Stephen Witherden’s Website

A controversial new study from a researcher in Christchurch New Zealand shows that if you are a single parent, your kids are 10% less likely to be gay. If you remarry and raise a child with an opposite sex step parent, then the chances of the child being gay are halved compared to if the child was raised by its biological parents.

You didn’t hear about that? Oh I suppose you only heard about the bit where gay people were more likely to have been abused during childhood. Well, I have actually read the study and actually understand the stats and I can tell you why you didn’t see my headline above. It’s because that finding didn’t fit in with the world view of the researchers running the study, so they chose to gloss over it. After all, we all know that divorce and the “breakdown of family values” is the cause of all the ills in the world and, homosexuality being an ill, it can’t possibly be that single parents or different-sex step-parents are less likely to cause gays, can it?

What’s going on? Is this study giving the wrong answers or is it asking the wrong questions? I argue it’s a bit of both.

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I recently had the pleasure of watching a NZ Film Festival Film called “There once was an island”. The film deals with an island in Papua New Guinea that is apparently in the process of sinking. Now, many people will see this film as dealing with climate change, or addressing the problem of losing one’s cultural identity in the face of the inexorable march of industrialisation. I got a slightly more personal message from the film.

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As soon as you get off the plane it hits you: it’s like walking into a sauna. No, it is walking into a sauna, in just about every sense. Sweat begins to muster on your brow as you succumb to the humidity; the air is dense with it. Breathing is just that little bit more difficult and movement is slower too.

“Aaah,” I exclaim, soaking in the atmosphere, more literally than normal.

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A few weeks ago I ended up in Brisbane on a conference.

I wish I had written a long, engaging story about my experience, including the sights and sounds of the South Bank in Brisbane, the Queensland Art Gallery, the worst Mohito ever concocted and catching up with my friend Michael who I hadn’t seen for about a decade, but I’m afraid I am running out of time before my next overseas trip.

So, instead, here are some of the pictures I took of beautiful Brisbane. I would like to make special mention of the Lone Pine Koala sanctuary, though, where I met and was able to hold a koala!

I popped the box next to my car with a poorly stifled grunt and opened the door. Hmm, lots of my own junk was still here on the back seat.

There were 4 carefully dated bags of money strewn on the floor, I grabbed them and stuffed them under the front seat.

I stood up with a stretch and a groan. Tired.

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I drive in to work at an unusually early time for me: it’s around 7:55am when I arrived at the front gate to the airbase. The security guard smiles his familiar round smile as he waves me through. His cheerfulness belies the fact that, were it not for the identification I present to him, I would go no further than his little box.

It’s cold and dark outside, the Auckland sun only just beginning to shine a few anaemic rays in my direction. I pull up to the car park. The car park straddles the red line which denotes the “operational” part of the airbase to the non-operational part. “Identification to be visible at all times” the sign says something like that. I clip my ID onto my belt and walk to the door to the building I’ve spent most of my waking hours in this past year or so. All of my personal belongings go into a secure lockup just in front of the secure doors. Nothing unauthorised is permitted here. I’ve taken to simply dumping all the contents of my pockets here, just in case.

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My managing director, Thomas, made the mistake of asking me that phatic question as I was flitting around the office on Friday morning last month. At the best of times, I’m the sort of person who will answer that common question painfully truthfully. As it was, I had far too much information to impart on anyone daring to ask such a question.

“Well, Thomas, I’m in tip top condition!” I replied gleefully, hoping I’d get the chance to elaborate on the precise metrics by which I was “fine”.

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Those of you who know me will know I’m a big fan of Billy Joel. So much so, that when I was given the opportunity to choose a song to practise for voice training, I picked one of the best I could think of: “Just the way you are“.

