Tag Archives: gay

Nov13

The Semi-Naked Truth of John Palatinus: People from the Village

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I have always been fascinated with the distinction between artistic, erotic, and pornographic. The fine lines between the forms (if there are any lines at all) are tested by a lot of artists, some times to provoke, other times to test, and in some instances, well, just because it happened.

I remember the first time I saw a picture of a naked man. I was in that stage between not too young and not old enough, and its source was so unexpected that I remember surprise overtaking every other single feeling.
It was in a magazine. I remember going to the newsstand, and seeing the corner of a cover hidden behind a pile of other magazines on the top shelf. Now, you have to believe me, I really did not know why these magazines were on the top shelf, why they were covered in plastic, or why parts of them had small stickers blocking parts of the cover picture. I just read ‘great competition’ on the cover, and as I was going through the stage of collecting everything, I grabbed it, went to the counter, and even though I thought it was strange that the cashier asked me twice if I knew what I was buying, I accepted his offer for a black bag and went home.

I remember going in the living room, taking the magazine out of the bag and out of its plastic case, and opening it. The feature it was in started with a guy wearing a flannel shirt, black trousers and boots. His hair was curly and his face long. It seemed like every shot magically took one piece of clothing off him, so, when I turned the page, there he was, naked. I had never seen a picture of a naked man before. It was so strange. He was so …different. His penis was the strangest, weirdest thing I had seen up until that moment; don’t get me wrong, growing up in Greece meant getting your fair share of nude sculptures in museums, naked lithographs in history books and if participating in sports, locker rooms with other naked men. But the fact that this was on a magazine made this experience totally different. It was not meant to be artistic; it was intended to be erotic-even though it ended being pornographic.

So being in Space Station 65 and standing in front of John Palatinus‘s naked portraits of men is making me think of these distinctions. Male sexual photography was defined, stigmatised, and redefined during the 1950s, and Palatinus was one of the key figures in this era.
During that period, photographers started taking portraits of handsome men with built bodies, that as time passed they started losing items of clothing. The images were printed in magazines like Tomorrow’s Man, or mailed directly to customers in the pretence of admiring the male physique. However, when full-frontal pictures started emerging, the authorities stepped in and arrested various publishers, photographers, and models.

One of these photographers was John Palatinus. When the New York police department and the US Postage Inspectors raided his apartment, they confiscated all of his prints, photographs, original negatives, cameras, lights, and equipments. After a conviction of Conspiracy and a misdemeanour charge, Palatinus was disgraced, out of business, and most importantly robbed out of his whole back work.

Now, you might be reading this and thinking ‘well, what work? This was pornography!’. And that is where the fine line lies. Even though the pictures were sexually charged, they would be described as erotic instead of pornographic. They were admiring the male form instead of cheapening it. Palatinus got rid of the cheesy props and the cheap backdrops, and used white backgrounds, lights and shadow to highlight the topography of the male physique.

Countless of shoots have been informed from Palatinus’s work, and some have actually completely copied his style (giving him credit, of course). This is why archivist and curator of vintage physique photography, Alan Harmon, was extremely surprised when he after speaking with Palatinus, he discovered they not only lived close by, but would embark on a mission to retrieve a lot of his photography from various sources.

A large portion of his work has been recovered, and can be seen on the walls of Space Station 65. From the risqué to the explicit, it is the demure that seem to hide questions about sexuality, arousal, erotica and, well, art.

This made me think of the homoerotically charged imagery of Ambercrombie & Fitch, and the Men’s Health magazines that use simular poses and eventually claim to serve the same purpose: admire the male physique. The classic cover shot with a man looking down at his toned torso with a smile on his face is tinted with a hint of eroticism that can be found in that early male physique photography.

The camera might be digital now, but the light still captures the same questions, the same social mysteries, the same fine lines that make the edges of the pixels.

