Prism & Pen

It would perhaps be a bit of an understatement to say that Britain has been dealing with some obvious, major problems with resurging bigotry across the country. What makes this noteworthy is that this resurgent bigotry is not something confined to only one group, and also that these various forms of bigotry have pretty significant support from politicians and major public figures.

Rising racism is something which has really started to become a problem in Britain in recent times. In 2024, we saw major race riots across Britain, and last month, race riots broke out in Belfast, Northern Ireland. This is not to say that racism was not a problem in Britain prior to these instances, but the much more overt form we’ve seen would have been unthinkable some years ago.

First the fun facts.

The organisers of a new LGBTQI+ Sydney nightclub, originally named The Unholy Playhouse, (subsequently renamed The Divine Playhouse) announced they have elected to close the venue and cancel all events after receiving a breach notice from their the landlord.

Heaps Gay Events, who have been in operation since 2013, were ordered to stop engaging in “offensive trade” at the deconsecrated church, or risk lease termination following protests from religious groups.

This notice was received following a protest from Christian groups after three peaceful performance events.

At 9pm Saturday evening, I leave my corner of the country to meet fellow Medium member

Kay Luna. Kay lives in the opposite corner of our island, so location is one of the few things we haven’t had in common so far. Our shared love of long walks and aversion to throngs of people mean that meeting in the middle for a hike in the remote parts of England is a perfect plan.

Although I’d gone with my sister on a road trip last year as Rachel, I’d held myself back a little. My self-expression then was enough to draw quizzical looks, but I was metaphorically flying an LGBTQ rainbow flag more than the blue, pink and white transgender one. I was clearly femme and fancy, but I didn’t always fully express myself.

My sister has of course, known me the longest and knew the person that came before.

My husband is an excellent cook. This is great for me, because I am an excellent eater. That doesn’t mean I’m not picky. I’m very picky. My mother was not a great cook, and that’s part of the reason I have so many food phobias.

Texture also plays a big role in what I will and will not put in my mouth. Steve, my husband, knows all about these things, and when he wants me to try something that I’ve never had before, he knows how to build up to it.

I fight him every step of the way, because I’m basically a 6-year-old boy in a 65-year-old body. I’ll eat any cake you put in front of me, but it better be chocolate. If you’re making something I’ve never had before, I’m not even going to look at it. Steve knows this and has worked out a way to cook for me, that doesn’t require me to look at strange new foods, it only requires me to trust him.

As I tapped my card at the turnstile, I clocked a handsome young man a few paces behind me, with a brisk gait, a sharp stubbly jawline, shoulder-length brown hair, and a pair of old-fashioned headphones painted teal.

I held the door for him before descending the stairs. I could feel him close behind me, his urgency pulsing through me. I knew it’d be tough to start talking to a man with such massive headphones. But it was worth a shot.

A couple paces down the platform, I paused to let him get closer, hoping to catch his eye. A day after a heavy rainstorm, I dared to step onto the slick yellow strip that lets you know you’re dangerously close to the edge.

And just as he entered my periphery, another man started shouting at us —

Bunch of f@ggots, man! Yeah, that’s right, y’all a bunch of f@ggots!

For years, decades actually, I’ve let my family off the hook for votes that hurt me as a gay person. Those days are over.

It is not as if my family and I are best friends. I moved from my home state of Minnesota to my now-home of California many years ago and return only every year or two for a wedding, graduation, or reunion. Our relationships, while not deep, have been warm and pleasant. It turns out that’s not enough. People think that to feel love is enough. But don’t abusive husbands love their wives?

Love has to be shown.

Ironically, thanks for my newfound spine go to Donald Trump. Past administrations hurt, but a basic level of civility made it hard to draw a line. I was swayed by, “We love you but there are other issues involved.” Now, obscene levels of megalomania, callousness, corruption, xenophobia, and gaslighting have given me the push I needed.