It’s a nice sentiment: don’t go changing, you’re not too familiar, I won’t leave you, I love you just the way you are. Great words to hear from a lover or a friend. Those who aren’t Billy Joel crazy will probably be surprised to hear that it’s actually one of his least favourite songs. He wrote it for his soon-to-be ex wife after all. I remember watching an interview with the piano man where he said he now addresses the song more to himself than to anyone else.

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I was extremely grumpy this last Good Friday. I was so sorry for myself, in fact, that I spent most of the day sulking in bed. There could be a number of reasons for this, particularly since I was stuck in Auckland while everything was closed down for the weekend, but I think it probably had a lot to do with what happened the night before. For one thing, on Thursday I asked a guy out. His eventual reply was a gentle, polite yet quite definite “no”. Now, I’ve been rejected many, many times before but somehow this affected me more than usual. It may have to do with the movie I was watching at the time.

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“Goodbye Granny” I said as I got up to leave. “I’m sure I’ll see you again” I lied bravely “I’ll come visit South Africa or something”.
“Hope I’m alive when you do” she voiced my unspoken fear.

My grandmother leaves New Zealand tomorrow morning, after spending some precious months here visiting my father in Wellington. She and I spent a magical week together touring the Marlborough: the top of the South Island. We spent so many hours together in the car that we got to know each other very well. I think I learnt more about her in that week than I have in my entire life. She’s a wonderful person.

“I wish I was a man, and younger” granny confessed one sunny afternoon as I drove us swiftly between nowhere and Blenheim “because then I’d date you”. It’s a strange disclosure that speaks of a yearning for companionship that spans generations and gender. She was very remorseful that she had to delay coming up to Auckland, meaning we wouldn’t have as much time to chat as we had before.

Before I went to my cousins’ place to say goodbye one last time, I filled a memory card with a bunch of photos of our trip and the family. I inserted it into the picture frame I bought her and gave it to her with strict instructions to get people to load more pictures onto it for her.

I didn’t tell her that the memory card came from my camera, rendering it useless. Until I get a new card, my camera won’t take any more pictures. It’s kind of appropriate really, because it reflects how I feel: a part of me is leaving and I don’t think I can take any pictures at the moment either.

I was cleaning out my drawers, going through clothes I need to get rid of, when I came across a little bit of my own personal history: my Deo Fretus t-shirt. Now, Deo Fretus (in God we trust) was the motto of my high school and also the name of the quintet I was a member of for two glorious years. It’s hard to describe the profound sense of nostalgia I felt as I tenderly pulled the tatty t-shirt out of the drawer and regarded its moth-eaten holes.

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At 2:44am on the 17th December, Caleb James Simpkin, my first nephew was born to my sieter Susan and her husband David. It’s a strange yet familiar sensation. My parents both had younger kids and so I am quite used to babies. At the same time, this is a whole new generation I’m holding in my arms, it’s kind of special.

I’ve reset my life counter on the left hand side of the blog to reflect the birth =D

One day before my 30th birthday my granny Cynthia recently turned 84. The last 4 years of her life have been spent looking after her dying husband, so now that he’s passed away, she’s at a little bit of a loss. Life’s been hard these past few years and it’s been a bit of a struggle for her and her family. She travelled here to New Zealand for Christmas, to spend time with the family and, deep down, most of us are thinking this is probably the last time she’ll get the chance.

I walked up the driveway, arms laden with presents. My father, his family and my grandmother were all staying with a friend of his in Hamilton. I entered the lounge. Granny was in the kitchen, of course. I snuck on in and presented myself to her.

“Who’s that?  … Stephen!”

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Those of you who have followed my blog for some years now will remember that I had a run in with an interesting guy while I was in Texas. Stephen (confusingly sharing my name) was my second boyfriend and the first guy that I guess you could say I had anything approaching a relationship with. It all ended rather badly due to a combination of mental illness, pills and a failed healthcare system.

When I last saw Stephen, I’d left him with his new boyfriend and a tenuous but workable support structure. It all fell apart rapidly when I left and Stephen ended up having another crisis which culminated in him living with his birth father, arguably a good thing for him.

