Whom Is Pride For?

An Early Farewell

The Manchester Pride Weekend comes to an end today, and it could not have come much sooner. The August Bank Holiday, from Friday until Monday, is taken over with festivities, revelry, and debauchery, depending on what takes your fancy.

I would rather be elsewhere, however. Last year I was in Cape Town, in the company of my husband and taking things at my own pace.

Falling Out

In the thirteen years that I have lived in Manchester, I have grown progressively disillusioned with the event, both for its commercialisation and its seeming lack of broad representation.

From the day in the Easter break of 2013, when a friend and I were refused entry to a club for no discernible reason beyond bouncer ego and racism, I have fallen out with Canal Street, which constitutes the main part of the Manchester Gay Village, along with the adjoining streets.

What frustrated us further was that there seemed to be no recourse, no obvious means of registering our displeasure. Yet a search of the Internet turned up news reports of exactly these discriminatory door policies, predicated not on fact but on prejudice, assumption, or the subjective judgement of the door staff at many venues.

An Unfair Assessment

That experience coloured my view of the Gay Village and left me with the impression that all the associated voluntary support organisations were of the same ilk. It was an unfair assessment, I concede, but it took hold because none of the ones I hoped might help were willing to do anything.

I live on the border of the village, yet I am the least engaged with the place, apart from walking through it if I need to get to other parts of the city.

Rights and Nuisance

As for Pride itself, the whole area is cordoned off into an enclave of activity that requires a ticket to attend; even so, you cannot be denied the public right of way to traverse it if you need to get through.

That, some years ago, became a point of contention between the security personnel, who did not know the law, and the police, who affirmed our rights.

Beyond that, there is the unneighbourly inconvenience of the cacophony, and of inebriated and sickly attendees becoming a nuisance on our side streets.

Not My Demographic

For what is supposed to be a community event, given the cost to attend and the interest in whatever entertainment is arrayed, I have found that I am probably not the demographic best served by most of what goes on there.

When I have deigned to purchase a ticket, I have never attended any of the performances; and once caught in the thickened crowd, I am already suffocating, so I rush back home for respite.

It is simply not a place of any comfort, whether alone or in the company of others. Now, I avoid it altogether and skirt the place, rather than insist on my right of passage.

Losing Its Way

Beyond community, Pride is supposed to help good causes, and we have many that represent different interests.

A few years ago, the establishment running Pride hiked prices, made their greatest profit, and then reduced their charitable contributions. It had lost its way, trying to rival and outdo the events in Birmingham and London by bringing in global acts best viewed at entertainment venues.

These acts were an exorbitant waste of resources in the quest for fame, and it led to the eventual, and just, collapse of the organisation, which still owed lesser acts who had given their time, resources, energy, and talent in the community spirit.

A Case for Change

This year, we were assured that the event would be more representative. I have not noticed as much. The ticket prices were still high; and whilst the acts celebrated more local talent, so that the total cost came to twenty per cent less than what was paid to the main act last year, I am still failing to find any sense of engagement.

My premise for sponsorship is broader accessibility and affordability, without anyone having to declare that they are in straitened circumstances to qualify for a concessionary ticket, assuming any are available at all, or so few that access becomes a lottery.

The influence sponsors hold over Pride management should be codified as invitational rather than institutional, never commanding or directing what Pride can and cannot do. There must be strict autonomy, alongside broad community representation in the decision-making process.

Watching from Afar

Apart from stepping out of my apartment block onto the street with my folding chair to watch the parades on Saturday, which had over 150 distinct participants, including organisations, companies, clubs, charities, establishments, and political parties, I have done nothing more.

The clouds did gather and rain on the parade at certain times, but it did not dampen anyone's enthusiasm. I was in my rain jacket and poncho, which kept me dry, though some braved the chill and the wet as if it were a bright summer's day.

Even the Service for Pride at Manchester Cathedral, which I would usually steward and sometimes take part in, I gave a miss. Two invitations to garden barbecues I ignored, rather than offer my regrets and risk being persuaded against my own inclination.

Protest and Celebration

It is my view that the Pride principle has long deviated from its founding ethos of both protest and celebration; it has become an over-commercialised affair that now merely grants access to those with the means, rather than a broad community celebration that recognises the diversity it comprises, in groups large and small. Pride has drifted from access towards exclusivity.

So the question remains: whom is the modern Pride for? The answer I have seen suggests it is not for everyone, nor for the well-meaning members of the wider community who wish to embrace one another in the pursuit of human rights and dignity, both for those affected and for their allies. These are all reasons why I am no more supportive of Pride in Manchester today than I have been for the past few years.

