I wish my dad had come out of the ‘racial closet’

Dad wanted to be white, like me, and I wanted to be straight, like him. Unfortunately, Dad didn’t live long enough to see how much society has changed.

Gary with his father and sister. Source: Supplied

I was 17, slumped against the wall of my bedroom in Medway, Kent in the United Kingdom. My face was puffy and blotched from crying. I was surrounded by posters of Pamela Anderson and other scantily clad women – a desperate attempt to dupe people into thinking I was straight. Simply Red’s forlorn “Holding Back the Years” played on repeat on my hi-fi system. My howling had morphed into a quieter, staccato sob – the result of years of denial, self-loathing and isolation.

I heard a gentle but definite knock on my door.

“Come in,” I croaked. 

A mocha-skinned hand appeared, followed by my dad’s distinctive jet-black hair. He rarely came into my room. He must’ve heard me crying.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

I took a deep breath. “I hate being gay.”

I saw little that was positive in living life as a gay man. I’d grown up in a world that told me being gay was worse than wrong: it was sick

My dad had discovered I was gay a month earlier, after catching me with my then boyfriend.

I saw little that was positive in living life as a gay man. I’d grown up in a world that told me being gay was worse than wrong: it was sick. Newspapers said we were an immoral threat to family values. At school, “gay” was the most demeaning insult that could be hurled at anyone or anything.

Gary at 14, absorbed in a book. Source: Supplied

When I was 14, a teacher who’d been tasked with de-escalating amorous activity between students said, “And if you’re boys kissing boys, you’ve got a real problem.” Everyone laughed and made vomiting noises. The teacher joined in.

Although I wasn’t out yet, people guessed I was gay because I didn’t fit masculine stereotypes: I was studious rather than sporty, for example. Over the years, I’d endured taunts suggesting I had HIV (even though I was a virgin), demeaning nicknames and outright violence on the school bus. More than once, I’d come home with a black eye, having retaliated at being called a “foul fairy” or “disgusting faggot”, or having caught someone’s limp wrist imitation (a gesture mocking the perceived effeminacy of gay men) and thrown it back in their face. I was a fighter. But inwardly, I felt defeated.

Gary as a toddler with his father. Source: Supplied

That day in my bedroom, Dad walked over to my hi-fi and pressed stop on Simply Red. “Let’s start by turning off this sad music, shall we?”

Usually a man of few words, Dad shared with me something he’d never spoken about before: at one time, he’d been subjected to racist bullying at school. A kid told everyone in his year: “Oh, my god – Les Nunn’s dad is a Paki!” The others laughed and pointed at him. He’d felt humiliated.

Usually a man of few words, Dad shared with me [that] he’d been subjected to racist bullying at school

In the British working-class town where I grew up, gay people and Pakistani people were the bottom of the pile. Never mind that Dad had Anglo-Indian heritage, not Pakistani. Racists don’t care about such details any more than homophobes care that a 14-year-old virgin cannot spread HIV.

Dad had responded to the bullies by beefing up as a bodybuilder and hitting the gym obsessively so nobody dared bully him again. He later became a gym instructor and Medway’s most formidable nightclub bouncer. 

In years to come, I sharpened my wit with self-deprecating humour and an acerbic tongue. Nobody can laugh at you if you laugh at yourself first!

Baby Gary and his father at Christmas. Source: Supplied

After that conversation with my dad, I realised we both had something the other wanted: he’d wished he was white, like me; I wished I was straight, like him. It was the first time I’d even thought of him as a person of colour.

Looking at pictures of Dad and Granddad now, it seems ludicrous I once assumed they were white. I suppose my colourblind obliviousness was a form of ignorance and denial – a “racial closet”, if you will.  

My granddad was half-Indian; my dad a quarter-Indian – yet their racial diversity was never discussed when I was growing up. Unfortunately, both men have now died: Granddad when I was 11, and Dad seven years ago when I was 33. I’m sad we never got to learn about our roots together. We have no family members remaining in India, but I’d love to visit one day.

I have ginger hair, like Simply Red’s lead singer, Mick Hucknall. That comes from my mum’s side – she’s also ginger. Ironically, the fact I appear so white helped enable the whitewashing of my own family. I just wish you could see more of my handsome dad in me. If I looked more Indian, I would’ve spoken out proudly about our family’s heritage – something that caused my family members so much shame.

After my dad died, I remember my (white) nan telling me her siblings refused to attend her wedding because they objected to Granddad’s race. “I didn’t care, I loved him,” she said.

Nan’s siblings refused to attend her wedding because they objected to Granddad’s race. “I didn’t care, I loved him,” she said

Society has changed so much in the past two decades that I’ve been encouraged to relish and appreciate life as a gay man. The explosion in queer representation in film had a powerful impact on me, helping me own my identity and discover what might be possible for my life. If you can see it, you can be it.

I just wish my dad had experienced the same transformation, and one day felt proud enough to embrace his mixed-race heritage. If Dad were still alive today, he’d see a society where diversity is more accepted. A place where mixed-race brown faces are increasingly appearing on our screens. And the only thing you have to hide is your Simply Red fan club membership. 

Gary Nunn is an author and journalist. Follow him on Twitter @garynunn1.