The Colour of My Hair is Not a Sin

Some time ago someone I care about deeply sent me a stanza of a poem. That was a good day. It was my first introduction to the work of Alfred Edward Housman, an Englishman, a classicist, a scholar and a homosexual.

Housman’s poetry has been lauded as being of the highest lyrical worth, and its simple depth. Shortly after the trial of Oscar Wilde, a fellow writer and poet, and also a homosexual, A.E. Housman penned a poem telling the story of a young man whose ‘nameless and abominable sin’ was the colour of his hair.

Today we know that there have been many fights that have been fought and won, to different degrees. But one fight is far from over—the battle for the human rights and protections of lesbian, gay, bisexual and transsexual people around the world. Indeed in many parts of the world, and even in my own country, South Africa, and this country, the United States, being queer is still a ‘nameless and abominable sin’.

But slowly that is changing, and it takes big, public acts like President Barack Obama declaring June 2012 ‘Pride Month’, and respected people like Anderson Cooper coming out in public to change the tune of the song society sings. And it also takes small, personal acts like me, a nobody, saying 'I am gay'.

And my sexual orientation is not a crime. And the colour of my hair is not a sin.

Oh Who Is That Young Sinner

Oh who is that young sinner with the handcuffs on his wrists?
And what has he been after that they groan and shake their fists?
And wherefore is he wearing such a conscience-stricken air?
Oh they're taking him to prison for the colour of his hair.

'Tis a shame to human nature, such a head of hair as his;
In the good old time 'twas hanging for the colour that it is;
Though hanging isn't bad enough and flaying would be fair
For the nameless and abominable colour of his hair.

Oh a deal of pains he's taken and a pretty price he's paid
To hide his poll or dye it of a mentionable shade;
But they've pulled the beggar's hat off for the world to see and stare,
And they're haling him to justice for the colour of his hair.

Now 'tis oakum for his fingers and the treadmill for his feet
And the quarry-gang on Portland in the cold and in the heat,
And between his spells of labour in the time he has to spare
He can curse the God that made him for the colour of his hair.

A.E. Housman (1859-1936)