by Elise Harrington.
‘You’re not gay. You’re not gay. You’re not gay. You’re not gay. You’re not gay. You’re not gay.’
I lay completely flat on the couch repeating the words to myself, as though I could rid my thoughts and feelings by simply convincing myself otherwise. These delusions came shortly after receiving an Instagram follow request from a classmate who I thought was pretty.
I had just moved to my new school, the new kid who disrupted her already established year nine class and now had a girl crush. I first realised my feelings might not be plain girly envy when we were sitting opposite each other in English. We were listening (or at least meant to be) to our teacher talk about the tragedy of Shakespeare after just having finished Romeo and Juliet (1996), and I was having TOTALLY normal feelings about Claire Danes. I pretended, like all the other year nine girls, to think Leonardo DiCaprio was so charming and beautiful with his shiny hair and muscles. But I was captivated by Juliet in her white angel wings and wondering how she got her hair so shiny (I think the addition of Des’ree’s I’m Kissing You made it almost impossible for me to focus on the fish tank meet-cute playing on screen, instead establishing a perfect yearning moment). To this day, I still unintentionally blush when someone is dressed as Juliet for Halloween.
I lay on the couch staring at the follow request. Don’t be fooled; it was me who followed her first. She was simply executing Instagram etiquette. Completely panicked, I accepted it and threw my phone to the floor (not once did I message her or speak to her in full sentences for the rest of our schooling).
I remember this moment fondly, laughing at how silly I was in trying self-inflicted conversion therapy (more on that later), knowing everything I do now. I remember being so scared of my feelings, although they had been happening since my early primary school days. This moment was the first time I had realised what it meant to be gay — or, at the very least, attracted to girls. The irony of just having watched Romeo and Juliet is not lost here — forbidden romance and all.
‘You’re not gay. You’re not gay. You’re not gay. You’re not gay. You’re not gay. You’re not gay.’
Exactly one year after this discovery, I stood in the lounge room of our 1970s house, leaning my head on the exposed brick partition wall. Mum was a few metres away in the kitchen, her shoes squeaking on the linoleum floors. My heart dropped when I saw the envelope with the plebiscite form on the armrest of our huge couch, which barely left me enough space to hide from the sightlines of the kitchen.
2017 had been a huge year for me. I had been on a trip to Europe with some schoolmates and my favourite teachers, I was doing well in school and had lots of friends (none of whom I dared to admit my crush on our classmate). It was late in the year, and school had just finished. I was preparing to enter my last years of high school, reading lots of books in my downtime in preparation to endure a year of reading only academic texts.
I couldn’t stop myself from reading heterosexual romance novels. The shelves of the young adult section of my local bookstore were my greatest comfort place. I convinced myself that the butterflies I was feeling were for the male love interests in the books, but really, their point of view interested me more—yearning and falling for their girl. I had completely pushed away any feelings I had for girls (except the one time my high school boyfriend had asked me explicitly if I would ever kiss a girl, to which I lied through my teeth and got so defensive that, in hindsight, probably blew my cover).
SHOULD THE LAW BE CHANGED TO
ALLOW SAME-SEX COUPLES TO MARRY?
The plebiscite flyer glared up at me as though to torment me.
Do it, tell everyone, see how they feel.
Mum walked in from the kitchen and gave me a soft hug and kiss on the cheek to say hello. We chatted nonsense about our days and probably the warm weather—I could not hear a word she was saying. I felt exposed, as though she could sense both my head and heart pounding. I did not dare make eye contact with the flyer. She had not ticked a box yet. I danced with the idea of asking her which way she was going to vote. I knew in my heart she would tick the yes box, but the thought of her ticking no lingered. I wondered if she was going to be one of those parents who say they are supportive but not with their own kid. Going to a Catholic school, I was already surrounded by threats of Hell and exile. My hesitation bubbled over, and I spat out the question (and I’m sure I sounded SO casual doing so).
‘So, what do you think?’ I said, picking up the flyer and turning it over as though the back was going to answer my question. My eyes locked on my shaky hands.
‘Love is love,’ she said, smiling at me sweetly as she strode into the kitchen.
Catholic Exile
Walking through the heavy, grey double doors, I notice the sun reflecting on the stained-glass window directly above my head. Mother Mary holds her baby; features of blue, red, and yellow radiate into the hot air. To the right of me, sits a long table covered in a blue floral tablecloth.
‘Donations are appreciated,’ says the woman with the longest grey curls I have ever seen.
Her voice surprises me, pulling me out of my trance, and I jump backwards hitting the person behind me. I stumble forward in silence to avoid further embarrassment.
