Persecution Complex 2014

Persecution Complex

(Unintended Consequences)

"Washing one's hands of the conflict between the powerful and the poweress means to side with the powerful, not to be neutral" - Paulo Freire

"Those who do not move, do not notice their chains" - Rosa Luxemburg

What ever happened to radicalisation? How can we march in the name of dead men, Stonewall rioters, our own freedom and those other LGBT people who have no freedom at all? Especially in the face of our ultimate willingness to be silenced and our need to be accepted, not to change our surroundings, but merely to be accepted. How can we claim pride given the level of our conformity? Why do we accept the proposition that our difference has to be legislated for?

What have we done with our anger? Besides internalise it? Social, religious and political intolerance has not gone away. How would the generations that came before us, our gay-fore-fathers, who’s trauma we carry, react to our notion of equality? Isn’t our campaign for equivalence simply far too conservative an aim, given the precarious nature of the freedom we seek? If we are to fight, should we not fight for something more tangible?

In order to be entirely equal with our heterosexual counterparts, given the hetero-centric nature of the negotiation. We must by definition and subsequence become more or less the same. Is this what we actually desire? This equality may indeed have unintended consequences but not in the way we expect.

In many ways the referendum on marriage equality that will be put before the Irish people in 2015, will cement those fundamental rights which we already have and of course will introduce new freedoms and responsibilities, however we are already entitled to these as citizens. Rights which are already enforced in relation to our heterosexual family, friends and colleagues. In accepting the referendum are we not also accepting the notion that our culture, existence and nature of our love should indeed be legislated for. There is already huge amount of mistrust and discourse about the nature of successive Irish government’s motivations, especially in recent years. So why are we fighting? Who are we fighting? And who are the school yard children jeering us on?

Throughout our fight for equivalence, at almost every stage of our liberation we have lost an element of our collective idea of what it means to be gay. 

Media re-presentation of our culture is predominantly based on stereotypical depictions with which we have little choice but to try and relate. Political representation is growing but ineffective and we should question the motivation of these types of intervention. Aspects of our culture, individual and collective identities (that which sets our community apart) have been homogenised and cleansed, to make us palatable for a mainstream sense of normality. Characteristics of our culture that are deemed unwanted by society are forced underground or ignored completely

Before entering the poll booth or registering to vote we have to ask what we are registering for and why are we validating this particular proposition? We have come a long way in our liberation, and in theory the Irish government could grant same-sex marriage, tomorrow without ever having to undergo the emotional and financial cost of a referendum. But we have only ever been presented with one alternative to the solution of our inequity. One that is not being given any real chance to be debated on either side.

Having a referendum that validates or invalidates our relationships as being the same as or equal to heterosexual relationships, infers that there is in fact a discernible difference between us in the first place, it implies that there is an imbalance or inequity which need to be addressed.

Of course the two groups are different, but no different than any other two groups when compared to each other. It is the nature of our capacity to love, marry and rear children that has become central to opposition to same-sex marriage, yet this opposition fail to realise that it is this capacity in which we are most equal. If indeed legislation needs to be enacted to provide us and our children with an equal standing in society than it does not lay within the quagmire of human sexual-relations. If changes are needed than it lays in the education and enforcement of criminal procedures in hate crimes. Not in securing votes of a false alternative to our rights as citizens.

Of course equality is ultimately an admirable aim, in a long continuum of aims towards liberation. But our equality has always and will always be caveated by hetero-centric ideals of what is acceptable. Any negotiation to effect change in our actual day to day existence as gay people, commences from a place of weakness as it is takes place in the face of overwhelming prejudice. Change will only take place once we address the issues we cannot legislate for.

On The Wire

On The Wire

Publication TBA 2014

- ‘Wouldn’t the car be bombarded though?’

- ‘If only the locals caught wind…’

- ‘Angry men with hate on their minds…that’s all we need.

A football pitch flashes in his eye, dimly lit through the dense fog and light snow. Doused in black all but for his white dog-collar, gleaming even in this dewy moon… a football pitch and it makes him think of how things could have been so different for the two young bodies that lay in the back. Two former farmers sons, bounded and blinded by the neon white noise of the city, the promise of money and anonymity, deceived by their own naivety, gaoled for their crimes. A murderer now, and a petty thief. His thoughts disperse as the voice of the warden’s son cuts through them like a blade. 

- …No one will dare turn up you know? For fear of being seen.

- Shames an awful thing to die of, an awful thing indeed.

Across the country they sailed, hurtling through motorway and tertiary road, treating both with the same irreverence. A thousand shades of grey and green appear and disappear in and out of the fog. Dipping like a signet in and out of water. The sky clashing, grinding against the low lying clouds, a violent violet night was closing in. 

