The duck test is a form of deductive reasoning.
This is its usual expression:
“If it looks like a duck, swims like a duck, and quacks like
a duck,
then it probably is a duck.”
It sure ain’t a tree.
The test implies that a person can identify an unknown
subject
by observing that subject's habitual characteristics.
I suppose
I was lucky growing up. I never really had to deal with homophobia or gender
hate because of who I am. Back then, I was witness to a few incidents involving
this type of assault but for the most part, my own sexual identity remained rather
safe and quite hidden until well into my 30th year. Self-realization had mostly
been a silent mission for me, the turning from child to adult with a few little
hairs. I was, for the most part, alone in my sin. My urges at times were
consuming. The crescendo of early manic depression led my way. In secret, I
managed to absorb any ideas gay culture may have propagated. I had never been
called a faggot or demeaned because of my sexual orientation. People really had
no clue. I was sheltered behind my heterosexual concealment. My colleagues
would claim me as stereotypically butch, a real man by someone else’s standard.
I didn’t have to try to pretend, it just came naturally to me. I hid in plain
sight and, to varying degrees, could continue to do so if I still cared what
others think of me. I have to admit that the lack of exposure I had to such
homophobic circumstances left me slightly at ease. I didn’t have to bear concern
because no one ever really put me in a position where I had to fight back. Well,
almost no one. It is very true that some lessons cannot be ignored, even if
they linger in silence. Whether we want it to or not, the truth always finds a
way.
I find most things ironic. The one homophobic
and hate-based exposure I had as a teenager came from one of the same forces
that would soon enough find me cast against a brick wall, waiting for him and
his friends to finish. I suppose it’s my own fault for being queer. There was
great hate between us from the get-go. I don’t believe I ever had a regular
conversation with him, not since the first day of high school. No matter the
avenue, we never really saw eye to eye, not that the option ever manifested.
For some unexposed reason, he seemed to project his hate, particularly whenever
I got near him. He was a dink. I never fought back. I never defended my honour
or stood up to the bully. There was a schism, since I myself was often a bully,
although not to this degree. I let it all go in an attempt at making it all go
away. Like an idiot, I disregarded my own voice of reason. I flipped him the
bird as he passed. I had no idea that the car turned around just down the
street. I sat with my friend in her car when suddenly he knocked on my window.
When I opened the door he punched me full on the nose and called me “homo.” I looked at him and sat waiting for more. I
was frozen, lost in my early manifesting panic. He looked at me, waiting for me
to give him another reason to prove he was a man. I suppose at hockey practice
he must of had to do the same with his lie. A year or so later and he proved
his inclination. The louder one screams, the harder one sucks. It’s about
deflection and projection and deciding who you are and may one day turn out to
be. Granted, size matters so I could barely tell when the later physical assault
turned over to his turn. His impulse revealed everything that one would need to
make a conclusion. It just proves, you can run, you may even get away, but you
cannot hide from yourself and who you really are underneath it all. Sometimes
it is clear, these types of personalities protest way too much. I suppose, in a
sense, it is who they really are. Figuratively and literally, some people are
in desperate need of a good blow job.
He had been
in the ground just under a month. The snow covered the new mound like carpet,
all white and soiled and settling to begin. It was a horror, initially a dark
place, one I had surrendered to myself mere weeks before. To claim that I
missed him was an over-simplification and, although with great reservation, I
decided it was time to free the truth. I felt like I was somehow betraying him
by continuing to hide who we had been all along. I suppose I was lucky not
having to show all my cards. I appeared to be a breeder, I sure could play the
part. Nothing could have been further from the truth. It was a brief nightmare
when I attempted to remove the frozen endearments from their place on his
grave. Stepping onto a foreign soil only brought greater horror and a rather
cold soaking. I sank into it and screamed in good measure. Having just been
released from hospital, I managed to change into fresh apparel on the way back
to my parent’s place. I asked them to stop somewhere casual, for lunch before
we got back home. The experience was much like clearing that sink hole, it was
messy but I knew that it had to be done. Climbing out became my mission.
The irony
continued when we stopped at the Little
Beaver for déjeuner. I revealed myself over fries and gravy. I was made
pleasantly aware but not surprised by my parent’s reaction. I had never really
thought they would respond any different but I did not want anyone to know,
especially my very Christian family members. Whether by fear, a continual shame
and embarrassment (thanks Jesus), or a simple need for privacy, I never felt
the urge to tell someone I was gay. If it was relevant, you could tell all on
your own. I am sure there were signs along the way but my silence seems to have
settled those doubts deep in denial. My parents had not been sure what to
believe. Their reaction was exactly what every LGBTQ person craves. It would
never be an issue, it never has been, not once. Unfortunately, not everyone was
happy to meet the real me. Not everyone was as gracious as my Mom and Dad. If
one more person told me “they respect but don’t agree with my lifestyle choice”
I might well have busted open and spilled myself out in bipolar angst. It is
still difficult not judging someone so judgmental.
