Captain Astro

22nd January 2011, Saturday

I am trying to make sense of what has happened to me since last week, and where my life is heading henceforth. Last Saturday, I came out to my parents. I told them I am gay. Why? Because they confronted me with what passes today for “prophetic truth”, i.e. what the latest Indian astrologer had predicted in my ஜாதகம் (astrology, in Tamil). Of all the ways of my parents finding out about my sexuality, this one is the least expected. I still find it hard to believe. I had long since been suspicious of the dubious art, even before I turned to atheistic thoughts. Anyway this is what the astrologer predicted, according to my parents’ account last Saturday.

1) I am having this “weakness” in marriage.

2) Astrologer did not really know how to describe this “weakness”.

3) When my father asked, “Is it between man and woman?”, he said no. “Man to man?”. The astrologer at this point nodded his head or tapped the table with both index fingers in agreement (probably both).

4) Captain Astro (I shall refer to the astrologer in this way henceforth) then assured my mum that this is a “passing weakness” and can be cured through prayer.

5) For the next few months till October, I would experience “சனி தோஷம்” (bad / unlucky period, in Tamil).

6) I would not get married till 37 years of age, when I would meet a “strong woman who will be an asset to me”.

I had a long hard talk with them about how I had felt different, and attracted to men since Primary Two. I had the sense to conceal from them certain habits of mine, including going to spas. Even my brother had prudently concealed his own sexual exploits before telling my parents about his girlfriend. My parents belong to a different era altogether, one in which pre-marital sex of any kind was a big NO-NO. Mum took the news of her “golden boy’s” sexuality very hard. She could not understand how a Primary 2 kid could even have such thoughts. She thinks a kid at that age could not possibly “know” anything, so assuming I was gay at age, 8, is just preposterous. There’s the good, old “You know nothing, so shut up, 1980’s died-in-the-wool MOE teacher” resurfacing. Even now, she thinks her 30 year old son has insufficient experience to “decide or know” if he is gay or straight. She will never understand that it is not a choice for me, though I have pointed out to her that could never “choose” for myself a “lifestyle” that I knew would bring pain and suffering and no uncertain amount of shame to myself and my family. Logical arguments do not work with her.
She made me place my hands on Guruvayurappa’s (a Hindu god) feet – in the picture – and started sobbing uncontrollably, pleading with him to cure her son, crying, “I do not want a gay son” repeatedly. I have never seen her cry so pitiably in my life, and I doubt my brother had done anything to make her this upset in the past, – all the more my sense of guilt and shame to cause this much pain. At that point, between my mother’s tears on my back, I stared, and stared, and stared at Guruvayurappa’s face and one emotion prevailed in me. Anger. Anger at an impotent, non-existent god in whom my mother placed so much faith – faith that was not rewarded. Anger at myself for being born and causing her to cry like this. Anger at a family culture of rewarding “toeing-the-line” while punishing any sign of untowardness or deviance. Anger at Indian “traditional culture” that valued கெளரவம் (Tamil for honesty/honour) above love and respect for the individual.
Mum wanted me to promise I would never associate with gays again. To this, I gave no reply. I knew I could not keep such a promise for long. In this at least, I am certain. I cannot allow my parents, or stars, or complete strangers who look at the stars expecting life-altering answers – instead of over-strained irises and lenses – to dictate my life. As long as I live under their roof however, I still need to abide by their rules and that means at least pretending to pray (both in the prayer room and yes, at the temple – they actually want me to start going to temple every Saturday. I have reasoned with them, this is not going to help me or change me in the slightest, but they do not want to entertain the opinions of an atheist (and therefore ignorant) son.

I invited my brother over for dinner on Friday and came out to him as well. His immediate reaction was a painful grimace. He seemed to think I could change by mixing more with girls. Then he contradicted himself by mentioning his lack of shock at my revelations. He suspected I was gay all these long years, yet explained this away as my own tendency to “do what I like, only, and therefore stick to the same kind of people only”. If that were the case, I could definitely have straightened out since I only started to befriend people who I knew to be gay in NS! Since sexuality is most often determined before the age of 7-8, how could I possibly have been attracted to men all those years before NS, without having contact with a single gay? Will further explanations and counter-arguments help these people understand? No. They are oblivious to logic. I am considering showing them “Prayers for Bobby”, since movies have a way of conveying emotional messages more to my mum. My only fear is they will be so scared I will commit suicide after watching it.

