Family and Fate

Students,

Some of you may know that the reason for my absence here is a family emergency that led to my leaving Thailand and returning to the UK. It's very hard to put into words how I feel about my father battling leukemia and that's why I haven't tried to, even though I've wanted to. I'm actually afraid I've shied away from confronting my true feelings and going through it in my head. My family have told me I should do this as, to them, talking is a way of coming to terms with what's happened/is happening. Unfortunately though I can't. To be honest I see it all as cruel fate and after cursing the universe repeatedly for this terrible senseless thing I find what's left is too painful to talk about. So far I've chosen to keep my mind as uncomplicated - trivial if you like - as possible. But then that becomes a problem in itself and, as I read back over my 40 (!) previous blogs one thing that hits home is that maybe I'd created myself a world focused on me alone. Everything was intentionally trivial, on my own terms, and nothing touched me because I was too busy. Now that has gone (even temporarily) and I've got to adapt to a situation that's beyond my control. I've got to find the means to cope with doing what I came back to do: support my mother and sister at this time. I've also got to let go of my feelings - however incomprehensible and contradictory they are - and I may as well do that here...

I realise now that being away from home for so long had an impact on my family relationships. I was feeling this year like I had found both my path and myself after a painful few years of self-doubt. I was finally doing things my way. The only thing was that my family didn't fit into this picture and, even though my parents visited my new home, I failed to act as they wanted me to. Yet, isn't this a similar picture for any non-conformist mid-20s man who has left in search of something that better suits their needs? Is a feeling of alienness so uncommon in a family? (Especially one that is geographically separated.)

The fact is that different lives work for different people and I don't think my enthusiastic recounting of an all-night party in Bangkok's gay clubs would go down too well with my folks even though it's of gripping interest to myself and my friendship group! In another way discussing life after leukemia is not really something I wish to contribute to. I choose to be a listener and though I don't mind this role it does tend to make me go internally crazy. In my regular conversation I am realistic, brief, and to the point; I wonder is there a point when trying to make sense of the future? Do you get my frustration?

When my parents began to find themselves frustrated with me around their house (it never takes long as we have opposite views on the best way to use free time - I like the daily routine of free time to lack 'routine' tasks as much as possible) they began to call me "selfish." They still can't understand why I long for silence and peace on my own or that I want to be away from my home country. They also can't understand why I'm unable to be satisfied in my teaching job here or else put my feelings on hold for the sake of my father and the more-important situation. After a couple of months with them I've failed to cry openly, pour my heart out, or want to be there as they did these things. Does that make me a bad son? A closed-off person divorced from matters of family? Am I inherently selfish?

After mulling the above questions I think that my personality such as it is doesn't easily lend itself to huge affection or being the backbone of a family. I'd never want to start and raise a family myself; I prefer instead to show kindness in my work with young people. Don't get me wrong I do care but I'm fiercely private by nature and my identity is largely defined by my friendships. My friends don't matter more than my family (obviously they don't or I wouldn't be in the UK right now), but they allow me a freedom and joy that is entirely me. I've known my family all my life and there are fundamental differences in how we see and respond to the world. Their lives, their world, has always been here and it probably always will be. There's nothing wrong with that but I've known the 'real me' for only a short time and I love it. It is tied to Thailand and right now in England it seems so foreign. I am apart from my community, my lover, my life, my world.

Having said all of the above you have to ask if it really amounts to much when faced with such a serious situation that hits so close to home? This is the paradox I wrestle with and feel guilt over as I lie awake at night. It's a paradox because they say that something as serious as a life or death situation makes you take stock, recognise what is important, and focus on that. My Dad is of upmost importance to me. His body cannot let him down and I won't even consider that possibility even as my mother and sister question "What if?" It's too upsetting. He has given me so much and now I find it hard to give back. But I try and I try again and my actions or seeming inactions, my stunted expressions of how I feel don't seem to give what is required of me in the situation. I love deeply and truely however, what I say and what I do is misconstrued because in my mind I'll admit I cannot help feeling resentful and I cannot deny the importance of all I have that is not here. I can only repress these feelings for so long before they explode to the surface, usually ruining a dinner and making me look like a petulant child.

I wish I could eloquently explain to my parents how the life I found is so important. It comforts me, inspires me, makes me feel in step with everything. It is everything. Then again can't you say the same of the people who gave birth to you, guided you, taught you, invested time and money in you over and over and over again? After all, any contradictions of personality, instances of fierce temper, stubbornness, and self-conflict, all of this alienness was inherited or founded in my formative years. Sometimes when I teach and have to chastise a student I surprise myself by spouting out some expression belonging to my mother. It's scary and epic how much is shared and how much I owe my family; it's in my head and my blood. Nobody makes me feel as they do.

What I found overseas and claimed as mine is something I won't share and I need it back soon. When I get the chance I will take it back with both hands, but I think I will do so with a greater sense of purpose and humility because that's what my family - and my brave father - is giving me now however much I try to resist. The life that they had made for themselves has been torn apart suddenly and devastatingly and as I struggle to cope, feel out of control, and take it all out on them I am still humbled by their love and commitment and their positive belief. That's why I know in the end everything will be ok, fate will right itself and we can all go back to normal. In the meantime I will cope by taking control where I can. I will be true to my work and my personal life by doing good things for and with my students, and staying in touch with my boyfriend and my friends. Lastly I will show solidarity, tolerance, and love to my family by just being here. That's all I can do.

