Words by Michelle Fitzgerald
I am about to come out to my Dad.
It’s 2007 and I’ve just returned to Australia after travelling the world and living in Edinburgh, Scotland for the past four years. I overstayed my visa by two years and I’ve left behind my family of friends and a lifetime of memories and incredible experiences at the age of 28. I’m returning ‘home’ with nothing more than a bizarre mock-worthy Brit-Aussie hybrid accent and my tattered backpack chock full of rag tag belongings. I’ve travelled and worked all over the globe; America, Canada, Scotland, Croatia, London, France, Hungary, Czech Republic, Slovenia, Slovakia, Italy, Spain and The Netherlands and I am not the same person who boarded that plane by herself at the tender age of 23.
Farewelling my old life and my girlfriend of three years; my heart is broken and heavy. Australia is no longer my home; I am a stranger in a strange land. A tourist in my home country.
I’ve returned to live with my Dad. I haven’t lived with him since I was 18 years old and that was only for a gap year before moving to QLD for university. Dad gently encouraged me to travel and live overseas, paying for my ‘round-the-world’ ticket and giving me a few thousand dollars in my bank account, required for a working holiday visa.
I’d just graduated from my Bachelor of Creative Arts, majoring in Theatre and Writing and had started my teaching degree only to defer after a year and a half of study and placements, feeling like a bit of a fraud as a teacher with no real life experience. I was restlessly living in the in-between and Dad knew exactly what I needed.
It was Dad who gave me a firm nudge to get outside of my comfort zone and see the world and all that she has to offer.
In his early twenties, my mutton-chopped Dad rode a motorcycle with two of his best friends across Latin America; it’s where he met my Mum. She was a travel agent in Guatemala and although their marriage didn’t last, his travel experience was life changing. For years he banged on and on about seeing the world, how it would open your mind and open up possibilities. It only took a ridiculous relationship with a formerly homeless, schizophrenic tree-dwelling man and an unwanted pregnancy to finally get me the hell out of Dodge. After a tearful conversation with my Dad about how lost and directionless I felt, together we put my solo travel plan into action.
Four years and twelve countries later, I am about to come out to my Dad.
I have a girlfriend.
When I left Australia, I had a boyfriend.
I’m not exactly sure what I’m ‘coming out’ for. All I know is that I fall in love with people, irrespective of sex or gender and that’s about it. I have no idea how he will respond. My Dad is a man of few words. I didn’t grow up with him, being a child of divorced parents from the age of two and the most time we spent together was three consecutive weeks during my annual school holiday visits.
My palms are sweaty and I have the tightest knot in my stomach. Suddenly I feel like a child again. I’m 28 going on 12 and I am genuinely terrified.
“Hey Dad, there’s something I need to tell you…”
Dad squints over the top of his newspaper, his glasses pushed down to the tip of his nose.
“What’s that?”
“So when I was living in Edinburgh, I met someone.”
“Right.”
“We’ve been together for three years.’
“Okay.”
I inhale a deep breath.
“I have a girlfriend.”
Dad props his glasses back to the top of his nose and raises his newspaper. The tinny radio speaker in the kitchen blares Neil Mitchell on 3AW. The talkback segment is all about gay marriage and the possibility of a future referendum. Time stands still as I hear a Boomer caller espouse the perversions of same sex unions.
Dad suddenly clears his throat.
“You know there’s a great gay bar in Yarraville. They have drag shows. You should take your girlfriend when she comes to stay with us.”
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry so I do a strange combination of both.
Dad walks over to me and puts his hands firmly on my shoulders. We embrace in a weird half-hug backslap. He has tears in his eyes. I am sobbing uncontrollably.
I came out to my Dad.
At the age of 28, after four years living overseas.
I don’t have all the answers about who I am or how I identify, but I know that I fall in love with people.
I have a girlfriend.
It’s as simple and as complicated as that.
I came out to my Dad.
My voice broke when I spoke my truth, my words heavy with an unnamed internalised shame.
I came out to my Dad.
And my open minded, big-hearted Boomer Dad loves me all the same.
