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Out and proud

Coming out is a big step that can be liberating, scary and unpredictable. Anna Nolan and Declan Cashin describe their individual experiences

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By Anna Nolan
Saturday Mar 7 2009

I never got a chance to tell my mother I was gay -- she guessed before the words came out of my mouth. It was 1992, a Saturday night at around midnight and I had just come home from my first night out in a gay bar. I was 22, high on my new-felt freedom and I'd had a wonderful, mind-opening night at The Parliament Bar, which was full of gay men, gay women, gay everything.

Just as I arrived in, she came up to me, and said: "Anna, are you gay?"

"What? No, I'm not," I fired back.

"Yes, you are," she said.

"I promise you, I am not."

"I know you are," she sobbed. You never want to go on dates with boys and when they call around, you run up to your bedroom and hide."

She was right, it was an early tell- tale sign -- boys bored me! There were other signs: when I was young, say 11 or 12, and there was a kissing scene in a film, I always wished I was the man kissing the woman. At the end of Romancing the Stone, all of my friends squealed when Michael Douglas kissed Kathleen Turner. They wished they were in his arms I wished she was in mine.

But how on earth had my mother come to this conclusion, when I myself had only put words on my feelings the previous week? After two more denials, and one taking-offence, I finally admitted that I thought, maybe, perhaps, there was a chance I could possibly be gay. And that was it. My mother said she had always known. After that initial disclosure, a weight lifted, but I asked her not to tell dad yet, as I was still coming to terms with it.

Two days later, my dad called around to my new flat on Harrington Street and said: "I hear you are gay. That's great news." He walked in and, as he took off his jacket, said: "If you ever need anyone to accompany you to the bars, I would be honoured to go out with you."

How sweet is that, I thought? Then he added: "Please don't tell your nana. She's only just got over the fact you left the nuns."

So that was mam and dad told. They were wonderful. The next two weeks were spent finding words to tell siblings and friends -- "I've something to tell you ... but you've to guess what" or "I'm gay, but not creepy gay, good gay", or "Guess what I am?" or "I know I'm gay, but no, I have never been attracted to you, even though you are my best friend. Please don't take offence".

All the reactions were challenging. Some people were confused; they didn't know any gay people. My parents were supportive, definitely a bit worried, but they mainly kept that to themselves. My father, along with his encouragement, also brought me smack down to earth. He said: "Anna, never underestimate that there are people out there who hate gays, would like to hurt gay people and will never accept them. You don't have to mix with them, but they will always be there." It was a long time before I experienced that but it happened while I was filming in Australia with the BBC. The offender was an Australian right-wing homophobe living in Melbourne -- a very damaged character.

With my parents, family and friends told, I was ready to embrace gay life in Ireland. I imagined clubs such as those of New York, Studio 54; me and Andy Warhol rocking the capital. The lesbian scene of Dublin 1992 was, in fact, something of an underground, stop-and-start affair, with venues opening and closing all the time. More room 101 than Studio 54. Several women were brave enough to approach the odd bar to see if they could rent their upstairs room to run a club night. They wouldn't specifically say it was an evening for women only, and would hope the owner wouldn't pop up too often, especially at the slow sets.

Some bars kicked the women out, some turned a blind eye. Some pubs accommodated jazz musicians and flirty lesbians, not on the same night though. The fact that the gay scene was somewhat underground also gave it an edge, a dangerous thrill.

But one venue that didn't make it, not because of prejudiced owners, was a barge on the canal, down Portobello way. I was there one evening, drinking away with a cabin full of female partygoers, and we noticed water coming in. Imagine the scene... 50 laughing women scrambling out and watching our barge slowly sink into the Grand Canal. The party girls toasted goodbye to the only safe place we could socialise.

Coming out was a wonderful time for me. I was scared, yet felt I couldn't pretend to be something I was not. I look back with fondness but not with rose-tinted glasses.

Yes, we had excitement, unpredictability and campaigns, but we also had sinking ships, eviction and displays of embarrassment and hatred. Today, young women, if they are feeling brave enough, have a wealth of socialising, entertainment and support if they want it.

And they don't have to say, "Guess what I am?" They can say, "This is me."

- Anna Nolan