Another option is really appealing to me now. Find a job overseas and leave this country and my bigoted family. The only problem is of course, getting the job first. Even if my family does accept me, what hope is there of setting up a “gay family” in Singapore? What is the point of living with a loving man if I cannot express that love in public, indeed in a society that does not even endorse consensual sex between 2 males? A more temporary solution is to find some friends and rent a place here. At the very least, it would assert my independence. But is all this worth sacrificing the many comforts and conveniences of living here with my parents? Money is also a key issue. Do I have enough to support myself? I cannot believe all this is happening just because of the incredibly lucky and intuitive guess of Captain Astro.


I never gave up (excerpt)

I never gave up (excerpt).


Kenny, 17 years old, identifies as a bisexual teen, and is comfortable in his relationships with men as well as women. He is a student at a local polytechnic.

Bapok. Gay boy. Paedophile. Fag. Go date that old man.
In school they called me all those things, and “faggot” was a second name that I chose to ignore most of the time.
I came out as a bisexual to my friends when I was in secondary three, because I realised I liked boys as well as girls. That’s when it all started.  Because of that, I was jested, made fun of, insulted, pushed around and bullied almost on a daily basis in school. It was difficult for me because not many people could understand what I was going through. I was mostly on my own as I couldn’t yet come out to my brother, and I hadn’t yet decided to tell my mum. There were times when I would shut people off and took time out to be by myself, walking around Singapore, exploring and having time alone. I was feeling so down and I just wanted to make myself happy.
“Fag” was used on me so often I think I got immune to it.  For me, things in secondary school were much worse compared to what it should have been. I went to an all-boys’ mission school. As much as people might believe that mission schools are mostly gay-populated, the boys in my school weren’t very receptive of me.
For example, there was this classmate who thought I was hitting on him when I was just trying to be a friend. This was after I had come out to some people in school. After that he went onto Friendster and posted different bulletins describing how I would pay young boys to give me blow jobs, and how I would go into lifts and bedrooms with dirty old men and have sex with them. He even sent them out to his friends and got them to tag each other. 
*    *     *
I often felt left out and ostracised. Out of a whole year in school, I was usually depressed for 363 days. Obviously, there were further cases of bullying.
There was this boy in school who was notorious for doing this and that with different boys in the toilets. He would sometimes come up to me and caress me in the middle of the school canteen. I told him to get lost and not to touch or even come near me ever again. It wasn’t genuine pity or sympathy he was displaying. Even if it was, I didn’t need it. I knew he was only trying to take advantage of me.
I also felt indignant. Another boy once tried to humiliate me in front of the whole level, while everyone was changing classrooms for Mother Tongue lesson. He called out to me,
“You gay right? You bi right? Come lah, I let you see my dick.”
I was really angry.
“If you dare to show me, I will dare to see.”
When nothing happened, I repeated my challenge.
“If you dare to show me, I will dare to see! Take it out! Didn’t you say you wanted me to see? Yes I’m bisexual, I dare to see. Not like I haven’t seen it before. Show me!”
Everyone was watching, including the teachers.  No one moved. They just stood and watched. He had nothing to say in response, so I added,
“Why, too small is it? Afraid I’ve never it seen before? I’m sorry, I’m not very interested in a schoolboy’s dick!”
Not only was I bullied, I was also molested. One of the other boys thought that he would have some fun with me by grabbing the front of my pants during break time, in front of lots of other students. When it happened I wasn’t shocked. I was repulsed and thought what he did was very childish.
*     *     *
Talking about all this anonymously allows me to share my side of the story without hearing judgements. When someone picks up a book and reads an anonymous story, they wouldn’t judge that person or think he did it for fame. They would just read it and understand what it is all about, that it is actually not easy being gay. Especially in Singapore, as I see discrimination everywhere.
I just want to share my story, as we all have our own stories. This was how I dealt with it. It doesn’t mean you have to give up. See what other ways there are to get around it.  Maybe there is another way to make it more bearable.
I just hope that anyone who is gay and facing life’s problems right now won’t give up, because I never gave up.
*     *     *
The above are excerpts from Kenny’s full story, which can be read in the e-book.



I admire this guy’s courage. If I’d gone through that in Secondary school, I’m not sure I’d have stuck up for myself like he did. I’d have been a weepy mess.

Why many won’t be at Pink Dot

Why many won’t be at Pink Dot.

It really doesn’t require much effort to go down to Pink Dot, does it?

You’ve marked the date on your schedule, and selected your pink outfit. Catching the MRT down to Clarke Quay, you might bring some family members along, or have arranged to meet friends. You’ll end up having a great time, come home and tag yourself on all those gorgeous photos the next day.

But for many people, it’s not that easy.

Maybe they’re not feeling very good about themselves. Maybe they have difficultiescoming to terms with being gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender or different.

Perhaps they’re unwell. With a mental health condition or addiction problem, or even struggling with self-harming thoughts.