No Curmudgeon

As peace returns to my city by the end of today, I am not being curmudgeonly. We can simply agree that not everyone is energised by these things, and that there should be acceptance of this without heaping on any kind of excoriation.

Maybe, next year, I shall be just as absent from this annual charade, in the company of my husband, who, for his lack of exposure to these settings, is far too easily excited about Pride events for my liking or comfort.

On parental interference and sundry matters - III

A Problem Child

I have a blessing; I still have my parents who are alive and well, but we have a situation where we are estranged. This estrangement is probably because they are embarrassed or ashamed of me, and that is something we all have to deal with in life when it comes to how we live and the choices we make.

In those circumstances, I have taken measures to manage their exposure to these things, sometimes by reducing or eliminating communication.

For those children who have made their parents proud without having to sacrifice anything of themselves, I guess you are doubly blessed. The stars were aligned, maybe angels were even singing to the shepherds in the fields, as wise men journeyed with presents of gold, frankincense, and myrrh from the East to herald your birth. Oh, the prophets foretold it all.

I was not that child; I was different, difficult, and diffident. I was at one time smart and then considered stupid; for a while, trusted, and then not trusted. I was a handful to my parents, yet a product of the environment I was in.

We Were Not Friends

My African parents made many assumptions about what they thought I had learnt from examples that were not always obvious, for instance, the handling of money. Heck! My father is an accountant, but tell me, how do you pass down the genes? I guess only one of my siblings pursued a career with any semblance of that profession, so much for the power of example.

My parents are of the generation that maintained a certain status and stature, with a school principal for a mother, someone moulding impressionable young lives. The pressure to perform was even more stifling, the need to impress was necessary, and every failing was condemned with such excoriation it left an indelible mark.

Then I failed. I failed woefully, twice. I started courses at two polytechnics, both ending with the advice to withdraw. When I look back, I realise I was clinically depressed; my mother had Psalms and white-garment prophets on the rolodex of that time, and I found religion. I had finished secondary school at 15 and was starting all over again at 20.

A Different Parent

The difference this time was being under the guardianship of an uncle, my sadly departed Uncle Cash, a close relation who had experienced failures early in life but had become very successful in his chosen profession of insurance.

That relationship was different. It was not built on a yearning to show power by demanding and comparing, but on engagement and an appreciation that I was a person first, with my own beliefs and persuasions that could be accommodated within his mentorship and guidance. My parents backed off a bit, and I thrived.

The purpose I gained moved from setting goals to make others proud to achieving success for myself. I had the power to make my own decisions, based not on what others thought, but on what I thought was best for who I was, what I was doing, and what I aimed to achieve.

We Are Really Strangers

In their eyes, I could very well still be the child they once knew, because we grew so far apart from the day they sent me to secondary boarding school. They knew one child; I am a different man, and their child still.

In the same vein, my parents have changed from the people I once knew, even as some characteristics remain, and we have never really had the time to compare notes about who everyone turned out to be.

I have issues and misgivings, many of which I have written about in my blogs. I think I have had a reasonable relationship with my father and a rather volatile one with my mother. Even as I think of them and love them, there are elements of past resentment and abandonment that have taken hold as I review their parenting of me as an individual.

My parents, I can understand, have their concerns too: they have a firstborn son who is gay, has never married and will marry a man, has no offspring, and whom they have not seen in decades. And I am comfortable with all that, because it is my own life and not theirs.

Let's Do This Again

On my Facebook page, I have a friend request, the inspiration for this blog, because it is from my father, who I once blocked, then unblocked, but did not re-establish the friend relationship. After all, he conflated the situations of parent, participant, and policing.

Allowing him to participate in my social media activities meant that he began to police me, and then I got the message: “The earlier you make a good change in your lifestyle the better; it is not too late. All the best”. I was 53. I am going to be 60 in December.

You know what? I’ll accept that friend request.

Blog - This is my life, this is me

Blog - On parental interference and sundry matters

Blog - On parental interference and sundry matters - II

Manchester Pride 2024 - Between disinterest and stewarding

For a parade and a charade

The August Bank Holiday weekend in Manchester is for the Manchester Pride and one those of us who live on the borders of the Gay Village sometimes dread out of inconvenience and frustration. It is a time of endless cacophony that begins from Thursday night through to Monday evening with possibly a vigil in remembrance of those we lost to the AIDS plague.

For those who come the attend the events and many from out of town and even from abroad, it presents the prospect of wanton debauchery and the prescient profiteering of all the hospitality and services establishments that find the footfall irresistible to exploitation, even as punters and patrons submit themselves too willingly to the abuse of their respect and their wallets.

The Pride Parade on the Saturday afternoon is something to look forward to, though I could be inspired to residents’ rage just for the loudspeakers that get put close to my window or on the main street, not so much for the event, but for the testing of equipment that starts early in the morning when we are trying to lie-in and continues almost every quarter of an hour as if suddenly the equipment had given up. Let’s not think of if I were an American with a gun.

