It’s been that weekend again in Sydney, that annual weekend, and perhaps it’s more than one weekend, a whole fortnight of it, maybe even a month, which would be a special kind of hell. But it’s the weekend that I’m talking about, that’s been on my mind, the Saturday night in particular, it’s always the first weekend in March, which puts it smack-bang in the middle of my partner’s birthday week. The Saturday night, the parade and party, all that dancing in the streets and in the great cavernous halls of Fox Studios, if that’s where the party’s held, as you can see I really have no idea about much of this Mardi Gras stuff. Sydney Mardi Gras, they’ve dropped the ‘gay and lesbian’ bit, which, to me, is good and wise.
I always dread this time of year, a bit – a lot – like how I dread Christmas. All the celebration, the public displays of some kind of joy and affection. But it’s an empty celebration, both Christmas and Mardi Gras, because neither means anything to me. If you wish me a happy Mardi Gras I’ll stare blankly at your face. If you wish me a happy gay Christmas, I may well bludgeon you with a baseball bat.
Have I been to a Mardi Gras? Yes, twice: two parades (one of which was the 20th anniversary, in 1998), and one party. Did I have a good time? From what I can remember the parade was as it appears on the telly: so many guys in red Speedos and/or angel wings, so many drunk drag queens trying not to fall off the back of trucks, dykes on bikes, some political floats – it’s always good to see gay marriage getting a mention. And the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence, those men dressed up as nuns, which, if I’m to tell you the truth, never fails to give me a little chuckle. And men in black leather, so many men in black leather, their butts hanging out. And on the sidelines: thousands and thousands and thousands of people who come out to watch the show, the spectacular. That’s what it seems to me: wheel out the funny sexuality people to entertain the drunk masses from the suburbs.
But my sexuality isn’t a show, it’s not a spectacular.
I became a teenager in the 1980s; I was in my own little world; music was my thing: The Cure, The Clash, New Order and, erm, Culture Club. Early on, around twelve years old, thirteen, I knew I had feelings, strong feelings, explosive feelings for other boys. I didn’t have a name for it, I didn’t want a name for it. As scary as it was, how downright frightening, this thing, whatever it might have been, was mine, all mine. I wanted to explore it; I wanted it to take me places. Despite knowing that it wasn’t normal, whatever normal might be, might mean, I loved it, it was beautiful. How good and golden it made me feel, how alive, blood-pumpingly alive.
I was shy, I was nervous, cautious. I took little steps, just inched along, finding my own path, and never did I want a name for what I was doing, who I was, and if I did discover names for it I turned the other way. Oscar Wilde may have infamously called love between men ‘the love that dare not speak its name’, but, to me, it’s the love that doesn’t need a name, because it’s in my blood and bones, my DNA, in every breath I take. I wouldn’t change it for the world, it’s been my absolute delight, despite the heartache, the shock and horror. So I fell in love with a boy in Fourth Form (or was it Third?), it happened again at university, which took me into the post-uni world, that cliff that’s jumped off, and then, in my mid-twenties, I met another boy, who became a partner, my partner to this day, who too isn’t fond of this weekend that’s been, this Mardi Gras.
Am I proud to be gay? What is pride? Self-respect, dignity, self-esteem, honour. Must these words relate to me? It’s just who I am, just what I’m made of – my sexuality comprises me. Of course, I live in better times; it hasn’t always been easy for people like me to say the sort of things I’m saying. In fact, I’m frankly astonished to learn that homosexuality was illegal in my home state of New South Wales until 1984, the year of my first love affair, puppy-love for sure, sweet and innocent, but also rich and intense and beautiful and profound; I was none the wiser of how a brush of the hand could put me in jail. And in Tasmania, that dark island state of my nation, it was illegal until as recently as 1997, though that place has gone from zero to hero in no time as it now has some of the most progressive same-sex relationship laws in the country – but not in the world, not yet.
Australian Nobel Prize-winning novelist Patrick White, who was openly gay, said that he wished the Sydney Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras would be stopped forever. ‘A lot of screaming queens in Oxford Street will not help the cause for which we shall have to fight,’ he wrote. Do I agree? No, I don’t. Like Christmas, it can go on, but it will have to go on without me, because it means nothing, it simply doesn’t represent my life. Like all fair and decent people, I stopped wearing red Speedos in my last year of school, and even though I’m fond of angels, over-sized wings on me would look ridiculous – and hypocritical. And drag queens? Good for them, I say, but if that’s your thing and you come around to my place, well, please just be yourself, and cut the sarcasm, and that voice.