We judge
ourselves and in so doing become the very thing we hate most. It is not an
uncommon thing for a gay man to be homophobic or a lesbian couple to be counter
queer culture. Often hate from others becomes a justification for how we see
and treat ourselves. We become our own excuse for hating. Coming out to my
parents was one of the very best decisions I have made in my lifetime. They not
only accepted me but not once said they loved me in spite of any “sin” I might
carry. Most gay people I have known are not as fortunate to have the same
upbringing as me and my siblings. We were taught early on not to judge someone
who sinned differently than us. Unfortunately, internal and outside forces tend
to dictate how we judge ourselves.
People
stand there, angry, fuming that someone would have the audacity to question who
they are. Let’s be honest. If it looks like chocolate pudding, smells like
chocolate pudding and tastes like chocolate pudding then it ain’t tapioca. It’s
easy to figure out if someone is gay or not. There are always indicators.
Behaviour always gives one away. Gaydar is simply an awareness, the ability to
recognize similar indicants. Had anyone bothered to notice anything during the
6 years I was with my first partner they might have had a clue before I came
out to them after his death. I really should not have had to tell anyone
anything but grief and solace and abandon left me weak enough to not care
anymore. Still, I came out of the closet kicking and screaming. I just assumed
that my life in general would have already given me away. The most transparent
disguise does not necessarily come with conscious effort. If someone actually
stands shrieking that they are not queer, for all to hear, there is usually a
hidden reason. This is an obvious signal. No heterosexual is really affected by
homosexuality, outside their own limitations on the matter. If you call a true
heterosexual gay, there is rarely a response outside ambivalence. People don’t
care about anything, including what someone thinks, unless it affects them
first. I believe it to be true that the louder someone protests as to not being
gay then chances are they are deflecting and projecting at the very same time. At some point, a tintinnabulate should go
off, a cacophony of bells that chime and it ain’t because some angels just got
their wings. It’s strange how a gay person can still exert homophobia. This
state does not just come as/with self hate but also a directed hate, usually at
the thing they want the most but cannot have due to their own darkness. People
who hate themselves tend to attack others for those very same reasons. In the
end, all that hate has to rise to the surface. I’m sorry but aggressively declaring
you are not gay defines you, whether you care to admit it or not. To be
offended means there is a reason to be. I suppose, you are what you think. You
still get to choose if you come out to others or not but sometimes all that
protesting, ‘me thinks’, seems too much.
You don’t have to be anyone you don’t
want to be. You do not have to give into what one might call impulse anymore
than you have to give into the practice of self- abnegation. There is nothing
that says you have to come out of the closet. You are free to swim in denial or
hide, if that’s how you really want to be. It can seem easier living behind some
wardrobe door. Regardless, just because you are confused, and fractured, does
not give you the right to treat people badly. Gay people get to evaluate each homophobe
not only by their words but also by their actions. It’s in the pudding. Some
people may go through their entire life not saying a word about who they really
are deep down inside. My late friend Bob was married, with 2 boys, for almost
30 years before he left his family for a more 1980s groove. Unfortunately, he
was soon infected and quickly passed away from AIDS. Some might argue that his new found sexual
lifestyle sealed his fate. If he had stayed with his wife and children like
Jesus wanted him to do then he would not have ended in such a dire fashion. His
greatest regret (however) was not being true to himself for all those 30 years.
When my first partner was outed, he chose to jump off a building rather than
facing a new reality. In hindsight, his fears were not that far from reality.
It’s like he knew what would come from it. Apparently, he felt disposable.
I did not
have the experience of bells going off when I came out of the closet. Many do
and that is significant for them. For me, I was forced by circumstance to
reveal my inclination. A quarter century since and it can still be awkward for
me. Just by saying you are homosexual prescribes certain insight into one’s
sexual proclivity. The same can be said about heterosexuals. You assume certain
sexual behaviours result from just that. Homophobia is the expression of
prejudice towards people of the “queer” persuasion. It can be angry and it can
even be deadly, just ask Matthew Shepard. Most of the time it can be subtle and
discreet. Other times, it can be in your face and pure hate. Either way, I
would argue that, in most cases, the hatred is a defensive posturing. Again, the
louder they scream the harder they suck. Some don’t even realize what they are
doing. Some people protest. Some say nothing. Some quack.
“The first time it felt really dangerous, like the sort of
thing you had to lock the doors and close the curtains on because if anybody
saw you, God would strike you down with a thunderbolt. But I took to it like a
duck to water.” (Jamie Muir, Scottish entertainer)
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