Pride in the Name of Love

It had begun unusually, the day. It's hard to explain, because I've nothing to compare it to. That it was a special day is beyond doubt. But whether the full meaning of the day can be imparted by a word such as "special" is a challenge.

To say that it is special that an Irish head of state should pay a visit to a community centre for gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgendered people is accurate; but it is so much more than that. The full import of the occasion is not communicated.

I'll start again. The day. I woke up in Las Vegas. Or, to be more accurate, that small piece of Vegas that is called the H.S.S. Stena Explorer. I'd taken the night ferry because, at the last minute, an invitation had arrived, forwarded to me from Dublin, to witness the visit of Her Excellency Mary McAleese, President of Ireland, to Outhouse. I'd already chosen not to fly, for the first time since my teens, because I wanted to cycle around Dublin during my stay, and I didn't want to dismantle my bike, which I'd have to do to get it on a plane.

I was in a heightened state of fuzzy sleep deprivation by the time the sun rose, spectacularly, over the sea, as I was cycling up the frosty coast road from Dún Laoghaire at 6:15am. The impact of such a beautiful sight forced me to stop and gaze in wonder for a while. Living in the centre of London isolates you from nature. It is not that there are no pleasing views there; one of my favourites is when I regularly cycle over London Bridge and see Tower Bridge to my left, on my way to college; sometimes shrouded in mist, always impressive. But I don't feel proud. I look at a salmon-pink dawn over Dublin Bay, and pride is what I feel. Ridiculous. I didn't choose to be a Dubliner. Nevertheless. Pride, like shame, works in mysterious ways. I was to feel plenty that day.

I wandered around this garrulous, and increasingly salubrious, city for the morning, overdosing on espresso in various establishments, until I made my way down to Outhouse. I arrived early, and caught a flavour of the excitement and enthusiasm of everyone there. But I was in the way, so I waited outside, to watch the comings and goings outside the rainbow-bedecked building. Someone started picketing, walking with a placard towards me. "President McAleese's Dangerous Liaison With Gay And Lesbian H.Q." was her message to the world. She caught my smile and averted her eyes; although she once tried to catch a glimpse of me while she was turning, her eyeball nearly popping out of its socket. All the time, she was saying the rosary.

I couldn't help thinking that, in world terms, this was an extraordinary protest. In the polarised United States, protesters carry banners saying "God Hates Fags" and hurl poisonous abuse at mourners, at the funerals of victims of homophobia. In Ireland, the sole protester at the visit of a Fianna Fáil president to the "H.Q." of Ireland's gays and lesbians, was dignified and principled, her banner was politically correct (inclusive of both genders, better than the National Gay Federation in the early 1980s), and contained a literary reference to boot. We are a curious nation.

The visit itself was joyous. I've been out of the country for six years; in that time, the faces that make up a representative sample of the Irish gay and lesbian community have changed beyond recognition. I knew only about eight or ten people in the crowded room, from my old activist days; the rest were, refreshingly, diverse, of all ages, very snappily dressed, very self-confident, and split 50/50 male and female.

For me, this is a welcome change. Not so long ago, this was not the case; women were in a closeted minority, using false names to prevent word getting back to work, or to their home town. As the pleasant pine and white room was filling up in the sunshine, people were informed that if they wanted to prevent their photographs from being published, it was their responsibility to avoid the cameras. People used to blackmail us with photographs. Each person in that room shook hands with the President, and was filmed doing so. Now, such pictures can only be a matter of pride. The time for invisibility is passing.

Due to my living in London, I've very little recent experience or knowledge of Mary McAleese. I was startled to remember, when she told us, that she was one of the co-founders of the Hirschfeld Centre, the first Irish gay and lesbian community centre, nearly 20 years ago. Why this should have been forgotten is curious; perhaps, in a classic Irish way, having been raised in a Fine Gael house means I unconsciously blot out any progressive virtue that a Fianna Fáiler might display; this despite the stunningly progressive record of that party in recent years when it comes to homosexual law reform.

