I’ve been thinking about these LGBT clubs in schools. What *actually* is the problem? And it occurred to me that children who are ‘eccentric’ are tunnelled into “identity clubs” where all that creative energy gets channeled into a political cultish cause. Children become weapons of an adult political movement. It does not benefit them, not really.
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In the past the kids joining these clubs might have become great artists or thinkers wherein that ‘disconnect’ would have challenged them to forge their own path. And those paths would inspire others. How many great artists, thinkers, poets, performers have been stifled in the name of identity politics?
On a personal note it makes me think about my Uncle George who died last year. The fact that my Uncle George was gay was the *least* interesting thing about him. To be honest I never gave it a thought. My Uncle was my Uncle. Not because there was any shame in it, but because why should that be important to me?
I was speaking to his widower Manny last week about all the crazy stuff happening with trans and LGBT in schools. “I’m not just a p*nis”! he exclaimed. Simply put YES. To put these kids into these clubs denies them their full humanity and dignity.
My Uncle George and Manny were together nearly 30 years. Them being a ‘gay couple’ was the *least* interesting thing about them. They were in Manny’s words ‘soulmates’, they shared a life together.
Following is the post I wrote about my Uncle George after his death. I am SO GLAD he didn’t have an LGBT club. I know he DID face a lot of struggles as a gay man. But he fought so that this generation could live normal. Not miss out on the living. exploring, celebrating of what we have. I cannot help but think if he had developed into that political machine he would not have become the extraordinary human he was. I miss him. A lot.
My Uncle George Was a Legend
A Tribute
(first published 5 April 2023)
My Uncle George died last month. And yet he is not gone.
His ‘passing’ has allowed me to reflect a lot on life, meaning, the world, success, perceptions, distance and stories. I have been in a bit of a funk these last months. I think the adrenalin that powered me through my 24 hour dance marathon on the back of three years of lockdowns, on top of a decade of solo motherhood finally exhausted me.
At times I have been subsumed by inertia, only broken by my ultimate need and role as Mother to my son. My son’s existence keeps me real in the relentless everyday care I am beholden to bring to him. Not the arts, not ‘the community’, but Motherhood. Family. The boring everyday of survival. Making toast. Doing laundry. Walking him to school. Everyday.
So when Uncle George died, a man who had profound influence on my life it led me to consider lots of things, bigger things. I think my Uncle George didn’t think he was important. His dreams of ‘what might’ moved him forward but never realised what was in his head - the vast, limitless, romantic, epic, joyous potential of life. I get that. Maybe it’s a family trait.
In obituaries and homages to him he will be given various professional and personal titles - curator of The Railroad Museum of Pennsylvania, Antique collector, Navy Veteran, Uncle, partner, friend - his achievements will be pulled out, the breadth and depth of his physical life be laid out to be celebrated. And rightfully so.
He was a good man. A wonderful man.
For me however what was remarkable about this man, my dear Uncle George was his stories. My Uncle George was an extraordinary weaver of tales, oh heavens! To listen to him was to open to a great ocean of history, mythos and legend. These stories would be delivered through his fascination with our family history and objects.
My earliest memories involve family barbecues in Philadelphia and Uncle George was always there (with Uncle Joe), his booming voice, his signature laugh, his telling of stories as his voice built with excitement as he unfolded some thing or other and brought me with him. Was it a piece of cutlery, a vase, a chair, or a piece of costume jewellery, an old postcard that was more that met the eye. Who made it, how it arrived there, who held it?
From the time I was nine he would bring me on his antiquing adventures, collecting me at 5am to drive two hours into the countryside for house sales and antique fairs. We’d walk through aisles and aisles of what some might term rubbish, but he knew even in the detritus there was treasure.
He’d scan the copious piles of stuff, before zoning in on something inconsequential, then paid a couple dollars for it before recounting to me why *this* particular thing was important, he’d tell me how the thing came from England or China and was part of a family empire dating back to the 17th or 11th century or some such and all the sudden these piles came to life-of stories, of families, of aspirations, of fortunes won… and lost. And on getting a wee hot dog and soda we would go.
Later when I moved to the UK he would send me tomes in my email box of tips for finding the best things in charity shops and ebay. Now they included restoration tips. Metaphoric perhaps.
We had less contact as happens when one gets older and moves across an ocean. But still the emails and calls we had - though limited were always spirited and meaningful.
Even as I surpassed my child years and well into adulthood and motherhood he would complete his emails and calls with ‘Me and Manny love you sweet pea’.
And it was his stories that travelled far beyond the man, as he would weave histories and journeys meticulously and enthusiastically through objects and places, bringing the listener with him as we were reminded of the bigger wider world stretching in every direction that was greater and more interesting then you or I may have thought about before.
In Christian theology there is a concept called the ‘seamless blanket’ this refers to the idea that all life is a blanket with no seams, no beginning, no ending and the blanket is made of an infinite amount of strands for which we are all part. Our lives, our stories are woven together in this great tapestry through time and land and eternity.
I think Uncle George saw that. Through objects and people he saw ‘not just this’ but that these physical things were a doorway to a great eternity of lives and stories.
In time of seeming societal breakdown, George built. He built bridges in the imaginations of anyone who would listen, reminding us in the magic of what was in front of us. That ‘bit of junk’ he recovered from a charity shop had a history and people’s lives weighted on it, and when we held it, we held them.
The Deeming family motto is ‘whilst I breathe I hope’ and Uncle George embodied just that. Whilst he might have been pulled into flights of despair it was only because he was a dreamer and had his eyes on greater possibilities that he felt the anguish for himself and others.
The last time I saw Uncle George was in Philadelphia in 2019. He came from Texas where he lived with his equally warm and ebullient ‘partner in the possible’, Manny.
Arriving into my parents festive home, the one he had christened with so many objects (and stories) he sauntered in wearing a ‘cowboy’ hat, later informing me that we was keen to ‘live up to being the Texan uncle for Jasper’.
He provided many objects of seven year old interest for my boy which he still holds in wonder to this day. The large crystal that was part of ‘pirate booty’… costume jewellery fit for a King of old…. a genuine Texas sheriff badge… a box of puppets…. these remain in our home and are ‘Uncle George’s’, no child or adult who enters into this realm is comes without being brought into Uncle George’s world.
I am so glad that Jasper got to meet him and spend time. And I think, on reflection, that what Uncle George provided wasn’t so much of a story but an epic tale. And that tale will continue to enrich lives for years to come.
It is the stories we tell, the ones that we share that resonate and hold our world. And his will continue to form the glue of mine.
God bless you Uncle George we’ll keep the story going down here. I will continue to see and to weave the possible, the glorious and the majestic.
Me and Jasper love you very much, and forever. Your sweet peas, Kate E. & Jasper
Beautiful story and tribute to read, Kate. Thank you for sharing the love and joy of George. x