Diversity, not as we think it

This time they plonked down a mobile 120-seat grandstand on our street which I found out to be the judges view to rate the floats that passed by towards the end of the parade. I had a guest who had just moved to Manchester and a friend had asked me to chaperone him. Not much to be done, I would have stepped out of my apartment block with a folding chair and some bottles of water. I provided rainproof clothes and umbrellas too, when it rained.

However, I do wonder if the judges as my guest did see the diversity we observed was not as diverse as our community would suggest apart from accounting for the diversity in faces of the same identity group, like say, race? Not to talk of the fact that one float dressed up a black man in full uniform to drive their Bentley. Then the Gay Gordons in full Scottish attire had one of their contingent playing the bagpipes who was noticeably of African descent.

In the probably 250 that participated in the parade, there could not have been 10 that were representative of ethnic minorities, and this is where Manchester still fails to embrace the broader expanse of identity within this diverse community.

It was not helped by one such group removing themselves from the parade because of concerns about sponsorship in relation to the Israel – Gaza conflict. They were invisible when they should have erred on the pragmatic side of things, because there were Palestinian groups represented on the parade.

Just let me through

I was surprised that I stayed to watch the whole parade that lasted over 3 hours, and it was time to retire and that was for a good long nap. The only other times I ventured through the Gay Village that was gated off for the festivities was for church on Sunday and then the Pride Eucharist in the evening.

At least now, apart from security checks of bags, right-of-way is no longer questioned as it was even refused to people who just wanted to pass through about a decade ago.

Besides, I had on principle decided for years now, that I will not pay the extortionate prices for attending any of the Pride events even as those who find themselves shortchanged denied access to venues quickly at capacity to watch their favourite bands.

My plate did overflow

As a church steward at the Manchester Cathedral, I had offered to be on the rota for duties at the Pride Eucharist which was organised by the leadership of the Village Church that meets on the 2^nd and 4^th Sundays of the month at the LGBT Foundation offices on Sackville Street. [Manchester Cathedral: Pride Eucharist pamphlet (PDF)]

Cover of the Pride Eucharist pamphlet.

The typical activities would have been handing service pamphlets to people who had come to fellowship, doing the collection during the offertory hymn, and ushering the congregation towards the altar for Communion.

Then one of the wardens asked me to take the plate of offerings to the altar for blessing and I had hardly said yes to that when the convenor of Village Church came to ask if I would participate in the intercessory prayer part of the service. She already had my name on the prayer sheet before coming to chat to me. I obliged willingly at the honour.

My part included a 30-second pause for silent prayer, my clock ticked a bit faster than it should in my head, I counted to 10 twice, losing my ways somewhere in the simplicity of the aura of scrutiny as I continued to the end of my contribution.

It’s a wrap until next year

After the service, we remained for tea, coffee, biscuits, and cake, before a young man on army leave who had asked to speak with me earlier requested if he could play the grand piano.

He had such talent but was expecting of rebuke or derision when we so readily praised him. Sadly, some people are subjected to so much criticism that even what they are so good at, they are too unsure of demonstrating.

I guess all that became the highlight of my own Manchester Pride, disinterested, uninvolved, and almost curmudgeonly, except where it mattered more in cheering the parades and serving at the Pride Eucharist, until next year when again, we suffer, or we leave town.

Stewarding at the Pride Eucharist

The Rainbow flag flying on the flagstaff of the Manchester Cathedral.

In the beauty of service

I am humbled by how the call to serve has brought me into proximity and recognition of the powerful. It is a distinctive antithesis of human nature where many have a quest for power rather than the desire to serve.

Whilst one cannot say this is something I would have gravitated to in the natural cause of things, I do remember that when I eventually found a church to associate with in Amsterdam, I found that getting involved in the basics of helping to set up and dismantle the settings for services and worship was something to do because it was needful.

In the process, I got involved during the infancy of the church in finding a new venue, providing storage space, hosting but not leading a prayer group, and was in the ushers and serving team. I however declined positions of leadership that were offered as I was in much conflict about what that entailed.

To welcome and to steward

As a welcomer and a steward at the Manchester Cathedral, positions I assumed after the long courting and persuasion of others who deemed my attendance as one that suggested enough affinity and the readiness to be involved, even more so when the dean through his wife expressed that I had to be involved because there is no reason not to be, I relented.

At the Annual General Meeting of the cathedral, I was voted on as a steward and soon after in my activities with the Volition programme became a welcomer of visitors to the cathedral.

