Firstly thank you to all who replied there are a lot of opinions and from what I can see no clear consensus.
I will however acknowledge that I should not have described any aspect of her sexuality as being potentially a phase- a cliche and a clumsy statement at best.
As to my reluctance to accept a definitive sexual identity at a young age, to be honest it still stands and after reading some of the posts that support the notion from those who have similar experiences, I think that is valid and understandable.
There were a couple of comments made that I believe were the result of misunderstanding. When I said "I would also like to state that whatever desicions my children ultimately take in their life choices will be solely their choices to make, and they will have the full support of both their parents at all times" I emphatically did not mean for it to be interpreted as "This isn't a criticism, but I noticed in your post you refer a lot to your daughter's "choices". I just wanted to flag this, because she might find it a little frustrating to think that you think she's choosing her sexuality" When I spoke of choices it was in the broader sense i.e career, marriage, children, whether to emigrate etc.
I am not a regular poster on the forums and I am grateful that their is an area of the forum where serious matters can be discussed and not just fun and frivolity (this is in no way a derogatory remark- I have posted a story where I shit the bed in morocco), the only other website I have posted on was IGN and I dont expect I would have received much positive insight from the user base of adolescent boys.
I hope it was clear that a lot of my issues were a loss of innocence and my wanting my children to have a life free from predjudice. I once posted on a forum thread that was entitled "acting out your fantasies " where the poster enquired as to whether anyone had acted out their fantasies and would they recommend it. I posted the following reply
As a kid my fantasy was to be married, have a family and be in a safe and happy environment- something I rarely had the chance to be a part of. Would I recommend it - hell yes.
Maybe not the answer that was expected, but a true one none the less.
At this point I am going to ask for some indulgence and tell the story of a part of my life, or possibly my life in parts. Before I go further further this is not for any symathy or empathy for me, as I said I have achieved my fantasy. I'm married to a beautiful woman, we both work and are paying a mortgage on a small terraced house in London which is probably worth the GDP of a small country, I have two fantastic children and we get to have a summer holiday of culture and sun every year. For me its all I ever wanted and all I have ever dreamed of achieving.
I do however hope that the story will allow a degree of understanding towards my concerns about prejudice that I believe is still prevalent in society and why my initial reaction to my daughters statement was one of concern.
My fantasy outlined earlier was not quite true, in fact I wanted to be a vicar. This was not due to any particularly strong association with Christianity but because I grew up in Linford, Essex. Linfords skyline is dominated by oil refineries and there was one house of beauty- and that was annexed to the local church, and that is where I wanted to live. When sold, the house I lived in was advertised in the local paper as "wreck of the week", these days it would be sold as a house of potential or something similar. Back in the arse end of the 70's when there were still desirable council properties being sold for a pittance? An apple is an apple, its not a kumquat.
So thats where I grew up from the age of I can remember to age 10. My brother and I were raised by my Dad, a poet, songwriter, libertine and white rasta, he was also a heroin addict and an alcoholic. I have never questioned why my Dad was given custody, my Mum has cast allusions that my Grandma paid for a solicitor that presented her as unfit, my unwavering belief that my Grandma was a saint means that if true, I really do not want to know. My opinion? Thatcher and a welfare system that did'nt really care... that and our social worker June who seemed to like my Dad, well at least she seemed to enjoy it when he shagged her on the kitchen table.
I have loved my Dad throughout his life, from a young age he taught me tolerance, culture, art and philosophy. He taught me literature and explained William Burroughs cut up technique. He also got me into Leonard Cohen and the Velvet Underground. From being around him and his friends I picked up on how to cold water filter co-codamol into codeine and how to roll a joint, all skills that came in useful when I went to poly.
But as a Father who provides for you? Absolutely shit. When it came to the basics, the fundamentals of life they were lacking. A choice of eating the scum from the grill pan, a box of dog biscuits, powdered lift lemon or chocolate ex-lax was once all I could find to eat. I chose the laxtives, in all fairness they were probably kinder to my ring piece than when he attempted to cook. A lot of good times, we were allowed to watch wahtever we wanted (I had watched the majority of classic porn by the time I was 8), there was a gravel works down the road where you could fish for newts, it was Lord Of The Flies in Essex.
There were a lot of bad times... a lot of prejudice. Frequent drug busts by "the pigs" who on one memorable occasion smashed up a chemistry set that my brother had received from my Nan and Grandad as a present. Seeing my Dad come home bloody and bruised because he had been beaten by the local skinheads for going out with a black girl, watching from a window as a yellow Ford Capri drove by ejecting a once again beaten Dad... this time having being beaten by some black guys for the same offence. Going to school and no one wanting to sit next to you because you smelt- and in all fairness they had a point (we used to spend the summer at my Nan and Grandads caravan at Steeple Bay, on arrival they would burn the clothes we were wearing in an oil drum). Going to school in a pale blue winters coat meant for a girl (I would soak the coat before I left so it would appear darker), going to school in a cub scout uniform because you had no clean clothes, the feeling of dread when Nitty Nora the hair explorer was in the school beacause you knew you were riddled with lice... after the examination was complete and if you had lice you were sent home so no one would know (the average Essex child was thick but none were that stupid), just going to school.
Some really bad times.... my Dad had always said that he would never ever hit us, something that he always mentioned. Much later in my life after my Dad died I was talking to the Brain (read on.. I will get there), he told me that once when they were tripping in their pink bubbles in space (I swear this is a 100% true conversation with Brain the hippy) my Dad told him about sexual abuse he had suffered at the hands of his own Father. I politely told him I didn't want to know. Well the no hitting policy went south one night after a bad experience with Angel Dust, never have I felt such fear. We ran to our neighbours who shut the door in our faces... prejudice.