Or they’re in hospital after a suicide attempt, or recovering from injuries inflicted bysomeone they love. Or still grieving a painful loss.

Some could be afraid to be seen at such a large public event, where they worry about being recognised. Their own experiences of being bullied by peers or persecuted by theirreligious community have taught them fear of those who hate them.

Others might have decided that they just want to blend into mainstream society, and dislike the sensitive issues of sexuality, gender orientation and same-sex love to bedisplayed in public.

And then there are those who have left Singapore because they’ve decided that here is a country that does not respect people who are different.

Had they still been in their darkest moments, each of the story contributors in I Will Survive probably would not have attended Pink Dot for the reasons above. Yet, time has passed since then, and being the resilient survivors that they all are, I look forward to seeing many of them at this year’s event.

But for every person who, for whatever reason, is unable or unwilling to be at Hong Lim Park on Saturday, 30 June 2012, there will be the rest of us who can and will.

Let us all be there for those who can’t or won’t, and believe that someday, they too might join us.

Leow Yangfa

Editor, I Will Survive

Personally, I am sitting on the fence for Pink Dot 2012. I attended it last year hoping to make new friends and feel a sense of camaraderie with others like myself. Neither happened. It was really, really hard to just strike up a conversation with a complete stranger, especially since I was alone. I observed the people who looked the happiest and most comfortable with themselves, were all with some gay friend or other. They had their own cliques, they had each other, they did not need any strangers. The ironical truth hit home hard: I had come to Pink Dot precisely because I had no gay friends, yet Pink Dot’s overwhelming sense of camaraderie had boxed me out of their inclusive equation because I had no gay friends. Feeling rejected and empty, I nevertheless stayed on just to be part of the dot. It’s hard to articulate why I stayed on, but perhaps it’s because I wanted to demonstrate to myself that I could be part of something bigger even if the reality was something completely different.

Back to Basics

Today’s the end of my first week at the magazine office and once again, I feel lost, angry and pitiful – not because of the job – but this time because of my parents – AGAIN. They called me down for one of their talks. The following might contain scenes that may induce high-blood pressure, cardiac arrest, palpitations, shock, etc. Reader discretion is advised, but where’s the fun in that?

Mum: S, we want to let you know that whatever you do outside, affects all of us and people will know. Secondly, we don’t ask anything of you, only that you help a little here and there, like after my operation. Other than that, we manage on our own.

Me: Please get to the point.

Mum: Okay, Someone told us that you do to this, “Gay Massage Spa”, every Saturday *Pointing to the words in air, almost like she’s reading them off a screen*. So how do you think we feel hearing this?

Me: *Pulling on my best Poker Face (hopefully!)* This is a lie. Who’s been telling you these lies?

Mum: I am not telling, but this cannot be a lie.

Me: So you’d rather believe strangers than your own son?

Mum: *Silence* You must remember…when I went to the astrologer in KL, he said your brother is very straight, no problems with him, but your second son… would do many FOOLISH things in his life.

Me: So it comes down again to whether you trust the astrologer or me, your own flesh and blood. Let me make one thing clear. I have told you many times before, I am gay, homosexual. I am not going to change. Both of you live in your own world thinking some day, I am going to marry a “strong girl” when I turn 37 and live happily ever after- just because this astrologer says so. You want me to live a lie – YOUR lie. You want me to live a life of misery. I will not let that happen, and… if you force me, I will just have to leave the family, even the country. I hardly meet these people, what, twice a year? I don’t give a damn what they think. Sooner or later, everyone’s going to find out I am gay and they’ll be just like you…unable to accept my sexuality. Let alone a boyfriend or husband – if I ever get one, that is.

Mum: S, this is a promise, we will not force you to do anything.

Me: Obviously, if you can question my integrity and honesty, you don’t trust me. You trust whoever is spreading these rumours more. You don’t even want to believe me. So why should I trust your word?

Mum: We were just asking if this is true. What is wrong with asking?

Me: What is wrong is you’ve already decided that I am lying and secondly, you choose to trust someone else’s accusation over my word. Now are you going to tell me who’s spreading the rumour?

Mum: No. If this is the way you talk to us, no.

Me: Then good. Let me give you a choice then. If you want me to ever speak to you again, you will tell me who this person is. Obviously, it is someone close to the family, or you would not believe them so readily. Make your choice.

Mum: S, you must not say things like this, you must talk to your mother.

Me: You do not care about my happiness. You, like all your favourite Asianet and SUNTV characters, care only about preserving your மானம் (Tamil for respect or dignity) and கெளரவம் (Tamil for honesty).

*prolonged devastating silence*

Me: All this boils down to one thing. I am your son. Do you accept that?

Mum: Yes

Me: I am your gay son. Do you accept that?