However, yesterday, in attending the Eucharist for Pride which enjoins to bring the LGBTQI+ community into communion and worship, I arrived early to help, just in case extra hands were needed. At the Dean’s Garden Party two Saturdays ago, he, the dean said there was no way the cathedral could function without the volunteers that help in services and other activities that need doing in the cathedral organisation.

Between right and respect

I soon took over at the door to welcome and hand out the service programme to people who had come to attend the Pride Eucharist and it was notable for the fact that the Bishop of Manchester was also in attendance to welcome, bless, charge, and dismiss the congregation. The clergy that ministered at the altar were all ordained by the bishop too. [The Manchester Pride takes place in the August Bank Holiday weekend from Thursday night through Monday night.]

I had interesting encounters at the door, the cathedral is open to all visitors, and I have probably met visitors from more than 35 countries. However, when there are services in the nave, the church is closed to visitors with a big sign posted at the door informing anyone not attending the ongoing service that the cathedral is closed.

Yet, there are some that ignore the sign and come through the doors insisting they need to visit almost as if it is a matter of right. The difficult conversation that ensues between understanding that the house of God is open and the need to respect that the act of congregational worship should courteously and understandably not be disturbed is almost a battle of wits, reasonableness, and enforcement.

Stand for the open heart

To one lady who was ready to barge in, I told her, there was an ongoing service and except if she was here to attend the Pride Eucharist, the church was now closed to visitors, but she was not going quietly. With a look of incredulity on her face she asked why the church was catering to gay folk, to which I answered that Jesus died for all and the church is an open place of worship for everyone. Much as everyone needs prayer.

She understood as much before we moved on to issues of symbolism and doctrine, by which time, I had to move her from the inside of the church into the corridor of the doorway, with the hope that she would leave peacefully. Yes, we are a Protestant church, the Church of England, The depictions of Jesus or Mary are not venerated in answering other questions before she insisted her sister-in-law was attending the service and she needed to get to her.

Pointing in a direction I could hardly determine, two of a group that was initially hesitant to attend walked towards the door from the furthest part of the seating and they all left the cathedral.

The door of conflict and consent

It soon dawned upon me the precariousness of manning the door, as earlier, someone had left their rucksack at the doorway, which caused a bit of tension that it was inspected by the staff after an announcement did not elicit a response about ownership. Eventually, he returned to claim his bag, but it could have been something else.

Another could barely contain the sense of rage about the church involved in this service, and we have at times had someone come in to disrupt an ongoing service protesting that the gathering was not a reflection of true Christianity, as if disrupting other people’s devotion is Christian in any sense at all.

It was revealed when the Bishop of Manchester in his welcoming remarks stated that one of the requirements that came up in his application for the role was that he needed to be accepted by the LGBTQI+ community of Manchester. I was surprised but what makes for harmony is the welcoming of diversity to the love of Christ and therein the gospel is heard by all rather than limited to a few.

The Pride Eucharist was attended by about 150 people, it was a celebration of Christianity, and many stayed behind for refreshments. Later, the bishop thanked us for serving and stewarding, which included taking the offering and ushering to the communion. A welcoming church allows Jesus Christ and the Holy Spirit to do their work rather than become gatekeepers and sentries to the grace and gift of the gospel of Jesus Christ.

The cover of the Pride Eucharist programme.

Thought Picnic: Parental pride is a bonus

It took a while to come

I was well into my 50s when I heard my father say something along the lines of “I am proud of you.” to me. Now, parental pride is a sort of gift, precious in its provenance and quite useful in some circumstances. It is a kind of affirmation and approbation that can help build confidence and character, it can also be in short supply.

I would be the first to say, I was not the easiest or best child to raise, my adolescence was turmoil and conflict, headaches and frustration for my parents and I found no respite or succour for the changes I hoped to attain to move into the category of acceptable. However, it was in being the ward of someone else that I began to find sense and purpose.

Put it in perspective

On the matter of parental pride, that went to another sibling, who received accolades and praise from every place, the school, the community and beyond, much as it would have created scope for amazing success and ascendancy, it did not prepare them for some experiences would best be forgotten.

Much as I love my parents, I have never worshipped the ground on which they have walked, I have neither the temperament nor the predilection to obsequiousness. Obviously, my father thought I did not respect him enough, I could not think of what else was expected of me, the similarities between us are essential by inference genetic mainly, probably with some tics and mannerism but not definitive of who I am or have become.

Get on with your life

If after a fashion I had determined to please my parents to any degree, they probably would be the happiest parents around, but my life would have been utterly miserable because I would have been living an expression of their desires rather the fulness of my own individuality, uniqueness, and expression.

