America was the funniest. A Russian colleague got there before me. We’d been friends since childhood. She tried to woo me when we were in high school, and when it didn’t work, she decided I was gay. Many years later, in the States, having discovered I was going to the university where she was, she spread a rumor about my sexual orientation. I didn’t understand why everyone was so polite to me and so insistent on their level of tolerance.
In Russia, it was hard. I ended up having a real scene with my parents. My father, despite being deeply religious, was calmer about it than my mother. She was truly horrified, and, it seems, still hasn’t come to terms with it. Still, the very next day she told me she loved me, and that’s the most important thing. In general, the way someone reacts to you coming out is a good filter. You get rid of unnecessary ties; all of my real friends have passed this test.
In Russia, the problem isn’t with being openly gay—it’s the atmosphere. After I got back from Japan, I didn’t recognize the Moscow I loved. The people, the feeling: it was all different. One morning a friend and I were walking from a gay club to the subway. It was light out, I was headed to work, and we walked past a group of teenagers, about ten of them, drinking beer. We heard a scream, “Hey, faggots!” and immediately I felt someone kick me in the back. I turned around and punched the person who’d attacked me, but then they all jumped on us at the same time, threw us on the ground, and started beating us up. They kicked us in the head, the ribs, all over. I did karate for four years, and in a moment of rage and pain, I jumped up, grabbed a bottle out of one of their hands, and threw myself at them. We were saved by a patrol car going by. The teenagers took off and we got in the squad car and ended up catching two or three of them and taking them down to the station.
This was the only unpleasant incident I’ve ever gotten into because of my sexual orientation. It’s not only dangerous to be gay here, but really, to be anyone. That’s why a lot of my friends move out of the country or to different cities. Right now, I have an interesting job with a lot of responsibility. I really like it, but the question of emigrating is always open. With these norms and laws, I’m always considering it. Incidentally, they don’t know my sexual orientation at work. I’m not worried about it; I am not going to hide from anyone.
Recently, there was a funny incident. I was on a yacht in the Adriatic in very severe, masculine company, these guys from St. Petersburg. We started talking about Mykonos, and the conversation turned toward how it’s important to beat up fags. I couldn’t help myself and explained everything about myself. They were like, well, you’re one of us, you’re fine, but the rest of them we need to beat up.
I don’t think that a gay person’s personal life in Moscow is different than anyone else’s. It’s the same eternal lack of time and energy to find the right person and develop a serious relationship. In the three years I’ve been in Moscow, I’ve had a few flings and just one real relationship—again, with a foreigner. We met two years ago, on December 10, during the Bolotnaya Square protests. I remember how I’d packed my backpack in case I got arrested and that same evening I was showing it to my future boyfriend. We dated for more than six months in a number of countries and then we decided to move in together. We considered Moscow. His company has an office here, but he wasn’t able to get transferred, and anyway, we decided that Austria would be better for a gay couple. Plus, it’s easier for me as a scientist to find a job there than it is for him to find a job in Russia. We were discussing having kids. We even found a potential surrogate mother. And then everything ended suddenly, literally on the eve of my “trial move-in.” It happens.
A version of this interview was originally published in Afisha magazine Issue 339 (February 25, 2013). It was updated by the author and reproduced here by permission of Afisha
NATALIA USHAKOVA
“If I start worrying about the government, I’ll end up having a third heart attack.”
Natalia Ushakova raised six children with her partner, Olga. Today, the kids range from 14 to 24, and only the youngest live at home with their mothers. Natalia and Olga will be grandmothers soon, and Natalia is planning to create a crisis center where LGBT teens can receive help and shelter if they’ve been kicked out of their homes, or have otherwise found themselves in dangerous situations. Right now Natalia and Olga are giving shelter to two LGBT teens they helped get off the streets of Moscow.
For those who believe in reincarnation: my wife Olga and I were together in our previous life. Otherwise, we’ve been together for long enough to be two parts of one whole, a whole called a family.
We both grew up in Soviet times. Back then there wasn’t only no lesbianism, there wasn’t any sex at all. So we’d both gotten married, even though I’d always felt attracted to my female friends. The first time I had sex with a woman was in college. At first it seemed insane, but it was also insanely pleasant.
By the time we met, we had each had children, and some of them were already teens. All it took was a couple of hours together to see that we wanted to be together. That was seven years ago. We’re in our eighth year living together.
It may sound strange, but both my and Olga’s children were fine with our moving in together. We immediately found a common language.
Same-sex parents are no different than heterosexual parents if the father doesn’t drink and push the mother around. I can hammer in a nail, chop wood, and lay wire myself. Like any family, we have our disagreements, but not because we’re both women. The rest, the everyday, is the same: cleaning, doing the dishes, skipping class, and keeping grades up. The children do the dishes and clean. I cook. Olga goes to work. I also do the laundry and ironing. Everyone fixes things around the house. When I get sick, Olga cooks and the little ones do the washing and ironing. We’re all equal.
There are practically no other families like ours in our city and Olga sometimes gets bored. That’s when we go to Moscow to hang out at a club or go to a concert.
The “morality warriors” claim that the “propaganda” of growing up in a same-sex family will make children homosexuals. Idiots! Our three eldest are all married. Two of our other children are dating. My son and his girlfriend also seem to be moving toward marriage. Only the youngest hasn’t figured out his love life yet, but he’s only fourteen. He is courting a girl very gracefully.
My mother used to make mean-spirited jokes about us, but after a while, she calmed down. My middle daughter Nastya has helped a lot in this regard—she’s going to give us the gift of a grandson soon. She said that she’s not going to disown me, even if I decided to live with the devil himself. If grandma doesn’t like it, she won’t come see her. That was her ultimatum.
Friends come over pretty often. They don’t have any issues with us, or any kind of negativity toward us. I’m like one of the guys with them, and they aren’t shy about telling me all of their secrets and problems. They even call me at night sometimes. I have a lot of straight friends and they are all worried about us.
I try not to pay attention to the news. If I start worrying about some nonsense with our government, I’m going to end up having a third heart attack. But I’m afraid of the hatred of the people who hate without knowing why. It’s like it was during the Inquisition. There’s mass hysteria, a witch hunt.
Some people leave the country so that they can have families and lead normal lives. To each his own. Everyone should do whatever they find necessary. But what should people do if they can’t leave the country?