Time passes and my Dad moves to the Netherlands where he had spent a lot of his youth and where my brother was born. My legal guardian became my Grandmother, I was 10 my brother 11. Mince on toast, an open fire, Oil Of Ulay and the breats of a 70 year old woman were the foundations of the happiest period of my life for the next 8 years. Any concerns I had for my safety were washed away by her lavender smell. I loved and will always love my Grandma, as the song says theres no one quite like her. Sadly it didn't last, one morning we opened our bedroom door to find her upside down on her armchair outside her room, she had had a heart attack and the convulsions had caused the chair to topple. My life as I had known and grown to love ended in an instant. She was 72.
So I'm now 12 my brother 13. My Dad returns and life goes on. We are older and more capable, less dependant and able to look after ourselves. We stay living in our Grandma's bungalow in Stanford-Le-Hope, the conservatory where my Grandma grew her cuttings is now home to plants of a more exotic nature. My Mum gets sorted she starts a nursing course, re- marries and we stay with her every other weekend. Times are still hard for her, we dodge the train inspectors and play hide from the milkman but she is busy making a home a new life.
My brother decides he has had enough and is going to live with my Mum. Someone has to stay and look after Dad he says and its not me. My Brother sees my Dad only 3 more times for the rest of his life, once at my wedding, a second time when my Dad visited England (the only time my Dad ever met my brothers son, his Grandchild, and he wasnt even allowed to stay in their home instead being booked into a Formula 1 hotel, prejudice from your own child I'm working on forgiveness) the third time was the day before his cremation where Dutch custom is an open casket. My brother entered the room alone and came out without the slightest emotion.
Another constant in my life is lost and I'm alone for the first time ever for the next two years. My Dad had many partners over the years but if they suggested alternatives to raising his children they left never even leaving a memory. Then along came Karen a girl from New Zealand, much younger than my Dad so a companion for us both. She plays surrogate Mum and all is well, plans are made to move to Holland in September. The plans fall through but I dont return to school, I'm idle for the next 9 months and mainly watch TV from Good Morning Britain to ceefax. My Mum has a baby girl and I want to be part of a family, I smash by bedroom and tearfully tell my Dad I cant live with him anymore... Its a difficult decision but one I believe is right.
During this time my Dad phones sometimes but always at odd hours, Karen leaves him but remains in Holland becoming a bus driver and a lesbian, I never see her again and its another 10 years when I get married till I see my Dad again.
Life was good for only a short time. My step dad could not cope with two teenage kids who did not possess good table manners, my Mum would always take our side in arguments when in reality sometimes we were sometimes to blame. There was never any abuse other than his dislike of me dying my hair and wearing eyeliner, which culminated in him to force me into the bath and washing my hair with swarfega till my scalp bled to get the dye out. For a time he settled on calling me fag or Charlie Chan but soon gave up.
For the next four years home life was like a cold war, my Mum refused to let him watch the TV because she had paid for it. He spent that time in a cold kitchen eating kebabs whilst listening to a shitty tape deck playing Chris Reas "Road To Hell". If it hadnt been for my sister bumbling about learning to walk and talk, if she hadn't been there to dance to Right Said Fred it would have been miserable. He eventually left when the flat they rented was compulsory purchased and my Mum and Sister were re-housed by a housing association (by then I had left home for 3 years, fortunately by then he had a CD player). He died last year having only seen my Sister once again, she tracked him down through an Aunt , showed him his Grandson who he denied was his and died the next week.
When I had my daughter I reconnected with my Dad eventually developing a routine where as a family we would go to Holland every other year. I wanted my kids to have a relationship with him and I wanted him to see his legacy. During that time his health had deteriorated, neglect and abuse had left him to walk with a hobbled gait, an untreated hernia left his belly distended. Delirium tremens left him constantly bobbing up and down, his clothes were ill fitting with jeans being held up by cord wherever he went people would look at him with barely disguised contempt. My children adored him, he was Pinky.
This seems to have gone for far too long so I will wrap it up as best I can. About 4 years ago he was diagnosed with kidney failure, he underwent one round of dialysis but decided that he was ready to pass away on his terms. We made a final trip one february but he was bed bound and seriously ill and he died within the month.
He left behind about 1000 euros worth of methadone (I had to take it to the police station), 400 euros in cash held in a cannister around his neck and a folder of his poems and lyrics each of which was newly typed and sleeved along with the original copy often written on scrap paper. All of these were bequeathed to me.
In a life time of living on the fringes of art and society his only commercial credits were the translations on a CD of folk songs, a cooking book translation and a song that briefly dented the Dutch top 20.
He left behind 2 children and 3 grandchildren, one of whom will love him unconditionally and two grandkids who were fortunate enough to only ever see the magic he was capable of.
So what was the point of the above? I'm no longer sure. Perhaps people will see why I am concerned that my children have a life free from the negative perceptions of others. Perhaps people will understand my retinence to accept notions of their sexuality when in my mind they are still children.
I am fully aware that I am living my childhood through my kids. We share a lot of common interests in geek culture and I love spending time with them, I can only aspire to be their friend and the best father I can be.
So thats all... I have a banging headache and I need some time to my own thoughts. Come the morning I may read this and think "what the fuck did you write this on a sex toy forum for?" I would leave you with one of my Dad's poems but I have gone too far off the point I was trying to make anyway.
Instead I will leave you with a quote from Bob Marley a man my Dad admired most in all his life.
"don´t forget yor history nor your destiny."