‘click’

Love,

G

Jul2

Being Greek

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My skin is now tanned. My eyes carry a sadness around the corners, and I have the distinct feeling that I have trapped a breath in my chest, that I can’t seem to be able to breath out.
Last week, i had to visit my home country, as I needed to attend two funerals. I am Greek. I grew up in the hot, buzzing streets of Athens. People around me walked slow, talked fast, argued loudly and laughed louder. They gathered in the squares, with tea lights roped on the trees over them, the pavement cooling down under the night sky, children talking to each other, adults talking about each other, traditional music in the background for the older ones and foreign music in the foreground for the younger ones. Later we would go to the open-air cinema, eating a cheese-pie and coca cola from the can, reading the subtitles under the well groomed Hollywood faces.
I felt the sun kissing my face in the long summers, I run in the olive fields and dived in the crystal blue seas. I had this constant smell of sunscreen, and my skin was always salty, my hair always wet and my bathing suit always on. I would pick figs from the neighbour’s tree, and eat them under its shade. I smelt feta cheese roasting in the oven, fresh bread on the bakery windows, cheese and spinach pies resting on the kitchen counter.
Before mobile phones made me instantly available, my parents knew they could always find me in the city centre. I spent hours in Eleftheroudakis bookshop, walking down the isles, touching the spine of every book, eyes widening at the sight of unusual images, interesting titles, exotic covers. I would then make my way down to Metropolis, a CD and later DVD shop, and make countless wish-lists. I would walk down Monastiraki, Sintagma, Ermou, stopping in front of the shop windows, looking at the things in the shop, the people in the shop, the exchange of money for objects of desired happiness.
I don’t want to give an idea of false perfection. All of the above always happened behind a smoke screen, kindly provided by the 20pack of cigarettes of the person next to you. Compulsive smoking, innate judgement, and an unjustifiably rigid sense of morality. Anything that deviated from the norm has to be hidden; if not hidden, punished; and if not punished, at least humiliated. Men can (and often are encouraged to) cheat, personally and professionally, as long as they are white heterosexuals with an embedded sense of entitlement. Homosexuality is ridiculed and hidden, represented as a thinly tolerated anomaly that should be buried away from public view, varying from a moustache to a full blown wife and children.
The military is mandatory, meaning that you have to give a year of your life to stay in a camp in the far end corner of the country – unless your family has political connection, and can secure you an office position three blocks away from your semi-detached house. Indeed, family connections are everything: it is the only way to get a job, progress in it, make any kind of money and then hide it from the tax office. Tax evasion is a skin cell of the Greek epidermis; why do something right, when you can do it quick? What is the greater good if it’s not good for you?
The younger generation is sitting in the squares, having coffee and complaining about life. A small percentage will stay on the complains, and will not move into action. If you can stay at your parents home, file a few papers in their work place and have enough pocket money to pay you club entry, then why skip the sports pages for the Job classifieds? However, a big percentage is looking for jobs in their chosen field, with degrees from Greek and foreign Universities gathering dust in their bedroom drawers as they are knocking on doors that are locked and bolted. without a strong connection, a diploma is just worth as much as the paper that it is printed on. And then, if your parents can not really support you, what?
There is a small tinge of racism, especially towards Albanians, Pakistanis and Nigerians, economic refugees that are accused for stealing jobs from the Greeks; jobs that a lot of Greeks would consider beneath them, or too badly paid. Even so, extreme left parties have gained momentum, with a range of accusations against them.
All of these viewpoints are not shared by every Greek; but unfortunately, the overwhelming majority would nod acceptingly with most of the above, if not all. I don’t. I loved growing up in Greece, but once I did, I was unsure about how I felt in it. I did not really fit in all of the times, in most ways. Even though I was a piece of the puzzle, my edges seemed slightly different. I did not fit the profile, the macho tough bike-loving, sports-playing, cigarette in one hand and coffee on the other kind of person. And on top of that, I was not ashamed of who I was, of how different I was. I always smiled when people told me I needed to fit in; why be happy, when you can be normal?
And all that said, I still feel Greece as a beloved part of me. My home is London now, and I moved away physically and emotionally as well. My feelings for Greece is a bittersweet traditional desert, served in a crowded square, under tea lights and smoking bystanders.
So, every time that I tell someone I am Greek, I am telling him all of this in a simple statement of origin. I am telling him of my pride and my shame, of my good and bad memories, of the ups and lows. In the past couple of years, every time I tell a person I am Greek, I get a canned response that is bound to include the word crisis in it, when all i do is just state my origin.
Greece and Greeks are not just the poster boys of a country in a dire economic state. It is a nation that live its good as intensely as its bad, its happiness as tragically as its sadness, smiling at the face of danger, raising a glass to what was instead of what will be. Most of the places I described in my good memories are now closed, bankrupt and covered in angry graffitis. Most of the negative attitudes I mentioned are changing, sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worst. I walked in the city centre, and it was empty. The stores closed. Someone wrote on the window of a vacant store: a city that is burning; a flower that is blooming.
My tan will fade away, but I am not sure if my sadness for my country will. All I can do is hope, for change, for light, for the younger generation to have something more that a tanned skin to remember their country by.