What I learnt for myself was to live my own life as best I can, achieving what I could with the tools I have been given. Whether impactful or less so, I have followed as much as I have been given means and opportunity, my dreams and the consequence is for better or for worse, I have my own narrative that anyone can choose to celebrate or excoriate, but I am not working to someone else’s time.

A bonus is not the thing

Parental pride, in the end, is a bonus, if it comes and it is expressed, it should be received with grace and if does not come, it is not the end of the world. I am glad for having my parents, their experience and advice can be useful, but the buck stops with me, I make my decisions and call the shots for my situation. Once the umbilical cord is cut, we are beings floating in space tethered by the gravity of filiality but not bound strictly to an orbit. They can only do so much; we have to do the rest.

You do not have to become the life your parents wished you had, but you can quite become the life they wished they had.

Manchester Pride has become a purposeless Bacchanalia

Profit before purpose

The August Bank Holiday Weekend in Manchester has for long been set aside for the celebration of Manchester Gay Pride, though the Gay has been dropped from the name to make the festival that starts from Friday through Monday more widely celebratory or possibly more commercially palatable to the mainstream.

One can see that our city has had an influx of patrons who are here to revel and party along with anything else they can get up to. Yet, I cannot say we are as residents that the Manchester Pride apparently represents are happy with the state of affairs. Manchester Pride is now a business.

More profit without purpose

Yet, the roots of LGBTQI+ (Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transsexual, Queer, Intersex and other related identity groups) Pride are in agitation, protest, activism, and campaigns against persecution, prosecution, discrimination, injustice, abuse of power and authority, violence, harassment, unfairness and the denial of common rights and privileges enjoyed by mainstream society. [Wikipedia: Pride parade]

At the beginning of the month, we learnt that Manchester Pride will no more be supporting key community support charities as the LGBT Foundation’s condoms and lube initiative and George House Trust that supports people living with HIV. [BBC News: Manchester Pride ends support for safer sex scheme]

Losing the reason for existence

For years, we have enjoyed the celebration and supported the activism to ensure the humanity of LGBTQI+ people are respected and not violated by political, civil, religious, social, or economic groups whilst also ensuring influential interests do no negate the progress in human rights gained in the last half-century.

The freedoms we have in the West compared with the absence of such in many countries around the world where LGBTQI+ people face persecution and capital punishment calls for constant sober reflection, the causes fought for and won here still need the support of the free to gain traction and victories where those like us have none.

This is not to agitate against festivities; indeed, we must celebrate, but not lose purpose or focus on community support and partnership locally and beyond. Sadly, Manchester Pride has become a project without a cause and as it is now, bereft of purpose.

This is not our pride

In my 8 years of living in Manchester, each year the Pride parade was passed in front of my apartment block, I bring a folding chair out of my home to sit and watch the apparent celebration of all. The parade did not happen because of the pandemic last year and this year, they have concentrated on partying on the premise that artists who have had a bad pandemic year need more support.

Even though I have never attended any of the concerts, I have contributed to Manchester Pride until 3 years ago when it became obvious that representation and community engagement was less an impetus for their existence. Having built on the success of LGBTQI+ activism, they have now abandoned that for the commerce and profit at the expense of those they portend to represent.

There is no doubt that there is a need to arrest the decline of purpose with a change of the trusteeship, executive, and management of Manchester Pride, the sooner, the better for the good of all. This is not our pride; it is just a Bacchanalia that has usurped an LGBTQI+ identity.

From Prides of the past to the future

Prides without marches

June is considered the Pride Month even though my local pride in Manchester is one of the last in the Europe, taking place in the last weekend of August that includes the last Monday as part of the August Bank Holiday in the UK.

I normally will only attend a Pride march but rarely the other activities, in Manchester, I only have to step out of my front door with a foldable chair to watch the march go past on my street. Berlin offers a better spectacle in July as I take a room in the Hotel Berlin Berlin that overlooks the march from at least the first floor. I might go to the Siegessäule or the Brandenburg Gate to see the performances for a few hours before departing for some quiet time.

Prides around Europe

Until last year, I had not missed a Berlin Pride usually known as the Christopher Street Day (CSD) in German-speaking countries in recognition of the Stonewall riots of 1969, except one other time in at least 12 years. It was like a pilgrimage of at least 4 days, sometimes longer, allowing me to do other things besides.

When I lived in Amsterdam, we celebrated in the first weekend of August, the Pride march on canal boats, I never vied to get on any of the boats because it was at least a 4-hour slug, however, it was always good to have a vantage position to view the colourful floats as they moved along with music blaring out of megawatt loudspeakers ready to deafen you.

At one time, I was in Playa del Ingles on the island of Gran Canaria, their Pride is usually the second weekend of May. Unfortunately, most of the Prides would be cancelled this year, about 500 on one count, some will be adapted to take place online as digital Pride events. [See link below.]