All I wanted when I was young is all I want now: beauty and love and intimacy.
I don’t need to dance in the street for these things. I just want to feel it pulsing through my veins, as it always has, as it always will.
Under the counter or a flutter in the dovecote 
16 comments
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March 4, 2012 at 9:16+00:00Mar
Mark William Jackson
I’m white, hetero, somewhere between 18 and 49. Where’s my parade?!
From an outsider perspective I think the transition from ’78 protest, where the police were out to stop the march by any means; to today, where they have their own float, is a good thing. The Mardi Gras is BIG business now, and if it provides some place to come together, I guess it’s like World Youth Day, where a bunch of Christians congregate. For me, technically, I suppose it would be the Sydney Writers Festival, I went once, just a bunch of North Shore society ladies staring at the exhibits, writers behind name cards hoping to flog an extra book – I’d rather have my eyes plucked out, dipped in acid and reinserted through my nostrils.
March 4, 2012 at 9:16+00:00Mar
Nigel Featherstone
Hi Mark, interesting to see you link Mardi Gras to the Sydney Writers Festival. Is it wrong to say that I’ve never been to the SWF, or any festival for that matter (other than some smallish events at the National Library of Australia, which, in the main, I enjoyed)? I’m sure I’d love an invitation to something like the SWF (!), but I have a feeling that I’d have a similar response to yours: I’d rather eat my own head. Perhaps it’s all about something that we love so much and hold so dear becoming huge and public?
March 5, 2012 at 9:16+00:00Mar
Mark William Jackson
It’s commodification, commercialisation. I’d like to do what I love, and get paid, and not have to compromise, and get paid, and not sell out but get paid!
March 4, 2012 at 9:16+00:00Mar
broadsideblog
Beautifully written post. I’m not a big fan of public in-your-face-ness on issues as private as intimacy either. I also agree that the extreme behaviors can send a weird and inaccurate message about who or what gay men and women are — people.
March 4, 2012 at 9:16+00:00Mar
Nigel Featherstone
Yes, it’s all very complex, isn’t it. On one hand, I do appreciate the fact that something like Mardi Gras celebrates diversity and colour and risk and adventure; and I also like how it is so unashamed about how people like to present themselves – not everyone wants to grow up to wear a suit and work in an office and have 2.3 kids. So it’s about revealing the community – in the broadest possible definition of that word – to be what it really is. On the other hand, however, it can send a message of off-the-wall weirdness and depravity – that gay life is a parade every day. I reckon most gay people would conclude that their lives aren’t that colourful; a gay life is just like anyone else’s. Thanks, as always, for commenting.
March 5, 2012 at 9:16+00:00Mar
whisperinggums
Sounds reasonable to me, Nigel … any “group” is, in the end, made up of individuals and that is how I’d like to think we approach each other. I have no problem with people pronouncing their faiths, beliefs, whatever, in parades, churches, wherever, but I have always been bothered by the notion that someone might think they “know” me (and my beliefs and values) because of my membership of some “group”. I am me …
March 5, 2012 at 9:16+00:00Mar
Nigel Featherstone
Hi Sue, that power of group ‘thinking’ is interesesting, isn’t it. And perhaps that’s where Mardi Gras goes pear-shaped: it becomes the dominant personality, over-powering the individual. It’s strange that for a community that strongly promotes diversity and freedom of expression, it does love its cliches and stereotypes…perhaps more than any other community.
PS: Thanks very much for coming along to the reading the other night – it was lovely to meet you in person and to have you there.
March 5, 2012 at 9:16+00:00Mar
JULIAN HALLS
Hello there, I enjoyed your piece, as I do most of them. With this one you attribute “The Love that Dare not Speak its Name” to Oscar Wilde, However, from my reading it was Lord Alfred Douglas who penned it in his 1894 poem “Two Loves.” (Last line) Did Oscar ever repeat it? Or did Oscar say it and Lord Alfred pinch it as his own? Or maybe it was used in the court case by another? It’s a great emblematic line anyway.
Cheers. JAULIAN H
March 5, 2012 at 9:16+00:00Mar
Nigel Featherstone
Hi Julian, good to hear from you.
