Free Oy Vey My Daughter's Gay by Sandra McCay
Authors: Sandra McCay
TV shows like Friends and Ellen were
precious to her. There were very few depictions of lesbians on television at
that time and, understandably, she longed for a window into the lives of
females who shared her own secret identity. Apparently, there was a late
night Scottish talk show with a gay theme on at the time. Lila’s desire to
watch it prompted her to lobby for a TV in her bedroom. She would sit up late
into the night, nose pressed to the screen and with the sound set to the lowest
level lest we be alerted to her nocturnal viewing and come to investigate.
She grew accustomed to listening to things at low volume.
Once when I made it past the CD and papier-mâché littered floor from her
numerous art projects and into her bedroom, I heard a tiny buzzing noise in the
background. Fearing I’d developed tinnitus, I enquired, “Lila, what’s the sound
in the background?”
“What do you mean?”
“Shhh! Listen: that tiny buzzing sound. Can you hear it?”
She concentrated for a moment, looking confused. “Oh, you
mean that ?” she said, pointing to her music centre and laughing. “Of
course I can hear it. I’m listening to my music.”
* Neds: Non-educated
delinquents (Glasgow colloquialism)
Chapter 12
“Don’t ask your child what he feels
like doing. I assure you that what he feels like doing, you won’t feel like
watching.” - Fran Lebowitz
There is nothing unusual about the fantasy of leaving
one’s rainy hometown for sun, sea and sand. Most people on holiday fantasise
about throwing it all in and becoming permanent beachcombers. The crazy thing
was that we actually did it. Our move to Spain was mainly due to ill health: we
were sick of the Scottish weather. Crazy and irresponsible as it sounds, there
was some method in our madness. It was 1986 and Spain had just joined the
European Union, enabling our free movement to European countries. John reckoned
it would be the perfect time to open his own accountancy practice... and I
reckoned it would be the perfect time to sit in the sun and sip sangria. The
idea of moving to Mallorca had come to us while we were on holiday there the
previous summer, engaged in the latter of these activities.
“You know it really is great here,” I shouted from the
balcony in our rented apartment to John, who was holed up in front of the TV.
Ironically, he hates sitting in the sun and has absolutely no interest in going
to the beach. “I can imagine living here,” I said.
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” John said. “Maybe we should
try it for a while.”
I can’t imagine what I’d say to my son if he said, “Mum.
I’ve something to tell you. I’m packing in my job and we’re going off to live
in Spain with the (five and two-year-old) kids.” Most of my response would have
to be bleeped out for profanity. And yet, at the time, neither my family nor
John’s had much to say about it, which, in retrospect, was actually quite sad.
Surely they could have pretended they’d miss us, or at least miss the kids. On
reflection, they were probably just too busy daydreaming about the sun-soaked
holidays that lay ahead. In fact, the photo below shows how much my mother came
to enjoy her sunny days with the grandchildren.
We arrived in Mallorca a few short months later with eight
suitcases and my guitar. We rented an apartment in the capital, Palma City,
determined to do this properly. No idyllic beachfront properties or ex-pat life
for us. We soon ran into problems. There were no places at our local Spanish
school, so we were forced into enrolling Lila in an expensive international school.
Lee meanwhile, true to his word, kicked every child in his guarderia (nursery school) in protest at being sent there.
“You’ll find your kids learn Spanish so easily, they’ll be
able to teach you,” friends assured us. Sadly it didn’t work out like that.
Probably as a protest against being sent to the guarderia, Lee refused
to speak one word of Spanish.
precious to her. There were very few depictions of lesbians on television at
that time and, understandably, she longed for a window into the lives of
females who shared her own secret identity. Apparently, there was a late
night Scottish talk show with a gay theme on at the time. Lila’s desire to
watch it prompted her to lobby for a TV in her bedroom. She would sit up late
into the night, nose pressed to the screen and with the sound set to the lowest
level lest we be alerted to her nocturnal viewing and come to investigate.
She grew accustomed to listening to things at low volume.
Once when I made it past the CD and papier-mâché littered floor from her
numerous art projects and into her bedroom, I heard a tiny buzzing noise in the
background. Fearing I’d developed tinnitus, I enquired, “Lila, what’s the sound
in the background?”
“What do you mean?”
“Shhh! Listen: that tiny buzzing sound. Can you hear it?”
She concentrated for a moment, looking confused. “Oh, you
mean that ?” she said, pointing to her music centre and laughing. “Of
course I can hear it. I’m listening to my music.”
* Neds: Non-educated
delinquents (Glasgow colloquialism)
Chapter 12
“Don’t ask your child what he feels
like doing. I assure you that what he feels like doing, you won’t feel like
watching.” - Fran Lebowitz
There is nothing unusual about the fantasy of leaving
one’s rainy hometown for sun, sea and sand. Most people on holiday fantasise
about throwing it all in and becoming permanent beachcombers. The crazy thing
was that we actually did it. Our move to Spain was mainly due to ill health: we
were sick of the Scottish weather. Crazy and irresponsible as it sounds, there
was some method in our madness. It was 1986 and Spain had just joined the
European Union, enabling our free movement to European countries. John reckoned
it would be the perfect time to open his own accountancy practice... and I
reckoned it would be the perfect time to sit in the sun and sip sangria. The
idea of moving to Mallorca had come to us while we were on holiday there the
previous summer, engaged in the latter of these activities.
“You know it really is great here,” I shouted from the
balcony in our rented apartment to John, who was holed up in front of the TV.
Ironically, he hates sitting in the sun and has absolutely no interest in going
to the beach. “I can imagine living here,” I said.
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” John said. “Maybe we should
try it for a while.”
I can’t imagine what I’d say to my son if he said, “Mum.
I’ve something to tell you. I’m packing in my job and we’re going off to live
in Spain with the (five and two-year-old) kids.” Most of my response would have
to be bleeped out for profanity. And yet, at the time, neither my family nor
John’s had much to say about it, which, in retrospect, was actually quite sad.
Surely they could have pretended they’d miss us, or at least miss the kids. On
reflection, they were probably just too busy daydreaming about the sun-soaked
holidays that lay ahead. In fact, the photo below shows how much my mother came
to enjoy her sunny days with the grandchildren.
We arrived in Mallorca a few short months later with eight
suitcases and my guitar. We rented an apartment in the capital, Palma City,
determined to do this properly. No idyllic beachfront properties or ex-pat life
for us. We soon ran into problems. There were no places at our local Spanish
school, so we were forced into enrolling Lila in an expensive international school.
Lee meanwhile, true to his word, kicked every child in his guarderia (nursery school) in protest at being sent there.
“You’ll find your kids learn Spanish so easily, they’ll be
able to teach you,” friends assured us. Sadly it didn’t work out like that.
Probably as a protest against being sent to the guarderia, Lee refused
to speak one word of Spanish.