But what a wonderful occasion it was to remind us of her lifelong commitment to the cause. She speaks without the inspiring rhetoric of her adored predecessor; but she speaks informally, softly, and with warmth. Someone beside me said that she was his tutor at college, and she was always nice to the students—"that matters," he said. Of course it matters.

As she went around the room, after the heartfelt speeches from the Outhouse staff and the graceful eloquence of Cherry Smyth, who read some of her poetry, it was remarkable how charismatic she seemed. Whether it was the big hair, the cameras following her around, or simply her relaxed charm, there was something undoubtedly impressive about her. She's comfortable in her role. And that's no small feat.

Someone in the crowd beside me was engaged in heated conversation with his companion, and didn't notice that she had worked her way around to his side of the room. Someone nudged him, and he turned around to find the President right in front of him. "Jesus," expleted the bould Kieran Rose, and the President, quick as a whippet, replied "Not yet."

As she was ushered out with her entourage, she left behind a room full of very proud and full-hearted people. It was not a day for tears; although, when she first arrived and was given a rousing welcome, I found myself with a lump in my throat, realising how much times have changed. Eighteen or so years ago, a certain Ruairí Quinn was due to speak at a National Gay Federation meeting in the Hirschfeld. This was before he really had made his mark, or had ever held ministerial office; but he was the most likely person in the Dáil to dare to meet us. This was way before David Norris entered the Seanad. But he didn't turn up. No word of apology, nothing.

Nell McCafferty, of this parish, reported the Presidential visit in similarly enthusiastic tones in the Sunday Tribune. She noted wryly that Gay Community News, with shagging men on its cover, was deemed not to be an appropriate item to include in any Presidential photographic pose. The choice of cover of the newspaper suggests to Nell, "that Irish homosexual identity is formally located in genital activity".

I don't think it is, for all homosexuals. But perhaps it's more a male thing. I know I have focused quite a lot on sex in these pages over the years; and I acknowledge that the sex-centred subculture that I inhabit in London has not been healthy for me, for my relationship to sex went off the rails.

But I also believe that when men are attracted to other men, there is precious little nesting instinct at work, helping to forge committed relationships. We're like Bonobo monkeys, sometimes; using sex as a means of socialising, a form of communication, a polymorphously perverse kind of self-expression. I'm not saying it's a particularly good thing; but I believe any lifestyle has its drawbacks.

As an addict, my view of sex is perhaps suspect; but at least I have the advantage of speaking from the experience of meeting so many men who do not share my angst-ridden (Irish) view of sex, and who lead lives that they describe as happy, without the single defining monogamous relationship that the rest of society, and most especially, in my experience, lesbians, seem to see as essential for fulfilled lives.

Sex is a powerful force, and is exploited and abused in this culture, cheapened and commodified. But two men having sex is not an image that is inherently shameful; it may be provocative, it may be a marketing ploy, but it's essentially a good thing. "Being gay is not all about sex," Nell said to me on the day, as we met for the first time. Of course it's not. But real sexiness is not about promiscuity, it's about confidence and pride; it's quality, not quantity. And how are gay men to feel more confident about our sexuality, except by celebrating it? I suspect that the more male sexuality is disapproved of, the more it goes underground and becomes compulsive. And that's when it can do real harm.

It strikes me, as Irish lesbians and gays reach the new millennium, that a new journey of exploration is opening to us all, one based on a spirit of genuine interest and inquiry; between men and women, between our community and the rest of society, and internally, in our own inner lives, on our own journeys towards wholeness, in which old shame-based attitudes can be let go. They're no longer needed now.

Special? It's as good a word as any to describe that day. But if you know the context, if you know the full story, you'll know there was magic around.

Outhouse, 6 Sth William St, Dublin 2. Tel. (01) 670 6377.

http://indigo.ie/~outhouse