On the table sits a bright yellow box with a slit in the top. People file in and drop notes inside the box. A matching yellow bowl will come around later in the service, and they will drop their coin donations in there too. Next to the box is a row of flowers. The white roses leave a sickly-sweet scent in the air. Purity, Youthfulness, and innocence. I turn and walk out of the foyer into the carpeted area of the church, where people are humming along to the opening hymns.
I am eleven and preparing to face God. The bronze and silver statue glares at me from the highest point at the back of the chapel. Although His eyes remain closed, I feel the stare of crucified Jesus. My heart races rapidly. I’m trying to keep my eyes on the floor but feel a push to look up and face Him head-on. The Parish Priest says that Jesus already knows my sins, but has He seen me kissing my best friend in the girls’ toilet block? Does He know how my heart races but quickly falls flat when we say it is only practice, so we know how to kiss our boyfriends when the time comes? Does He know how much I have prayed, guilt-ridden and scared of Hell?
‘The only way to rid our sins is to face them head-on. Heaven will come to those who reconcile, and Hell will wait for those who do not. Face Him head-on, do not hide from the Lord.’
I look up, Jesus’ eyes are now open and so dark. I sink my knees to the floor, holding onto the timber back of the row of theatre-like chairs in front of me, making sure I do not break His eye contact. My knees hit the hard and cold beam that stands just above the ground. I put my hands together in prayer, this time shielding my face from the front of the chapel. I can feel the heat in my cheeks and imagine the face of every Sunday church-goer staring at me with the same dark eyes.
I am not ready yet. Hell is waiting.
During his routine Sunday homily, the Priest talks with his big voice. The lights are blinding and spotlight my red face. He lists marital sins and recites the usual adultery and fornication speech but, today, something is different. Today, he talks about homosexuality and the defiance of chastity.
‘These people have a special place in hell. A place that praying cannot rid them of.’
It is Thursday, Father is waiting in the back of the classroom during silent reading time. He takes each classmate, one by one, to the small room that is cluttered with coloured paper and spare pencils. Usually, I confess the sin of yelling at my brother or wearing shoes in the house, but this time, I am feeling brave and scared of Hell.
Father calls my name, and I jolt in my seat. I snap my book shut and notice the teacher’s eyes on me, scorning me without words. I stand with perfect posture and take slow steps to the back room. I am on my knees and staring up at Father. His red beard with scatters of silver taunts me. They say I should be truthful, and Heaven will be waiting.
Father places a hand on my shoulder, and I look at the floor. He reminds me of the importance of reconciliation and that God already knows my sins. He knows everything. Mum used to say she had eyes on the back of her head. I feel God’s eyes on the back of mine.
‘I have been kissing my friends. Girlfriends. Friends that are girls.’
He does not say a word.
‘We are practising…for when we get boyfriends.’
I feel his hand tighten on my shoulder and his gaze lift to the ceiling. I do not dare look up.
‘You are young. Heaven does not deny children. You have a chance to reconcile with God. Do as I say, and the gates will open. Homosexuality is a sin; I trust you will not participate in the Devil’s temptations again. He does no good, only persuades good Catholic girls.’
He tells me how to pray, how to reconcile.
‘Start with the Apostle’s Creed and make your way through the beads. Be sure not to skip any prayers. He will be watching.’
Later, I lay completely still in my bed, considering the words of advice from Father. I reach for my rosary beads, waiting for me on my bedside table. They lay in a crystal dish, keeping my friendship bracelets and costume rings company. In the dark, I feel for the first bead and start the Apostle’s Creed. I move my fingers across the cold silver until they land on a bead and thus begin my routine of ridding my sin.
‘I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth, and in Jesus Christ.’
I repeat until my fingers are sore and the sunrise is near. I am tired and fall asleep on my desk at school the next day, but at least Heaven will be waiting.
‘I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven, and Earth, and in Jesus Christ.’
‘Elise, do you have somewhere better to be? Dreamland perhaps?’
My teacher calls me into her office; she has just been to Jerusalem. She has a present for me, but I am not to open it until I get home. Later, as I pull out my rosary beads, a small, hand-carved wooden cross sits in my jewellery dish, God is good sketched into the sides. He told her everything, and now everyone knows.
To this day, at twenty-three years old and five years since I last stepped a weary foot in the church, I remember how to pray with a rosary. I fear that the words of the Our Father and Hail Mary prayers will never leave my mind, like the songs on my very first iPod. I remember every line and repeat them when I am scared or anxious or find a reason. I am still scared that Heaven is real and that I will be turned away.
I have been having conversations discussing the 2017 Marriage Law Survey with friends and family since I came out. My Nana Pam died before I could come out to her. It left me with questions.