Love,

G

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Apr30

Gilbert and George: the LDN pictures

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The weather seems as undecided as I feel today. Clouds of rain are separated from bursts of sunshine with an invisible thread, that I seem to be pulling every time I decide to walk outside.
I am now sitting in a table in the middle of a really crowded Starbucks. I got a skinny latte and a blueberry muffin, and spent the first 10 minutes absent-mindedly taking it apart as I was focusing on the large window; focusing on what was behind it, who was behind it. Everyone slowing their pace when the sun came out; speeding up when the first signs of rain appeared; dancing awkwardly around pools of water on the street. A choreography that kept me hypnotised, a performance that no doubt would be taking place in every London street.

Thinking of the city makes me shiver. Londoners are a different breed, living in a different rhythm, with different rules. Highly competitive, extremely creative, moments appearing like fireworks; sudden bursts of light, and if you don’t know where to look, by the time you turn your head, they are gone.

One of these firework moments for me was when I first saw a Gilbert and George piece. I was walking in Tate Modern, lost in my world, notebook in one hand, camera on the other. I passed the door to the hall where it was hanging, and stopped; turned around; and just stood there. Moments later, I found myself standing in front of it hypnotised. I did not know exactly why; I still don’t. But it had this Gilbert and George quality of waking a very strong emotion inside you, behind your heart, a feeling of unease and excitement blending in the same exhale. I left without taking a picture of it, just with its title scribbled in my notebook: Red Morning Trouble.

A few months ago, I did a piece on HIV AIDS day awareness. As I was writing it, I was trying to think of the image that I would use for my posts. I stood in front of the screen, closed my eyes,and saw the picture. I grabbed my jacket and my iPhone, took the first bus and rushed through the maze of modern art, to stand in front of it and take a shot.

Last week, in one of these rare moments that I had the time to sit on the sofa, with a hot cup of echinea tea, I was leafing through Time Out London, scanning through the art listings, when I saw it. White Cube. Gilbert & George: London Pictures. Jacket, iPhone, first bus.

I first have to address the White Cube space. The first look upon arrival forces you to stop on your tracks, if not take a step back. Looking like it materialised out of thin air in the middle of the busiest point in London, it appears to be a part of a David Lynch movie. Minimal, sharp, slick, and immensely impressive, there could not be a better space to house the exhibition. I walked in, greeted by a lovely gallery assistant, and walked in the space.

Gilbert and George are pioneers in what they do. They were present in the birth of experimental art, art film, and conceptual art. They are universally known for their large scale structural pieces, placing pictures in symmetrical frames, and constructing a larger picture out of many, smaller ones. They use primarily black and white tones, embellishing the backgrounds with red and yellow, and the foreground with neon (or sometimes pale) prints of the artists themselves in various different poses.

Their work in the White Cube follows on the same path. However, when I stepped on the ground level of the gallery, I felt a tingling sensation. This work was similar, but different altogether. I sat on the wooden bench in the middle of the room, and looked at the space in front of me, next to me, behind me. I knew there was something thumping on the back of my mind, but I could not really understand it. And then I went to the lower ground of the gallery, a vast space filled with more London pictures. I was overwhelmed. The work had the kind of raw power that I felt when I saw their first piece, but this one was completely different. And then I knew why it had this effect on me.

I have a background in psychology, and more specifically, research. I love quantitative and qualitative designs, theorising and disproving, analysing and explaining. I love that we feel that we can truly understand, or predict human behaviour. I love the complexity and simplicity of the human psyche, and the glimpses you get by trying to analyse it. And while I was sitting in front of the work, I felt that Gilbert and George tried to do just that; offer an insight in the different aspects of their subject’s mind. Their subject? London.