Since first coming out 40 years ago, I have made little effort to advance the conversation. Maybe it was guilt for foisting my gayness on them. Maybe my self-esteem was in the crapper. I never expected more from them than I was certain I would do myself, which, conveniently for them, we will never know. I focused on the good and took the high road. “When they go low, we go high.”

Booked.

A nervy click the night before confirms the hotel I will stay in — no flexibility, no cancellations. No breakfast either as I’m sure I’ll be too anxiety riddled to eat.

I will make my way to the hotel as him, and I plan to emerge as myself in the morning — a budget hotel chain acting as a chrysalis for me. I’m excited and nervous because I’m meeting fellow editor

Kay Luna, and we’re celebrating the launch of our new publication by meeting up. In real life.

Sure, I’ve been out as myself in broad daylight mingling with the general population before, but that was sans wig and with my sister.

This time I am meeting someone who didn’t know me before, and Kay is going to find out if the woman can back up the words.

Life is hard, sometimes especially, and for some people, in certain circumstances even more especially.

For LGBTQ+ people (and everyone else who finds themselves on the outside of some majority or normatively-held view), there’s no denying that life can be hard. It can feel like there’s no place for you, no end to the problems and challenges, and even when you find acceptance or peace of mind, it’s tenuous. You never know what even the very next social interaction will bring, and too often, it’s something-not-good.

Many times, in my life, I have felt like giving up. A couple of times I have withdrawn from life to a dangerous degree, once for several years. And yes, a few times I have stood on that precipice. Literally.

But here I am.

I’d like to tell you where I have found strength, even and especially when I was at the end of my rope and all my resources had been exhausted. Yes, it has happened. And it sucked. And yes, I did make it through.

I knew I was gay when I was 11, and this is thanks to Sam Neill. News has just broken — literally, in the last hour — that the beloved New Zealand star of screens big and small has passed away in Sydney, aged 78. I was just sitting down at my laptop, making a start on my Monday morning emails here in Berlin, when my mum sent me a text saying, “Sam neill RIP.”

This is a gut-punch for a lot of reasons. Jurassic Park (1993) has sat in my top-five list of films for just about the entire span of my adult life, and the framed poster I have of that film has been pinned to every bedroom wall in England, Australia, and Germany across the last decade.

But the biggest impact Sam Neill had on me, personally — and Neill is actor who was very personal to a lot of people, who love him for so many of the different roles he played — is that he was the first man I had a crush on.

Amidst the confusing flurry of puberty, I wasn’t sure what caught my eye — or why — but my first indications came from a surprising source. After school one evening, my parents were watching Memoirs of an Invisible Man (1992).

I’ve just looked out the window, the trees are still losing their leaves as the mild Sydney winter progresses. I can hear cars moving up and down the street. A couple of kids from the apartment at the end of my row are playing outside.

It all seems so completely normal, but I wonder, was this what it felt like in 1938 in Berlin? Everything completely usual, until it wasn’t. An orderly predictable world turning upside down after a few days of rioting and government sanctioned violence against a minority.

Were the perpetrators people like my neighbours? The grumpy guy who works at the local garage? The bloke who makes my coffee on the corner?

Or were they not the perpetrators, but those who would just turn away, pretending they were elsewhere, staying silent, claiming they had no knowledge of any such ‘alleged activities?’

When I was fourteen, my Dad found my pile of books that my best friend had introduced me to.

He took them from me, looked them over, said he found smut in them, and decided that my friend was a bad influence on me and trying to lead me astray.

He took my books away, and I don’t know what he did with them. I was so upset I couldn’t read them.

Then, he banned me from ever seeing my friend again.

The books he was horrified that I would read? The Clan of the Cave Bear series.

My friend was older than me and a lot cooler. I was very sheltered in a strict Mormon culture, and her parents were much more evolved than mine. They allowed her to make choices and helped guide her to learn from her mistakes rather than controlling her every move.