Prides of the future

In June 2016, I joined up with the Barclays team called Spectrum for the London Pride which we were a main sponsor of, it was the first time I had walked in a Pride march in the UK apart from being a spectator or going to park activities after the parade.

I cannot say what the world would become after the pall of this pandemic is lifted, the way we would manage crowds and marches for all sorts of celebrations and how life might change between the consideration of risk and damning the consequences. However, I hope that in the aftermath, we would all celebrate our common and diverse humanity.

There is a Pride march in the not too distant future that my husband and I would participate in, marriage is on the cards; it would be the joy of our lives for Brian and I to pose and say to the world, Happy Pride Month.

Pride Month: List Of LGBT Digital Pride Events As 500 Prides Cancel Amid Coronavirus - Forbes

The European Pride Organisers Association – COVID-19

#IDAHOBIT 2020: Breaking the silence

A first attack

For the International Day Against Homophobia, Transphobia and Biphobia #IDAHOBIT celebrated every May the 17^th, I was between thoughts about what to write. [Wikipedia]

In my many encounters with homophobia, I remember two specific events in the early 1990s, I had met this lovely guy at Bang! disco and we decided to go back to my place. We got the bus from the London West End and alighted at a bus stop some 300 metres from my apartment around 2:00 AM.

As we walked back to my place, two men called after us, we ignored them, then they began to shout and hurl abuse at us, we knew we were in danger and so took flight, but they were already upon us, tackled us and relieved us of our possessions. We came to no harm and soon after getting home we called the police who visited but offered no support, it was 1991. Shaken we were, we lived, and beyond that had a 4-month relationship before we broke up.

A fearful existence

A few years after, I was having a walk in Finsbury Park, it is was quiet and calm, two guys approached me; I saw the glint of a knife blade as he motioned towards me. ‘Give me your wallet,’ he said, ‘And we’ll let you go.’ There was no hesitation, I emptied my pockets, and they left over a bridge into a labyrinth of alleyways. By the time, I found a beefcake to tell of my ordeal, they had long gone.

These were times when a lot of what was called ‘Queer bashing’ happened around London, I was fortunate not to suffer any injuries in my encounters, times I have had to run for dear life because a group of men with the intent to inflict grievous bodily harm set out to find gays and beat them up, even kill them.

My local librarian, who resourcefully and progressively stocked our library with LGBTQ+ literature, Christopher Dunn, lost his life at the hands of a serial killer who targeted gays. Hardly two weeks before, on holiday with my partner in a Brighton Bed & Breakfast, he was a fellow guest. On noticing him one evening, we wondered about why anyone would wear such tight Lycra shorts, we were just being sententious.

Breaking the silence

The theme for IDAHOBIT 2020 is Breaking The Silence; I would have preferred to talk more about other LGBTQ+ people in places, circumstances, and environments unlike mine today, where I have the freedom to express myself, a long way from the experiences of the 1990s. I can visit South Africa to rendezvous with my partner Brian, and not be ashamed to demand that we have a double bed rather than twin beds or separate rooms.

This is the first time I have written about my queer-bashing experience, yet, I must appreciate how long we have travelled from those times, acknowledging there is still more to do here and abroad.

For the past 5 IDAHOBIT anniversaries, I have donned the colour of the day, purple, and today, I went for a walk before taking a celebratory picture at Whitworth Park. [May17]

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A post shared by Akin Akintayo (@instaforakin) on May 17, 2019 at 1:10am PDT

From old IDAHOBIT Days

I commend this day to all, for the freedom to live, to express, to celebrate, to our allies, to the voices that are yet to be heard, the lives that are hidden from fulfilment, to the victims, to the powerless, to those who think they are alone, and to the souls sadly departed. We will rise.

IDAHOBIT 2020 at Whitworth Park today

Blog - #IDAHOT2017: The beliefs that harm us

Blog - #IDAHOT 2018: Of allies and acceptance

I am who I am and happily so

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Untold Facts S4 E5 - Hate Crimes, Impunity and Humanizing Queer Nigerians

I have written this blog in the context of the plight of LGBTQ+ persons of Nigeria as depicted in the YouTube video above.

Not ashamed of me

On the matter of my sexuality, it has not been one I have worn as the representation of who I am, it is a part of my personality and humanity that I have come to understand I do not have to be ashamed of.

Indeed, when viewed in context of some cultural and social influences in my life, it is different and can be termed alternative, but that is for others to presume. My realisation of this state of being goes back to just around the age of 7, I did not understand it, it was just there.

Into my teens, I began to realise there were others that appeared to exhibit the same feelings, though for many for which it was a phase that they appeared to grow out of once they gained the courage to approach the opposite sex. I never had that attraction.