Comments? Questions? Class you may be excused.

Homework: Make sure to come back again soon for nice pictures and less 'heavy' issues. See you next time!

x Teacher

Post VI - 10 Things I (Love) about (Me)

Students,

As I recline on the couch today I would like to share some things about myself you may not already know. Perhaps doing so will give valuable insight into the quick and brilliant mind of your beloved teacher. I have somewhat of a penchant for lists, in fact I make them all the time, and so this blog will follow that format. It may also take some time so you might want to grab a snack…

· The greatness of Great Britain or ‘Lie back and think of England’. I am very proud to be British, and more specifically English. While my home nation is actually quite irritating should you have a home there, it is wonderful in many many ways and as a Brit abroad any mention of it inspires warm feelings and the need to wax lyrical for a bit. I suppose what I particularly enjoy and yearn for is the ‘classic’ Britain with all the trappings of ‘proper’ society. I do not mind a bit if dumb Americans think we all live in castles or talk in faux Hugh Grant-esque sloane accents as long as they also notice such joys as tennis at Wimbledon, the ritual of afternoon tea, HRH the Queen, our fine theatre actors, history and beautiful architecture everywhere, clipped vowels, and our cutting sense of humour. I plan to remain an English gentleman to the core because I put to you the world is a better and more civilized place because of us. This means that I will never be heard telling unnecessarily dirty jokes or (shudder) discussing bodily functions, specifically pooh. I remember times after sharing this information where irritating friends have began describing the messiest do-dos they have ever done done. My simple solution in these situations is to share back with some explicit descriptions of gay sex. Be warned!!!!
· Phobia of old persons. This all started a little while ago in Edinburgh with an unfortunate incident on a bus. One crisp dewy morning I was on the way to the theatre to partake in a tone meeting for a play I was directing. I was running late and Id/Ego/Superego were all bellowing in annoyance at people getting in my way. I had only been seated for a few moments when from behind me I heard some unhealthy wheezes then a loud sneeze. What followed was a sensation that still haunts me. A jet of cold sticky mucus hit the back of my neck with sickening force. I had the germs of an old person on my person. Ever since I have taken more note of the aged population and they continue to alarm me… Why do they wear heavy coats in summer?? Why oh why do they use the doctor’s surgery as a place to congregate and socialize?? Although the phobia – as my friend Rosie told me it was – has slightly abated, I still inform employers if any event arises that requires me to interact with someone who is 60+ I am not the right man for the job and this was made painfully clear when, also in Edinburgh, I gave a historical underground tour to a group from the WI (Womens Institute – another quaint British tradition of old biddies meeting weekly to bake and gossip). As we were underground and in the dark, several of the ladies required me to hold their hands (!) and talk to them IN A VERY LOUD VOICE so they could hear. Students I will just say that I can’t quite do justice to the violent thoughts of Id/Ego/Superego that day. Strange that (similarly to cats) even though I put out that I don’t like them, old people do like me… Let me be clear: old people (apart from my delightful grandparents) are unacceptable to me, they are not as dumb as they like to suggest, and they should not be in my personal space. Which leads to…
· Issues of personal space. It is a sad truth that people violate my personal space on a regular basis. These people are the type not to read my face or body gestures and so they must be stopped. The latest example of personal space violation was last night, and actually the incident not only combined this issue but also my aforementioned phobia. Let me explain. I was with some dear Lopburi friends and a not-so-dear old ‘exception’ / ‘penguin’ at a music gig when said old ‘exception’ informed me I was wearing a serious look on my face. Not realizing said look is reserved specifically for social interaction with him, the ‘exception’ then proceeded to enter my ‘intimacy’ zone. This zone is usually only reserved for occasional familial affection, affection from likeable dogs, and affection from agreeable members of the same sex. What happened next was shocking to say the least and I can only suggest was karmic revenge for my laughing at a Thai man who thought it ok to pick up and lift Brad so he could have more space to sit down. Anyway, the ‘exception’ took his chubby little shrunken hand and rubbed it across my face, pulling my features into a smile… My reaction to this is probably best summed up by the following smiley, since I have yet to find words to capture my true feelings: O_o Please now click on the diagram above for a handy guide but note that the distances displayed must be x3 for me. Easy. Now there are no excuses. However please also note for future reference that if you are someone who enjoys physical closeness with casual acquaintances and you try that shit on me then I am likely to use the same loud command I do on Thai dogs: “Back. It. Up.” That I did not use this command on the ‘exception’ or else connect my hand with his face (using a lot more force than he) is surprising. In the end all I was heard to mutter was “But I’m English…”
· Pointed shit pointing at me. As revealed to close associates earlier last night I am not fond of inanimate objects pointing at right angles to me. If you are lucky enough to lie with me on my bed you will note that nothing in the room is angled directly at me. I know this suggests OCD or addiction but it is not quite as bad as my teenage troubles with plug sockets. When I used to enter rooms and see them switched ‘on’ but have no plugs in them believe me it used to send me over the edge. Now my only addictions involve excessive consumption of water, excessive consumption of BBC World News, and (since ending the happy pills) excessive compulsion for ‘A’.
