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There was Goldust, who minced toward the ring in a shoulder-length white wig, ceremoniously wrapped in a fluffy floor-length golden robe. Of course, it is misguided, but I can piece together the reasoning. These loose connections speak more to the ways we internalise social myths, how gender has been constructed-binaries strengthened by language and norms displayed all around.
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I didn’t know what to make of the idea that somehow indulging things that were slightly masculine, things that ‘boys’ enjoy, had some impact on carving out a sexuality. To hold some warped belief that only people who failed at parenting ended up with gay kids-because being gay was somehow failing at life. I imagine it was hard as a parent in the 90s not to be influenced by the casual homophobia and transphobia that simmered underneath almost everything. I don’t know if dad believed the story that wrestling ‘made me gay’, as we’ve never spoken about it. Like Masterchef, like Married at First Sight, like Survivor. For me, wrestling was a comfort that was knowable. Wrestling served as a way to regulate my nervous system battled by bullies and confused about gender and sexuality. We meditate, go for a swim, phone a friend. There are things that we do to settle the nervous system. She said he blamed himself, making a connection between my sexuality and penchant for sport. Mum recounted the story of telling my dad my coming out news. I later learnt I was in fact a dyke, and later still, that I was a faggot too-traipsing a transness I had no language for. Having an undercut in 1997 was apparently a gay giveaway. Surreptitiously, she’d been attending the local PFLAG for years and had been trying to convince my dad to come along too. ‘What’s a dyke?’ I asked mum through tears.
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Year 10 girls hovered in the toilet doorway shouting ‘This is the GIRLS’ toilet!’ and ‘DYKE!’ Once, one pushed me over when I tried to sneak in under their arms. My other life was spent at Narrabeen Sports High School being bullied relentlessly. My favourite thing, age 13, was to sit cross-legged on the threadbare blue-grey carpet of Video Ezy, lost in VHS wrestling covers.
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You watched it on cable TV or you hired the latest Pay Per View WWF main event, three months out of date, from the New Releases section of the video store. She said he blamed himself, making a connection between my sexuality and penchant for sport.īack in the 90s, wrestling was not a readily available indulgence. Mum recounted the story of telling my dad. My bedroom walls were lined with posters: Chyna, Stone Cold Steve Austin, Brett ‘the Hitman’ Hart. I paid ten cents a page to print wrestling stories from the web, sputtered out line by line from the inkjet under the librarian’s desk. I was spending evenings at the local library on one of two computers that had the internet. I was reading ghost-written wrestling autobiographies and ordering magazines in the post. When I wasn’t playing basketball, I was watching or thinking about wrestling. My nebulous queer identity was finding its form. Some had peroxided hair gelled back and held the hands of hot femmes. It was my first glimpse at queers-women in high-waisted blue jeans and black leather jackets. After the game, I watched the players, in their civilian clothes, waited on by fans and friends by the bar. On weekends I mopped up the sweat of the mid-90s premier women’s basketball team, the Sydney Flames-who drew crowds of up to 6,000 at the Sydney Entertainment Centre.
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I played multiple times a week, throwing free throws late into the night. Outside of school I was a prodigious basketballer with dreams of making it a career. My first email address was It was my wrestling-obsessed 13-year-old self’s nod to the World Wrestling Federation’s Mick Foley and his three wrestling alter egos Mankind, Cactus Jack and Dude Love.Īs a young person, I lived two lives. Image: WWE, reproduced under Fair Dealing provisions