The process to acceptance

Over years, through guilt, self-loathing, and revulsion, I wondered about the way I was, yet, I could not in the search for some solution pretend to heterosexuality by involving someone innocent in my somewhat complicated situation. I had decided, I would rather be single without issue as that was a better recourse than any other.

By my mid-twenties, I had come to accept who I was because there was an environment in which I felt comfortable. Though, when I was about to leave Nigeria, I was being blackmailed, however, I dared the blackmailer to go ahead and expose us with the explanation of how he and I got into the realisation that our desires might be aligned.

In any case, once I had accepted who I was, questions posed to me either had a direct answer or something along the lines of warning the enquirer that they should be ready for the answers to the questions they were asking.

My burden, my expression

Meanwhile, pressure was mounting from other parties to conform, to settle down as they know and become responsible. I was settled in acknowledging who I was and responsible for the choices I made. The point at which my desire was to fulfil a path I chose rather than the requirements of others, I began to find my own happiness whether or not others were happy with me.

From that point, I found fulfilment in same-sex relationships, one that lasted almost 7 years. At work, I was not in the closet as much as I did not set out to make my sexuality a prominent part of my identity, it is the same resolution I took regarding my race, to not be offended by abuse but see it as an opportunity to educate.

I guess there are other aspects of my personality and humanity that endeared me to people and managers who became my allies. My sexuality was never a negative issue, but one to which there was interest and engagement to understand this person. I was probably the first homosexual some got to know beyond the stereotypes.

Closets are claustrophobic

In deciding not to live in the closet, I had ample opportunity to thrive at work and at play, some relationships endured, some transformed into friendships, there were many bereavements, all became my own story of life with its blessings and experiences.

I realise and recognise that back in Nigeria, many suffer for their sexuality, I am no activist, nor do I intend to proselytise, but for a man in his 50s, I want people who have a life like mine that it could get better, there is scope for fulfilment and expression of sexuality in the fulness that allows a person be the best they can be.

I found love again, a year ago, it has brought me amazing happiness, we cherish each moment we have together in this long-distance relationship. We look to eventually ask one to another their hand in marriage and live our lives together somewhere where we can happily exist.

For societies to flourish

Like for instance, we meet in South Africa where the laws protect LGBTQ+ people at work and at play. We can even hold hands or kiss on the streets without the threat of violence. It is not what we want to impose on anyone, it is just a case of living and letting live.

Broadly, in Western Europe, our rights are well protected, few are fearful of being outed as the potency of blackmail has diminished over the last few decades. By that alone, we begin to flourish.

I have watched gay rights activism change laws and bring same-sex marriage to societies that would not have countenanced it only a decade ago. AIDS activism not only helped gay men who were strafed by the epidemic in the late 1980s into the 1990s, it has brought benefits to heterosexual cohorts that were more affected in the global South.

No apology in the quest for justice

Rights denied one section of society eventually creeps to deny the rights of the next vulnerable group, the march of rights must proceed progressively to embrace our diverse humanity. Sententiousness would never help a society heal itself, nor will moralisation to the exclusion of minorities.

Yet, whether societies rise to the acceptance of the other and different or not, diversity would always exist and the persecuted will find their corners to thrive until the right course of justice and history gives them the freedom to be who they are without fear of reprisal or discrimination.

I am who I am, the labels matter not much for the better human I seek to be. I make no apology for finding my own happiness and living the good conscience of the choices that give me satisfaction and confidence in my beliefs. I appreciate might be of different persuasions, that is what human diversity is all about, difference, uniqueness and originality creating people who make the world a better place.

To what end ... is ingratitude?

Be thankful for everything

I saw a tweet earlier that made me reflect on the power of gratitude and the curse of ingratitude. This person out of the blue had paid into the account of a cousin, not substantial and yet not insignificant. The cousin rather than thank his benefactor suggested he was too big for the ordinary sum of money paid into his account. As fate would have it, the transaction was reversed, the benefactor richer with the opportunity to bless someone else, the cousin left with nothing.

So many thoughts crossed my mind about the reaction of that cousin, the thinking that informed him that it was better to project entitlement rather than gratitude. We make interesting assumptions about others when we have needs and ask for help without any inkling about the other responsibilities and calls upon the resources of the benefactor.

The tendency to feel that in the midst of our pressing need we have become the centre of the world to which everyone else should beckon first with priority before anything else is inconsiderate, selfish and demonstrate a lack grace.

You can’t decide for others

You cannot decide for a benefactor how they should dispose of their resources whether they be parsimonious or generous, it is their prerogative alone to decide who to give to and whether they are disposed to give at all. Now, even if the beneficiary is a person of great means that the gift is little or insignificant, the better sentiment is to think of the motive and the consideration with a thankful response.