I’ve done some research and you’re right that the line is from Douglas’ poem ‘Two Loves’ from 1894. However, that poem and the famous quote were referenced in Oscar Wilde’s first criminal trial (April 26 to May 1, 1895), which is how it has become erroneously attributed to Wilde.
In fact, I’ll push the limits of this comment box and copy the relevant text here – clearly the W in the dialogue below refers to Wilde. It makes for very interesting reading.
Cross-examined by Mr. C. F. Gill-You are acquainted with a publication entitled The Chameleon?
W–Very well indeed.
G–Contributors to that journal are friends of yours?
W–That is so.
G–I believe that Lord Alfred Douglas was a frequent contributor?
W–Hardly that, I think. He wrote some verses occasionally for The Chameleon, and indeed for other papers.
G–The poems in question were somewhat peculiar?
W–They certainly were not mere commonplaces like so much that is labelled poetry.
G–The tone of them met with your critical approval?
W–It was not for me to approve or disapprove. I left that to the reviews.
G–On the last occasion you were cross-examined with reference to two letters written to Lord Alfred Douglas?
W–Yes.
G–You were asked as to those letters, as to The Picture of Dorian Cray and as to The Chameleon?
W–Yes.
G–You said you had read Lord Alfred Douglas’s poems in The Chameleon?
W–Yes.
G–You described them as beautiful poems?
W–I said something tantamount to that. The verses were original in theme and construction, and I admired them.
G–Lord Alfred Douglas contributed two poems to The Chameleon, and they were beautiful poems?
W–Yes.
G–Listen, Mr. Wilde, I shall keep you only a very short time in the witness box. [Counsel read the following poem from The Chameleon.]
“Last night unto my bed methought there came
Our lady of strange dreams, and from an urn
She poured live fire, so that mine eyes did burn
At sight of it. Anon the floating flame
Took many shapes, and one cried: I am Shame
That walks with Love, I am most wise to turn
Cold lips and limbs to fire; therefore discern
And see my loveliness, and praise my name.
And afterwards, in radiant garments dressed
With sound of flutes and laughing of glad lips,
A pomp of all the passions passed along
All the night through; till the white phantom ships
Of dawn sailed in. Whereat I said this song,
‘Of all sweet passions Shame is loveliest.’ ”
G–Is that one of the beautiful poems?
Sir Edward Clarke–That is not one of Mr. Wilde’s.
Mr. Gill–I am not aware that I said it was.
Sir Edward Clarke–I thought you would be glad to say it was not.
Mr. Justice Charles–I understand that was a poem by Lord Alfred Douglas.
Mr. Gill–Yes, my lord, and one which the witness described as a beautiful poem. The other beautiful poem is the one that follows immediately and precedes “The Priest and the Acolyte.”
G–Your view, Mr. Wilde, is that the “shame” mentioned here is that shame which is a sense of modesty?
W–That was the explanation given to me by the person who wrote it. The sonnet seemed to me obscure.
G–During 1893 and 1894 You were a good deal in the company of Lord Alfred Douglas?
W–Oh, yes.
G–Did he read that poem to you?
W–Yes.
G–You can, perhaps, understand that such verses as these would not be acceptable to the reader with an ordinarily balanced mind?
W–I am not prepared to say. It appears to me to be a question of taste, temperament and individuality. I should say that one man’s poetry is another man’s poison! (Laughter.)
G–I daresay! The next poem is one described as “Two Loves.” It contains these lines:
“‘Sweet youth,
Tell me why, sad and sighing, dost thou rove
These pleasant realms? I pray thee tell me sooth,
What is thy name?’ He said, ‘My name is Love,’
Then straight the first did turn himself to me,
And cried, ‘He lieth, for his name is Shame.
But I am Love, and I was wont to be
Alone in this fair garden, till he came
Unasked by night; I am true Love, I fill
The hearts of boy and girl with mutual flame.’
Then sighing said the other, ‘Have thy will,
I am the Love that dare not speak its name’.”
G–Was that poem explained to you?
W–I think that is dear.
G–There is no question as to what it means?
W–Most certainly not.
G–Is it not clear that the love described relates to natural love and unnatural love?
W–No.
G–What is the “Love that dare not speak its name”?
