome dad in me. If I looked more Indian, I would’ve spoken out proudly about our family’s heritage – something that caused my family members so much shame.
After my dad died, I remember my (white) nan telling me her siblings refused to attend her wedding because they objected to Granddad’s race. “I didn’t care, I loved him,” she said.
Nan’s siblings refused to attend her wedding because they objected to Granddad’s race. “I didn’t care, I loved him,” she said
Society has changed so much in the past two decades that I’ve been encouraged to relish and appreciate life as a gay man. The explosion in queer representation in film had a powerful impact on me, helping me own my identity and discover what might be possible for my life. If you can see it, you can be it.
I just wish my dad had experienced the same transformation, and one day felt proud enough to embrace his mixed-race heritage. If Dad were still alive today, he’d see a society where diversity is more accepted. A place where mixed-race brown faces are increasingly appearing on our screens. And the only thing you have to hide is your Simply Red fan club membership.
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