I constantly check on my thankful spirit, whether I have been appreciative of the little as I have been of the much. I want my sense of gratitude to be alert, full of initiative and ready to give expression long before it is instigated. Its importance can never be overstated.

Gratitude as talent

I am reminded of the parable of the talents in the Bible, where a master about to travel distributed 8 talents amongst three servants. To one was handed 5 talents and I presume that servant had the capacity, the aptitude and the responsibility to handle 5 talents, when the master returned, he had doubled the investment. To another was given 2 talents according to their ability and the same doubled that investment. [Wikipedia]

The last was given one talent, my view is the servant given the talent for that sake of not being left out, the servant from the master’s opinion had none of the capacity of the other two servants and the master was proven right, the servant buried rather than invested the talent, then blamed the master for his failure to act like his wiser colleagues.

That one talent servant had the talent taken off him and given to the servant who managed 5 talents. The one talent servant was then thrown out of their job into destitution. In today’s setting it could be an unproductive employee who gets no promotion then gets sacked and receives no positive references to help them along.

Appreciating the power of gratitude

Yet, the spirit of gratitude is an enabler in ways we can never fully appreciate, it is in the being helpful, being considerate, being respectful, being available, being generous, being empathetic, having a listening ear, it is the open mind, the open heart, the open hand, the accepting rather than rejecting, the presence of mind to find a good perspective regardless, overlooking offence in the quest for agreement.

You get remembered favourably when opportunity comes, next time the benefactor has much more to give, I doubt the cousin will be in the list of those to be blessed. Ingratitude closes the small doors that lead to the grand gateways to amazing things in life. Sometimes, we need to have periods of introspection that help us realise whether a sense of ingratitude might have closed the door to new opportunity and make to redress that failing.

I have too many examples of where my perception of the power of gratitude as expressed in this blog has given me amazing opportunities and successes. I am thankful for the little and the plenty, every blessing is worthy of a sincerely grateful heart. There can be no good end to ingratitude but loss, penalty, punishment or to be forgotten where others are remembered, it is self-harm masquerading as arrogance, pride, delusions of grandeur, or an inflated sense of self.

Courtesy of the William Kentridge exhibition at Zeitz MOCAA, Cape Town.

#IDAHOT 2018: Of allies and acceptance

At Cologne Central Station on my way to work.

A workplace joy

I have come to see the 17^th of May each year as a day to celebrate and remember in my own little way. It is the day that has been designated the International Day against Homophobia, Transphobia and Biphobia (IDAHOT). [IDAHOT Website]

I became aware of this day when I was working at Barclays Bank, the organisation unfurled a big rainbow flag from the tower in the campus and with that were a number of events in branches all around the world to commemorate the day.

As an institution, Barclays Bank has been amazingly supportive of the LGBTI community, sponsoring and hosting functions within and outside the company on matters of inclusiveness and expression that I have not seen paralleled in any other place where I have worked. You had both a sense of belonging and safety in the work environment, that was just right.

Out and proud at work

Personally, I think I have always been out in the workplace since the early 1990s. I have been fortunate to have friends and allies who have not only been understanding and supporting who and what I am. They have in many ways been part of the network of confidence in expression and identity that has allowed me to thrive.

Whilst, I have never worn my sexuality on my sleeve, a direct question has always elicited an honest answer. I have had managers who have sought to learn and understand how and why we are wired so differently. Where homophobia has appeared to emerge overtly or covertly, I have seen managers call out such infractions and demand that profuse apologise with undertakings to be better behaved to be made to me.

To those as fortunate

In that, I have been blessed and fortunate, then I have to appreciate many others who have never had the opportunity to be themselves at work or at play, out of fear of persecution and prosecution, it is the reason we have an International Day against Homophobia, Transphobia and Biphobia. To remind people of the inequalities and the dehumanisation of diversity and difference that still pervades in many societies and communities.

For that reason, the struggle continues, the recognition is needed, and the stories need to be told of those of us who have had it good and of those of us who suffer under laws and states that make them insignificant non-persons because of their sexuality. The violence must end, the persecution must end, and we must come to realise that difference is part of our humanity deserving of equality, respect and dignity.

It is for that reason that I celebrate the International Day against Homophobia, Transphobia and Biphobia, where the colours of the day, shades of purple, for the freedom to be who you are, what you are, wherever you are without fear, loathing or hate to contend with.

Happy IDAHOT!!!

Postscript: When I wrote this, I did not realise that the theme for 2018 was “Alliances for Solidarity”, but that is the truth, I have had alliances and allies for solidarity through most of my working life and I am thankful and grateful for the many friends and colleagues who have accepted me for who I am without reservation or question.