Transforming Families

Patricia McCaw

1981

I'd spent all morning arguing at the adoption agency that employed me, thumping my metaphorical fist, about gay people not being allowed to adopt. It was the end of 1981 but the opinions I heard around me could have applied to 1881. When I'd objected to the ban on gay people applying to adopt, on the grounds of fairness and equality, there had been a mass intake of breath by the agency's well-shod committee ladies. They, the stay at home wives of judges, medical consultants and headmasters, knew exactly what constituted desirable family life for a hard to place child, and it wasn't two mummies or two daddies. A sympathetic committee lady whispered to me, after the stormy meeting, that overnight I'd become a 'bad apple', and should protect myself. She didn't mention that rumours were circulating about my own sexuality, but if she had I doubt if I'd have told her that I wasn't gay. I'd wondered at times, but just assumed I'd have a family in the conventional way. Or at least that was my position at the beginning of the day!

A fellow employee, Merill, dropped by my desk and said, 'What you need is to get all that rage and adrenaline out of you. What you need is to fling someone over your shoulder!' 'Huh?' I grunted. 'You mean judo?' 'No, better,' she said, 'Aikido. A pal and I have been going for a while. Come along tonight. It's very therapeutic, and it means you can handle yourself if a guy jumps you when you're crossing the Meadows.'

All through the afternoon, and at home afterwards, I hummed and hawed about going to Aikido: should I go, should I give it a miss. Ms Sporty I was not; and the thought of someone swinging me through the air and onto a hard floor made my ribs tremble and my heart miss a beat or six. I thought of the things I could be doing, such as taking Jeff up on his offer to dine at the new Swiss Restaurant. And then I thought of his large white hands that reminded me of small loaves, and his smell of clean, dull masculinity, and the decision was made-I was going to throw my weight around.

'Good on you, girl!' Merill thumped my shoulder and led me into the large drill hall where a dozen students, male and female, were already waiting, most of them in white tops and short trousers. Once similarly attired I stood to attention in front of Michael the teacher, who spoke of the aim of Aikido being to produce a more integrated human being through harmonising the character and the personality. 'And now,' he continued, 'you'll pair up with another person and we'll go through the moves.'

I was matched with an experienced woman around my own age of late 20's. As we faced each other I was mortified by the contrast between my scarlet painted toenails and her square-cut plain nails; and shocked by her cheerful dark-haired legs. How incredible she doesn't wax them, I thought.

Five minutes later I was flying past her shoulder, landing in an embarrassing but undamaged heap at her feet. Gentle but strong hands assisted me up, a West Coast Scottish accent soothing my hurt feelings. 'The idea is to defend yourself as well as protecting your attacker from injury,' she explained. 'It's called the Art of Peace.' Protect my attacker? No way! As a fiery Irishwoman not long left Belfast, the idea seemed incomprehensible-to fight force and wrongdoing head-on was my mantra.

At last the session ended, and my pal, Merill, bounced up to me, giggling at the pained look on my face, and the groans I lavished on sore muscles. 'I see you were partnered with Lorna,' she whispered. 'She's a lesbian-doesn't keep quiet about it. The other week she was trying to get us to go to some club or other; probably some pick-up joint! ' Lorna waved over to us, but Merill turned her back on her.

I couldn't believe it. I knew Merill was gay, but nobody else did at work, so afraid was she of their prejudices, but now, she too, was making ignorant comments. The self-hatred and injustice behind it made me refuse a drink with her, and I hurried out to catch my bus.

As the bus made its way up Dundas Street, I glanced out and saw a familiar figure trudging up the steep road, pushing a bicycle, and holding the hand of a small child-it was Lorna. Rain was beginning to beat down, and on impulse I got off the bus, a mile from home.

She was surprised to see me, a wide smile brightening her attractive face. She showed off her son, a cute blond three year old, with pride. 'Liam's been with friends; was supposed to stay overnight, but he wanted to come home. Didn't you?' She hugged him, tightly, and he squealed with pleasure. The bike banged against her leg, and I took it from her, steering it up the pavement, as the castle came, majestically, into view.

The rain spilled, heavily, and we hurried towards Dalry Rd, pushing Liam on the bike. Her flat was a top one, and I was exhausted and soaked by the time we reached it. In the living room, I dried off, and Liam came towards me, holding out a strange looking car. 'It's a transformer', he said, 'you change it.' Oh, no, I'm not good with kids, I thought, but began to pull and push until a man emerged. We both laughed, and I began to enjoy myself.

'I'll make some tea,' said Lorna, and as she left the room she looked down at us, making me feel a surge of something that felt like homesickness-- for the family just about to come.

PS. Our family is still here, 27 years later, in a Scotland where gay people can marry, and adopt.