- ‘Best to get there after dark…’

The priest said after a lull in the conversation

- ‘Less chance of us getting seen… more chance of this going off smoothly for a change.’ 

His solemn voice changing tone for a second as if to indicate a smile. His aging face showing all the signs of misspent youth.

If the driver, a junior warden himself, had been more superior in his position he would never have been asked to do this and wouldn’t have had to accept, at least that is what he told himself as he let each sleepy, quiet town pass by, each little house covered in mature snow and adorned with little twinkling lights and other Christmas decorations. 

The priest began to fiddle with the car radio, twisting and turning knobs, the only sound he could manage to create was different variants of the same white noise.

- ‘It’s broken’ 

The driver said, pushing the priests hand and away and turning the volume down low. 

‘It wouldn’t work for me. It’s not going to work for you’

- ‘What kind of a service is this?’ 

The priest replied with a tongue in his cheek.

The driver tolerated the priest joking, it was a distraction for him. He wouldn’t have to think about what had to be done he could forget it for a while at least. It was easier for the Father. He had been chaplain in the prison for almost twenty five years, he had the luxury of time and Jesus on his side, to soothe the guilt of what they were about to do.

Underneath this hazy moon a shadow now of her pregnant November self the car drove through deserted villages and roaming farm lands, after a few hours the hearse reached its destination, a small grave yard car-park plonked right to the toothy edge of the coastline, tucked disarmingly underneath a mountain, that poked out of the land scape like a breast. 

‘The sea they say…‘reflects everything…that or she ignores it completely‘ 

The priest thought aloud.

- ‘Who was it who said that? Oh wait wasn’t it me?

A cool wind disperses the fog allowing the snow to break into a shower of crystallised cotton wool, covering the whole car park within a matter of minutes. The two bodies beaten and battered, had died and been blessed together on foreign soil. Only to be returned home under the safety of a December night, denied a proper ending because of their heinous crimes. Silent and sombre the priest reached for two shovels, ignoring the bodies completely. A small stone wall easily overcome, a hand and a hop they are in… the gate was locked, unusually. 

- ‘It’s as if they heard us coming, too late now to look for a key‘. 

The priest sighed as he made his way over the small wall 

‘Did a few here before, that thing is never locked.’ 

He said as he motioned to the gate of the graveyard. 

A dead village confronted them now, headstones like houses, carved beautifully from local stone and even some with marble tracery and adornments, a dead village awaits its stomach two graves plots six feet deep.

Towards the edge of the grave yard where it seemed to lead to nowhere but the ocean and then to the end of the world, were two unmarked wooden crosses. Shovels cracked against frozen earth , turning and softening the rock-hard ground, once the shovel broke through, warm soft earth was found, easily seduced, easily overcome. Ploughing the earth as though it were mature turf, moaning for to be turned. 

Reeking and leaking and tasting of death, two plywood boxes lowered into the warm stomach of the earth, buried side by side, like two brothers united now in infamy, that first clump of earth hitting plywood chilled the two pallbearers spines. 

For a second they waited before filling the rest of the earth back into the hole, uttering not one sentence again, until the last shovel of earth was patted neatly back into place.

The priest rubbed muddy open palms on black trousers before reaching for his tiny beaten up bible. The warden’s son beside him, a solemn head hanging low. Unwrapping the bible from a satin purple handkerchief, opening a page he began to read. 

After a few moments silence the priest motioned to the warden.

-’ I don’t think the big man’s listening… who am I to ask his forgiveness anyway’

As he said this, a single snow flake spiralled its way from the sky and settled itself on the priests left cheek. For a moment highlighting his whiskey stained face. Suddenly the sky opened, plunging another shower of feather light snow to the ground, dousing the men’s shoulders like dandruff.

- ‘We better make a move father... It’s late and if we are seen who knows what will happen‘.

The priest turned to leave, rubbing hands again, before turning he reached into his lapel pocket, and pulled out a perfect single red rose. With the flare of a magician but lacking any of the intent, he placed the rose neatly on the snow covered ground, just between the two the two unmarked, unnamed wooden crosses.

- Only bit of happiness they’ll ever see now.

Inside the hearse it seemed colder than it was outside, and felt all the emptier now the two boys were gone, the sound of the engine echoed around the rib cage of the car, it took a while before the car could take off, the two men sat in silence. Their deed was done now, there was nothing to else say, at least nothing that could be said out loud. Two prodigal sons united with the soil that bore their birth. Two muddy shovels propped against two aching heavy hearts. They drove out of the car-park and made their way across back the country. Just in time to see the early morning sun, burn herself across the December sky.