· Doodle dandy. Another bit of compulsion is my fondness for doodling triangles and stars at every opportunity (usually in my office when you’re talking and I’m not listening.) As the committed teacher I am I have referred back to Sigmund, co-founder of ‘doodleology’ and can tell you that my doodles are very masculine (hardly surprising, right?) as men tend to doodle geometric shapes. If you doodle human figures and faces you are a girl. Apparently my triangles suggest a logical, analytical mind (WTF??!!) while stars suggest I was emotionally deprived as a child (haha). So there, now you can never say you don’t learn things from my blog. Oh and Brad if you are reading this, there is only one interpretation of your doodles and that is that you sir are sick and wrong.
· Syllable satisfaction. One final bit of obsessive compulsion I will share (for if we go into issues of my competitiveness, inability to walk along the street with someone else without walking diagonally into them, and crazy driving rituals then I won’t have any readership) is my compulsion to count syllables when listening to others speak. If you are talking to me and you notice my thumb tapping the fingers of my right hand you can be sure I am counting the vocal syllables in your every word. This crazy shit has taken over my life on many important occasions especially back in the dark past when I was a student and really should have been listening in class. My syllable hell pales however when compared to the weird compulsions of many of my favourite students in England…
· Toxic teens. As Brad already knows I am possessed of a cloying soft spot for maladjusted teenage tearaways and would happily adopt any filthy street kid who came my way (as long as they are not a chav.) Now now students don’t worry, I am no paed. What I mean is that where some folk coo over babies and kittens I cannot help but be charmed by snarky back-chatting kids with behavioural issues. As a teacher I find that the students whom others call “a bad egg”, “nuts”, and just plain “satanic” are the ones I identify with and enjoy to work with most. This may be because I still remember my time at school and the cool stuff me and my gang (secretly) did as opposed to the squares that did such stuff as Young Enterprise – yawn! Never mind the bookish swots (American: nerds) bring on the hoodlums!!
· Sweetcorn. Even saying the word sends shivers down my spine. It is simply evil, my arch enemy, and a foodstuff straight from the bowels of hell. What is to like? It smells AWFUL, has a weird taste and consistency, cannot be properly digested, and not even fish want to eat it when you chuck it in the water (not using your bare hands of course) because you’ve run out of maggots as bait. What concerns me most is how it seems to turn up everywhere. As you may know I regard tuna as the food of the gods so finding those heinous yellow things mixed in does not make me happy. In addition when first coming to Thailand I particularly enjoyed coconut milk for dessert. But one lunchtime at school I was heard to let out a horrified “WHAT??!!” upon noticing that also occupying the bowl were (yet again) those heinous yellow things. Now I know some Thai food does not make a lick of sense but I ask you whoever thought that sweetcorn be used for dessert??? As I said earlier sick and wrong.
· Shy bladder. Yes it is what it is. I admit my bladder is shy. I must say also I have no hang-ups about my body or social nudity so there are no problems with standing at urinals for that reason. But I have had countless incidents of social awkwardness while trying to go in company and being unable to produce the goods and the sound of piss hitting the porcelain that they expect. The worst was the pain I felt after attending an Edinburgh Hogmanay street party night. Facilities there were troughs populated by a mass of men standing so close as to be physically intimate – problem! It was an impossibility for my bladder to withstand it and the result was a severe guttural pain felt until I could get home and piss like a Russian racehorse so offloading the several boxes of wine I had downed. The whole business is especially tricky if my fellow man commits the cardinal sin of talking to me while I’m straining to go or (as Thai men do) check out the cock to ascertain size. Nowadays I find it safer to pop to the stalls and have a (hopefully) eyes-free experience in there.
· I LOVE the swinging 60s. I find that a lot of what I especially like in life (and what Id wants) actually comes from the 1960s. This has always been the case. As a young kid I had an obsession with 60s technicolour TV including Thunderbirds, Star Trek, Lost In Space (yes I am a sci-fi gay) and the Hanna Barbera cartoons. In addition the 60s gave us flower power, the moon landing, Carnaby Street fashion, (cool) hippies, and Elvis. It also produced such British notaries as The Beatles, Sean Connery and Roger Moore (James Bond’s), Lulu and Cilla (!), Julie Andrews, Twiggy, and Diana Rigg. I simply adore the colours, fashions, absurdist movement in theatre, and any collectable knick knacks from that era. I happen to slightly resent my parents for growing up at that time and have told them as much. Although I haven’t ever gone so far as to dress totally 60s (though I did do 50s with my James Dean phase) be warned it may still happen. You bet if I had a time machine, you wouldn’t see me for dust.

So there students. How privileged you are. Now you can step back a bit.

Comments? Questions? Class you may be excused.

Homework: Do a little dance. Make a little love. Get down tonight.


X Teacher