I always had reservations when with my grandparents, knowing they could turn around and spit in my face (not literally, I hope). In 2017, my cousin Louise worked in a women’s clothing store, and often had older women coming in and complaining about the Marriage Law. As a plebiscite, it was not compulsory for all eligible Australians to vote in the survey. Louise tried encouraging these people not to vote, understanding that not voting at all was better than a no vote. She assumed that our nana would also be voting no, so she tried to employ this tactic with her. Nana Pam was adamant that she would vote, and that Louise post it for her.
‘I had a wonderful sixty-two-year marriage to my husband, and I don’t see any reason why others shouldn’t be able to experience what he and I had.’
Louise says that, in hindsight, she shouldn’t have assumed Nana would vote no but had an expectation that she would, considering her religion and age. She told me recently that Nana would be so proud of me, which made me tear up. I was no longer worried I wouldn’t have been accepted by her.
In September 2017, the High Court gave the green light for a voluntary postal survey. 80% of eligible Australians voted in the plebiscite—around 13 million people. On the 9th of December 2017, 61.6% ticked the yes box, and the Marriage Act 1961 was amended to allow same-sex couples to marry.
I opened my Instagram and saw that my feed was flooded with rainbow flags and cried. I did not dare let anyone hear me cry, only silently reposting a picture of a pride flag on Facebook, hoping to see which family members would interact—which family members were safe.
‘Did you see the results of the gay marriage debate?’ I asked Mum, trying incredibly hard to sound casual while we made lunch side by side in the kitchen. My eyes did not leave a singular spot I had found on that god-awful ugly spotted laminate bench.
‘Such a beautiful outcome. Love always wins.’
I smiled gently at the floor.
2020 was a huge year. Covid-19 was well and truly in swing, and social media became a place of tortuous solace while I lay in bed most days. Going on walks and getting to read my never-ending list of to-read books was fun in the beginning, but as weeks turned into months, those months became longer than usual.
Dances on TikTok were trending, and I knew that the people I was observing on my phone were more comfortable with their sexuality. After getting out of a long-term relationship with a Christian boy (who was not accepting of any queer agenda, pushing me further into the closet and scared of my sexuality), I was both heartbroken and relieved. He had told me he would “be fine” if our children were gay but would never attend their weddings, and that if our children were transgender, he would be seeking conversion therapy through his church. I was terrified and did not have the capability to fight back, scared it would out me.
At this point in time, I had some friends who were openly queer. I was again, noticing a world outside of the church that was sexuality and gender diverse, and learning more and more about pride, both on and off social media. Interested in dating again, I turned my dating apps to women only and thus began a journey of navigating the lesbian dating world.
I did not need to come out to my mum. I came home after a date one day wearing my girlfriend’s hoodie. Mum eyed me as I walked in the front door.
‘Whose hoodie is that?’ she said with a soft but inquisitive smile.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, it’s the cardinal rule that you only wear someone’s jumper if you like them. What’s his name?’
I tried to act nonchalant and brush her off.
‘What’s her name?’ she said sweetly, swiftly passing the ball into my court.
I smiled and told Mum her name. We sat down, and told her all the details of our first dates, about her cat and our Valentine’s Day plans.
I sit in my bedroom now, shocked and emotional, recounting just this small snippet of my teenage years. At twenty-three I am out, proud and have the most incredibly beautiful, gentle, and kind girlfriend.
My bedroom is now colourful—a collection of posters, books and trinkets that reflect my entity. On my walls, photographs of my friends, family and girlfriend look back at me as if to acknowledge my presence and the calm of my life now. Just a few years ago, this bedroom rocked white walls, plain furniture and was missing all things beautifully coloured and bright.
My friends are mostly queer (except for a few incredibly supportive allies). My life is entirely different. I no longer attend church or am held back by the thought of trying so hard to fit into the mould that religion forced me to fit into. I am free to create an entirely new (and ever-changing) mould. I am free to marry whomever I want without restriction of gender.
Although I look back on some past moments and want to remove my hand from the burning hot plate, I am grateful for these experiences. Sure, I would have loved to have a less life-altering experience attending Catholic schools, but I will remain incredibly grateful for my education, experiences, and friendships.
I am proud of my journey from being a scared kid facing the threats of Hell, to being scared to out myself in 2017 by being a bit too enthusiastic about the Marriage Debate, to being a loud, passionate, and excitable queer adult. I am excited to marry and grateful that I can do so in my home country.
My life is incredibly beautiful. I am still a huge, nerdy reader with my collection of queer books I am no longer afraid to loan out at the library or spend a day sifting through at bookstores (I still own all my hetero romance books. Some of the girls I still get butterflies over). Although cliche, this bedroom has seen some of my darkest moments but is also now seeing the fleeting, beautiful moments. I am finally grateful for the passing of time.