He kept up correspondence with me. Through a haze of dissociative identity there emerged this new person, a far more complete and whole person. Still Stephen, but sadly with a little added toughness. I see Stephen as equal parts creative/sensitive, angry/violent and cool/calculating. These three characters vie for supremacy in his psyche. At the moment, the cool character is prominent.

Anyway, you’re not reading this for the pop psychology lesson, you’re reading this because you want to know why the boy in that hole appears to be dressed in army fatigues and why I have a picture of a boy in a hole on my website.

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A few weeks ago, at the end of October, I took a nice long trip down the length of the North Island from Auckland to Palmerston North to go to my Boss Llanwyn’s Halloween party. On the way down, I spent some time with my friends Chris and Charles.

Now, Chris and Charles have a special place in my heart: they’re the first gay couple I’ve ever known, they got married (civil union, whatever) during the time I’ve known them and they’re living in what can be described as relatively domestic bliss in Taupo. In many ways, they give me hope. It’s always a great pleasure to spend time with these guys. This time was especially fun because Charles and I indulged in the Huka falls jet ride.

Now, the Huka falls jet is much like New Zealand’s infamous shotover jet. You’re in a jet boat, hydroplaning in a very narrow bit of water. I have to admit, it kind of reminds me of a video game, but far more fun and realistic. I highly recommend it, though you’re likely to get wet

I hit the bed with a muted thud. It had been a long day and an even longer night. My parents were up from Hamilton and, along with other family and friends, we’d celebrated being together with food, drink and Singstar.

I rolled over and checked my phone. It was about 3:30am, we’d just seen the extended family to their car after a prolonged karaoke-off between myself and my cousin Jenny. Arth had passed out on the sofa/bed, beer in his hand, and mom was on the balcony having a cigarette. I turned over again, closed my eyes and sighed.

Mom was on the balcony having a cigarette.

I tossed again. Mom and I don’t often get a chance to talk.

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As some of you may know, I recently turned 30. It was an unremarkable milestone as milestones go. Last year I threw a nice big party and invited a whole lot of people. This year, I just had a small group, we drank, ate and talked a little. The next day Sam made me a birthday cake complete with 30 candles, a nice gesture on his part.
 
30 seems so old, objectively so. When I was younger 30 seemed to be so very far away. I had this vague notion that I should be retired by 30, or that I should at least have my life sorted out. In many ways it is.

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In order to celebrate Sarah’s imminent PhD graduation and International Speak like a Pirate Day, a bunch of us got dressed up as pirates and had a bit of a party at our place.

Not much to say except that we all had a great time. More pics are available by clicking the link: International Talk like a Pirate Day pics.

Friday 18th September was Loud Shirt Day. To contribute, I bought a cheap white shirt from the Warehouse along with some fabric paint from Spotlight. I then spent about 4 hours on Thursday night making my own tribute to Loud Shirt Day.

You can see a time lapse video of how I made the shirt by clicking on the link: Loud Shirt Day time lapse.

This past Saturday Daniel (we call him “Step” for reasons I don’t really understand) along with Sebastian were celebrating their simultaneous birthdays. Step wanted a formal cocktail evening, all dressed up with a proper bar, finger food and a cocktail menu of his own devising. I’d like to think it was somewhat my influence because he knows how much I like to mix cocktails.

We were all under strict instructions to dress up and I was asked to man the bar. I was a little apprehensive at the possibility that I might bump into Spaz, since we haven’t spoken in some time. That said, I was excited about the prospect of bartending.

I arrived early, at around 3pm to help make the cocktail food. They’d built a bar for me! When I say “built a bar” one of the guys (an engineer) had literally constructed a free-standing bar out of spare wood, rustic, but sturdy and functional. They had even bought all new glassware. There may not have been more than one and a half teaspoons in the whole place, but they had more than enough martini glasses for a formal function.

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