(Or: In which I attempt to bring up the topic of

queer coding in Lawrence of Arabia to my mother)

1

I know I am wrong to have brought it up as soon as I see my mum’s reaction: the shock that’s conveyed; then the denial; then the insistence that it doesn’t quite make sense, that she didn’t see any sign of it.

— CAPTAIN: I must say, Lawrence.

— LAWRENCE: Sorry.

I think my mum only has a problem with people being queer if she knows them well enough before they tell her that they are. By that point, she has built up an image of them in her head, and it is somehow shattered with this sudden, shocking (perhaps even disturbing) information. Her reaction to my admittance of my own queerness had gone much the same way (although, at this point, she came to terms with it long ago, and is now even supportive, the memory of her initial response is still unpleasant).

— ALI: “A man can be whatever he wants.” You said.

— LAWRENCE: I’m sorry. I thought it was true.

I tread lightly, now, crafting my reaction in response to her own expressions. I’m trying to remember why exactly I decided to tell her about this, anyway. (Probably because I found it interesting, and I like to tell my mum about interesting things.) No, it wasn’t obvious, I say. Of course it wasn’t. Even though I am speaking about a quote from the director, who had deliberately intended for him to be portrayed as gay:

“As to the suggestion that the film is pervasively homoerotic, [David Lean] says: ‘Yes. Of course it is. Throughout. (...) it does pervade it, the whole story, and certainly Lawrence was very if not entirely homosexual. We thought we were being very daring at the time: Lawrence and Omar, Lawrence and the Arab boys.’” (Yardley)

I don’t want this to get any worse, so I end up saying, almost instinctively, that I hadn’t seen any sign of it either. Though that’s a lie, of course. In spite of my own ambivalence regarding the act of “pairing up” a historical figure with a fictional one— an amalgamation of all the people he worked with side by side in the war— I did notice things.

— ALI: Aurens, one more failure and you will find yourself alone. I do not include myself.

Obviously, a close friendship seen in a film is not necessarily grounds for anything suspicious. A scene set on a beach where the sun is setting, where one character gives another flowers; or even an admittance of love, does not have to imply anything other than a close, open friendship. If it were, I would be happy to see it (heaven knows we are starved of close male companionships in stories). But now, with my added knowledge of the intentions regarding the character, my perception of the characters’ relationship changes ever-so-slightly. I wonder if, for my mum, the relationship changes completely with the new information, making it less valuable, less meaningful; as if the movie is trying to be obvious about it in an uncomfortable way (in spite of the fact that, before, it was somehow so subtle she hadn’t even noticed).

2

I end up finding it a little bit funny that a movie my dad loves about his favorite historical figure (his “hero”, as he puts it— of whom he has pictures of, a portrait, and books both of and written by him) is queer coded. And then just like that, I feel a little bit guilty, like the queer elements threaten to ruin the film for him if I were to ever point them out. All the same, I wonder how he would react to knowing they were there; or if he had seen them before. I wonder if he has any idea of the speculation of the real T.E Lawrence’s sexuality, and I wonder how he feels about it. I decide he probably doesn’t care.

The phrase “doesn’t care” in this context may be viewed as positive, but I have come to decidedly view it as neutral. Sometimes I wonder if my dad’s lack of a reaction to my coming out was truly better than my mum’s bitterness and tears. In the moment, compared to the weakness in my legs and the nausea in my chest after having the third argument with my mum that week about my own identity— it seemed like a godsend. Looking back, I wonder if he even took me seriously. I wonder if he takes me seriously now. Indeed, he has told to me that the rights of queer people is a problem reserved for my generation, that his own people simply did not feel a need to focus on (although queer rights have been an issue since long before he was born). Oftentimes, I worry his lack of care was merely a different kind of rejection than my mother’s, forged from the same material. He does not care to speak about it with me; he does not wish to. He and my mother still, after more than a year, refer to my partner as my (best) friend— and I, terribly enough, have followed their example (perhaps out of discomfort, perhaps out of fear).