The state of progress for LGBTQ rights is in question as relentless far-right propaganda appears to be eroding support for same-sex marriage, trans rights, and even the acceptability of same-sex relationships. Roe v Wade, which guaranteed women the right to control their own bodies, is gone, and Obergefell v. Hodges, which recognized that the U.S. Constitution guarantees the right to same-sex marriage, is under threat.

So, now is the right time to consider where we as a movement go from here.

While it’s easy to understand that social progress is rarely linear and inevitability experiences periods of setback, we nonetheless need a coherent strategy to reset our course or perhaps tack into the wind.

I have written here before about the myth of heterosexuality.

I’ve asserted that a Kinsey-like sexual-orientation scale exists on a bell curve distribution, meaning massive numbers of humans are bisexual. By definition then, the future of our movement lies with these folks and depends on their social acceptability and coming out.

It’s Friday night, and the room is a little quiet, but that’s OK; it’s still early and I’m happy just being back in this space. The lights are low and the music seems a little soft, but I’m comfy on a banquette, happy to be out of the cold as I watch a group of gals laugh and play pool.

They’re highly inexpert, and their balls keep spinning from the table and hitting the floor with an alarmingly loud bang. They keep apologizing for almost hitting me with their pool cues, but everyone’s laughing. That’s what it’s like here.

I’m at Hot Box in Sydney, an intimate lesbian dance party held on Friday nights. The music is great, and I’m always made to feel welcome. These days getting an entry stamp on my wrist makes me feel cool and knocks twenty years off these bones.

Of course, a little alcohol helps too.

I’ve just drunk something from a can which tastes like it will remove the remaining enamel from my teeth. I think it contains tequila. The barman warned me it was strong. ‘Lots of bang for your buck,’ he admonished, so I’ll probably end up hitting the dance floor in a minute.

I’ve always been naturally skinny. I only crossed 50 kilograms once in my life, and that was ten years ago.

It looked like a blessing when I was in my 20s because I had a place in the gay world’s taxonomy. But once I crossed 30, I didn’t fit in any stereotypical boxes that the gay community has created. Too old for a twink and too far from being a daddy.

I used to feel self-conscious about my skinny-ness. On dating apps, I knew people wouldn’t necessarily be attracted to me.

I still think that way sometimes, but it becomes less and less. Over the years, I’ve learned to accept the way I look, especially after being diagnosed with thyroid cancer, which put into perspective how I see my body. But it also doesn’t mean the insecurity vanishes without a trace.

So, when O, my favorite person, came to Bali last year and asked if we could check out the gay bar, my first reaction was … unsure. The gay bar was the place where I would be fully exposed. And going with O, who was clearly better looking than I, even as he was in his late 50s, brought out the uneasy feeling of not belonging.

I read the latest Prism & Pen prompt on my phone in a site canteen, whilst battling permit systems and workers who refuse to wear their hard hats. I’m a health and safety advisor, offshore mostly — right now it’s an onshore wind farm, which sounds glamorous but is, in fact, a great deal of dust, paperwork and men who still think it’s 1975.

So. We queer people ask, what road do we take in the face of the current, intensifying backlash or moral panic?

Let me start by saying this: My whole job, boils down to one sentence: assume the plan will fail.

That’s not cynicism.

It’s the founding principle of an entire industry. Every method statement I review, every risk assessment I sign off, starts from the position that steel is heavy, gravity is undefeated, and human beings — even good ones, even careful ones — make mistakes when they’re tired or rushed or frightened of the programme slipping.

We don’t build safety on the assumption that people are basically in charge of things. We build it on the assumption that being in charge is unreliable, and then we put controls in place so that when it fails, nobody dies.

There is a love letter in the National Archives with a note penciled across the top of it. The letter was written in April of 1779, in the middle of the war that made this country, by a twenty-four-year-old officer named Alexander Hamilton to another named John Laurens. The note was written decades later — almost certainly by Hamilton’s own son, who edited his father’s papers for the republic to read, and who cut this very passage from the edition he published.

It says: I must not publish the whole of this.

I have thought about that sentence for weeks now. It is the most honest thing anyone in this story ever committed to paper.