W–“The Love that dare not speak its name” in this century is such a great affection of an elder for a younger man as there was between David and Jonathan, such as Plato made the very basis of his philosophy, and such as you find in the sonnets of Michelangelo and Shakespeare. It is that deep, spiritual affection that is as pure as it is perfect. It dictates and pervades great works of art like those of Shakespeare and Michelangelo, and those two letters of mine, such as they are. It is in this century misunderstood, so much misunderstood that it may be described as the “Love that dare not speak its name,” and on account of it I am placed where I am now. It is beautiful, it is fine, it is the noblest form of affection. There is nothing unnatural about it. It is intellectual, and it repeatedly exists between an elder and a younger man, when the elder man has intellect, and the younger man has all the joy, hope and glamour of life before him. That it should be so the world does not understand. The world mocks at it and sometimes puts one in the pillory for it. (Loud applause, mingled with some hisses.)
Can you imagine poetry being used to the same effect these days?!
Note: perhaps I shouldn’t have echoed this famous line in the title of the blog post, because this post is about love – between men, yes – but it’s just about love. It’s not about love between older and younger people; perhaps that’s for another time.
March 6, 2012 at 9:16+00:00Mar
Love~Sparks~Art
This was beautifully written. I loved the entire printout of the Oscar Wilde trial as well. I need to know more about him apparently – I’ve seen his name at least 4 times today. Thank you.
March 6, 2012 at 9:16+00:00Mar
Nigel Featherstone
Thanks Liesl. It does sound like Oscar’s shouting out to you today!
March 6, 2012 at 9:16+00:00Mar
Tristan
This is such a rich post, Nigel – comments and Wilde transcript included.
I was going to say something similar to Mark. Mardi Gras has become a weekend of partying not unlike the other weekends of partying that take place every couple of months here in Sydney. Of course, it’s a particular kind of party – but it’s still a party, and I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing.
I also think it continues to perform a function. The successful subverting of the protest format is still something to be admired and I know people who are still made uncomfortable by the thought, let alone the spectacle, of homosexuals gathered in the street. But then again, I know people who think various ethnic groups are taking over, that Muslims are going to bomb at any moment, that skin colour is a signifier of difference, that there are invisible beings watching and judging their every move from the sky (some of these buffoons are members of my family), so maybe a noisy night on Oxford Street and surrounds is the last thing that’s needed to change attitudes.
But I think I understand your frustration, because, ultimately, homosexuality is still considered a point of difference – which is ridiculous, and a shame.
March 6, 2012 at 9:16+00:00Mar
Nigel Featherstone
Hi Tristan, thanks as always for your thoughtful response.
I think you’re right that Mardi Gras does perform a function – the gay community is not going away, and if the parade and related festivities have done anything it’s made sure that the community is visible (because for centuries in most cultures it’s been hidden, or worse).
But you’re right that there’s a frustration (for me at least), because being gay really is considered a point of difference.
The other part of the frustration – and perhaps a major part – is that the most political act a gay person can do is hold their partner’s hand in public. Recently a lesbian woman was telling how she was holding her girlfriend’s hand in Bowral and a group of young girls shouted at them, saying something along the lines of, ‘Oh my god, check out those lezzos. Where do they think they are – Oxford Street or something?’ This is Bowral: one of the richest, most educated communities in Australia!
So, for one night a year in a big city, it’s alright for women do jump on the back of some motorbikes and roar down the street, but a day later, they’d not be able to show love and affection in public without being set upon.
Yes, ridiculous and a shame.
PS: I never intended this post to be a political act, just an exploration of a kind of love that exists regardless of the glam and glitter of Oxford Street. A friend reposted it on Facebook with the tag ‘A wonderful piece about love’. It’s all about that last word.
March 10, 2012 at 9:16+00:00Mar
Tristan
Oh no, definitely. I suppose the controversy of the Mardi Gras is easier to respond to, even if I’m somewhat unqualified to comment even on that.
In fact, that love can be a political act or controversial at all is a little bit tragic. It should be as simple as your friend’s tag.
March 19, 2012 at 9:16+00:00Mar
lily2u1
“All I wanted when I was young is all I want now: beauty and love and intimacy.”
Ah yes. Me too.
Thank you for such a well-written and thoughtful post.
March 19, 2012 at 9:16+00:00Mar
Nigel Featherstone
Hi Lily2u1 (great handle, that), thanks for dropping by and letting me know your thoughts. It’s always appreciated.