— LAWRENCE: Look, Ali. Look. That’s me. (…) That’s me, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

— ALI: “A man can do whatever he wants.” You said.

— LAWRENCE: He can. But. He can’t want what he wants.

And he doesn’t realize I still hear him in his office during nights I am home, sometimes, before I’ve fallen asleep: snapping in irritation at seeing another person on his list of patients with a gender identity he doesn’t understand. I hold my covers closer, and squint my eyes shut tighter; and pretend that he doesn’t remember that my partner is transgender, and pretend that I don’t ever think about what it would be like to have a mustache and to have people look at me and think that I’m a man and how that might make me feel.

— MURRAY: You’re the kind of creature I can’t stand, Lawrence.

There’s debate around what kind of queer T.E Lawrence was exactly. Whether asexual, or gay, or both, or something different all together. Either way, I wonder how my dad would feel knowing his hero was, in some small way, similar to myself.

— LAWRENCE: Leave me alone.

— ALLENBY: That’s a feeble thing to say.

— LAWRENCE: I know I’m not ordinary.

It’s a little bit ironic; he tells me again and again that he’ll build a shed for me one day, and proudly reminisces about the day I was able to get into my own “personal” Oxford (that is, my favorite pick of the universities to which I applied). I have even, at his suggestion, picked up Lawrence’s habit of writing in libraries. It seems to me at times that all that will be left for me to do, when I am older and have done whatever great thing it is I hope to do with my life, is to buy a motorcycle and become a hermit, so as to fulfill this bizarre, hilarious prophecy.

— MURRAY: All right, Dryden. You can have him for six weeks. Who knows! It might even make a man of him.

3

Of course, to compare myself, in any sense, to someone of the sheer importance of T.E Lawrence, is, in itself, hilarious.

— SECRETARY: You’re a clown, Lawrence.

— LAWRENCE: Ah, well. We can’t all be lion-tamers. (…) Sorry.

And yet I can’t help but see myself in his character in the film when, after regarding his reflection in a polished knife, he looks at his shadow in the sand and revels in his new attire, having found something he feels wholly comfortable in— and with it, a feeling of belonging; of unexplainable rightness, even if not understanding why. I somehow see a bit of me, wearing a suit for the first time after getting my first short, boyish haircut and staring at myself in the mirror. I think we share the same giddy smile.

— ALI: Tribute for the prince, flowers for the man.

— LAWRENCE: I’m none of those things, Ali.

— ALI: What, then?

— LAWRENCE: Don’t know.

I write, two days after watching the film, that I have decreed a new personal artist’s rite of passage. But maybe, instead of drawing a portrait of Lawrence of Arabia as a gift for my father, as I had initially imagined— maybe I will draw a portrait of him for myself, instead.

4

Afterword:

I referenced the movie’s original screenplay to make sure I quoted all of the dialogue I used properly. I found out that there were several cues in the script that were almost purely metaphor–  just notes about what each character felt so the actors might portray it. There’s one cue for Lawrence about controlling a “surge of gratitude - dangerously similar to love (Bolt 80)” before he responds to Ali. I saw that line while editing what I had written at 2:00 in the morning, and I felt it break my heart. I decided to tell my mum about it when I next saw her; once again, I’m not sure why. Maybe I just like to tell her things I find interesting. Maybe I hoped it would be different; maybe I hoped this piece of writing could be considered inaccurate, or outdated. But she just pulled a face, like she had eaten something sour. And we moved on in the conversation. Oh, well. The trick, after all, is not minding that it hurts. For what it’s worth, even though the portait has yet to be drawn, I did eventually end up creating a lantern based on the film.

—————

Works Cited:

- Bolt, Robert. “Lawrence of Arabia.” Daily Script, www.dailyscript.com/scripts/Lawerence_of_Arabia.pdf. Accessed 19 Apr. 2024.

- Lean, David, director. Lawrence of Arabia. Horizon Pictures, Columbia Pictures, 1962.