Mum: …….(The look on her face says everything)

Me: Then if you cannot accept me, even though I have told you this for more than one year, I have little choice but to leave the family. Ever since the day I sat down with both of you and came out to you, I’ve seen the looks on your faces. I knew in my heart that you, let alone the extended family, would never accept my homosexuality. I knew from day one, that I would have to leave this family, even this country, if I wanted to be a happy, free gay man.

Mum: No S, we do not want you to leave (*tearfully*)

Me: Then you know what you have to do. I have to go up now and do some work.

As I stewed in my room the whole night, my first priority was to find out who’s been ratting on my activities. And as I lowered my eyes from the monitor, something caught my eye. The credit card bill lying on my desk in plain sight, so tempting to the prying eye, the nosy mother. Therein lay all the details of my expenses, including: R Spa and S Spa. Just that morning, I had decided to leave the bill on my table – half out of weary, half-awake morning laziness, and half out of trust that my parents would choose to respect my privacy and not open up the folded bill – trust that I now know is misplaced.

Mum did make her point though. I was being very foolish wasting so much money on spas. I suspect the $1000-over bill total shocked her more than the outlets of my sexual frustration. I was flouting my own rules on expenditure. I was not saving enough money and at this rate, all my ambitions of leaving the nest, cutting the apron strings seemed defrauded of any value. My words are hollow.

As I read No More Bullshit, Please, We’re All Malaysians, by Kee Thuan Chye, further into the night, I started to feel a sense of shame. All my blustering at my parents, was little more than political rhetoric because I’d not translated it into any concrete action plan. All my talk of homophobia, acceptance, etc, was no better than Najib’s 1Malaysia – politicospeak to delay a day of action, a day of change, and further entrench the status quo firmly into an indefinite future. I lied to my parents about not going to these gay spas simply because my sexual activities are my private affairs – not theirs. I act responsibly and take all necessary precautions, but to explain all of this to them? Puhlease… they can’t even get around the fact that I am attracted to men, in spite of all the reading materials I’ve presented for their convenience, and all the times I’ve patiently explained what it means to be a gay man. These people have far deeper issues with superstition, astrology, family reputation and a deep distrust of “the other”, that hinder any progress in understanding their son. I don’t expect them to tell me how they “got it on” in order to conceive me, so I expect them to return the favour. Lying to them about this matter makes me slightly queasy but in light of their blatant invasion of my privacy, stubborn refusal to let me run my own life, and unquestioning reliance on dubious astrologers, I have to say, I feel like a saint. Lying to myself on the other hand, is a different matter altogether. I was under a painful delusion that I had it “all planned out”, and this incident served as a timely reality check.

1) I must stop the spa visits – at least for one month, following which a monthly session would be my allocated maximum, as dictated by my savings rules.

2) I must go to the gym on weekends

How is the above an action plan? Firstly, it will save me about $657 a month in foregone massages. Secondly, going to the gym is going back to the fundamentals. The mind is rooted in my body and I need to take care of it. I don’t have a choice. Thirdly, all that saved money goes straight to my emergency fund, and on top of that requirement, my funds for an overseas Masters degree to get out of Singapore. I cannot look too far ahead – my future still looks murky. But at least I have got a better job and that’s my silver lining. I have a good feeling about this place, not like my previous job, and I am positive that I have not done “anything foolish” by joining this place. A return to basics – taking care of myself, is in order.

I still feel tired and distressed. My body is aching from my run yesterday, but more than that, I feel raw and exposed after my run-in with the parents. Whitney Houston’s My Love is Your Love keeps running in my head like a broken record, rapidly followed by Kurt Hummel’s rendition of I Have Nothing. The latter seems especially apt. I literally have nothing, nothing, nothing… . Just this morning, It’s Not Right, But It’s Okay pounded in my head like a pulsing tumour as I plodded my way down Smith Street to office. And last night, How Will I Know lulled me to sleep with bittersweet tears on my pillow. How will I know if I’ll ever make it? How will I ever know if death is preferable to this mockery of life?

I know that my personal mourning for Whitney comes months too late, and might appear a tad mawkish. But just like the kids in the Glee tribute, I am in circumstances that make me sympathise with Whitney’s fate and her loss. She had drugs – I had gay massage. She was all alone, abandoned. Me – I’ve never known a lover. Her loved ones tortured her – my parents torture me with spiteful words of intolerance. She tried to be strong when the world had weakened her; me, I’m still struggling. I don’t know if I’m strong (or rich) enough to last as long as she did. I seem to draw strength and ideals from suicidal role models like Whitney and Bobby Griffith. Does that mean I’m going to end up like them – dead in a bath-tub or with my innards splattered across a highway – respectively?