- Yardley, Jonathan. “David Lean, Sorcerer of the Screen - The Washington Post.” Washingtonpost.Com, The Washington Post, 2 Feb. 1989, www.washingtonpost.com/archive/lifestyle/1989/02/03/david-lean-sorcerer-of-the-screen/784a3547-60d6-47d6-96a4-1f99f3edea55/.

Alyx tells me I can never quit working, Dad tells me the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. What’s wrong? he asks again. The answer, of course, is nothing, and it’s the same answer he always gives to me.

What’s wrong, kiddo? What’s wrong?

Oh but I am only tired, old man— dog-tired, as you know well. Birds of a feather, you and I: mired. Only tired: tired, wired, and all dried up.

-

(2024)

Cowboy Jack thinks he’s Doc Holliday just because his dad’s a doc;

Cowboy Jack’s skinny n’ blonde, but for commonalities that’s ’bout all he’s got.

For one, he ain’t got no mustache, just a tiny, sad bit of fuzz;

For another, he’s a lightweight, can’t even stand to be a bit buzzed.

Sometimes he pulls on his shirt (nervous habit) and sometimes he’s out of breath;

Most times he fidgets with his hands (nervous habit) and can’t stand any talk of death.

I guess he’s got the spittin’ down (though it’s mucus, not tobacco or blood)

But his poker game’s weak; don’t know a straight from a flush… plays like a goddamned clown.

People are mean; out here it’s rough, and I’m just bein’ honest:

The little dude’s anxious, wants to be tough, and hell if it ain’t obvious.

No, Cowboy Jack ain’t no Holliday—

he ain’t even from the south.

But for what it’s worth, once, I called him a sissy, and he punched me hard in the mouth.

-

(2024)

O, Lord, if I am to die of asphyxiation,

let it be of carbon monoxide

let it be in the garage of my home

let it be the smell of my dad’s 1967 Porsche 911’s engine filling the room

it smells like nostalgia (purified)

it smells like a memory (fading)

it smells like home (home)

O, Lord, if I am to die of asphyxiation,

Lord, let me die at home.

-

(2023)

they say money can’t buy you happiness

rubbish!

poppycock!

what a load of shit!

do you know all i could do, if i were rich?

i’d travel

see the world

run my fingers along its edges

run along its plateaus

run through its great fields

along the sand in the cold

oh yes

buy me the moonlight in the night sky, that makes the ocean glow

buy me that time i played in the snow, and nearly froze

buy me the leaves that fell on the floor of the woods last autumn

buy me the first audiobook i heard while in the car with my father

buy me the scent of the museum i went to when i was five

buy me the first stuffed toy i lost, and cried

oh yes

i’d get to buy everything

i’d get to do everything

see all there is to see

do all there is to do

draw all i could draw

until my hands were dry and raw

oh yes

buy me the hand lotion left for me in my stocking on christmas

buy me the first song i ever heard, and listen

listen

buy me lots of clocks

i like to hear them tick

their hands running along their faces, while their laughter sounds

tick tick tick

laugh all you want

i wouldn’t worry then

because then

i’d be rich

oh yes

call me a selfish bitch

but god

if time is money, i wish i were rich

-

(2021)

“And, I think-- to be honest, I think most of the cake is crumbs, because that’s what tastes good [laughter]. And there’s also a reference (in the recipe) to ‘double the crumbs’, ’cause it’s better that way! Very little cake… lots of crumbs… delicious.”

- Mum (on the family’s recipe for Streuselkuchen)

If you Ate a Proper German Crumb Cake

you would drown in crumbs:

you would breathe in dry, sweet cinnamon,

asphyxiate in sugary dust.

taste one hundred years of family

of fondness

of love

the rest of the cake forgotten

buried deep underneath the fragments of

glittering, silver bronze

another memory gone to bed

another word yet gone unsaid

stuck in the back of the throat

since swallowed

and washed down with cold ice water

then,

finally break for air, again

-

(2022)