For almost 6 years, Gilbert and George painstakingly gathered exactly 3,712 newspaper posters (the ones seen next to your local newsagent, used to give you a small but enticing snippet so that you buy the whole paper), and then grouped the titles in subjects, that then fell under categories. This meant that the size, title, and even subject was defined from the category itself (for example, with alphabetical or numerical classifications) -instead of the artists making am aesthetic decision. By doing that, their art making transcends ‘art making’, and provides a depiction of a reported reality: a gloomy, violent, impulsive, sorrowful, but always hopeful London. London, and the artists themselves, are the backdrops in portraits of humanity, taxonomy, and the never ending effort to classify, and understand the human factor.

However, there is another truly interesting bit for the psychology/linguistics nerds. Gilbert and George do not only look at the phrases and words behind the main news, but the content and classifications that are implied under them. For example, they visit the concept of gay and/vs straight, often classifying subjects under one or the other. The reason why this fascinated me is that this underlines the divisive and often irrelevant use of the adjective ‘gay’ as an intended insightful description of an act or person (something that lately has been debated about social issues like adoption, or marriage).

The exhibition runs simultaneously in the 3 White Cube galleries ( Bermondsey, Hoxton Square and Mason’s Yard), and is housing all 292 of the London Pictures. However, if you can not make the trip to the galleries, there is an amazing catalogue documenting all of them, accompanied with an essay by Michael Bracewell that was published by Hurtwood Press.

I left the exhibition feeling lighter. I just felt like I read someone else’s love letter for a person I love too. And it is the kind of all-round love, the love of the good, the bad, the ugly, and the unimaginably beautiful.

Love,

G

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Mar26

Banned from YouTube: Girl gone Riled

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I am at Costa. I am sitting on a long table, sandwiched between a couple that is talking about the Cambodian Market, and a man in a suit reading comic strips in his iPad. My hazelnut latte is burning the back of my mouth with every gulp, and as I open my YouTube app, I nearly choke.

You see, I first read about Madonna‘s new album in the last issue of Attitude, where Matthew Todd did a song-by-song review piece. It seemed promising. I then read the pieces that Mincey Strider wrote with an amazing level of dedication, from the playlist and the changes it endured, to the video release of Girl Gone Wild, Madonna’s second single.

Directed by fashion geniuses Mert Alas and Marcus Piggott, the B&W video sees Madonna nodding to her big gay following, and feature super models Sean O’pry, Jon Kortajarena, Simon Nessman, and Rob Evans, along with Kazaky, the gender-bending Ukranian group, that gives a masterclass on how to work a stiletto heel (when I first saw the video, their single LOVE came in mind). The video is sexy, raunchy, and genuinely breathtaking. Scenes where the two male models share a bite from one apple, or Sean O’pry posing on his own, could be coming straight out of a fashion shoot.

I will not debate the Lady Gaga similarity with Alejandro, or stealing, copying, and being inspired from styles. There is no parthenogenesis; art evolves, develops and mutates, and if the spectator is trying to determine its origins, he is missing the point.

I am personally bothered from the fact that the clip was banned from YouTube as it contains ‘nudity and dramatised sexual or implied sexual conduct’. I fully understand how it is important to shield minors from scenes of heavy sexual nature, but I fail to understand why it is only important on gay imagery.

There are tons of clips with semi naked girls washing cars, licking lolly pops, wearing pieces of string that double as swimwear, and grind against sleaze balls that have big chains of misspelled adjectives. Why don’t we enforce the ban there?

I recently stumbled upon another banned video. When I logged in and watched it, it was centred around two guys kissing. Nothing more. Just kissing. And it was flagged. I then saw about ten clips of guys making fun of homosexuality, from pretending to have sex with each other (so not gay), to actively talking to the camera about why gay people will burn in hell. I did not have to log in to see these videos. They were not deemed offensive.

All I am saying is that there might be a heteronormative, if not slightly homonegative aspect of YouTube. And yes, right now Girl Gone Wild is bringing it in the forefront; it is said that the main issue is Madonna grinding and gyrating, but how is this different from any of her other clips?

The couple next to me is now talking about The Voice, and the man in the suit has switched to the Financial Times Website. People change. Mediums change. Attitudes change. The question is when.

Love,

G

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Feb26

Gay’s the Word: The Epicentre of the London LGBT Written Word

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I decided to take the bus today. I had time to kill, a book to read, and a headache creeping up, the reminder of that third glass of wine from yesterday.
The sky was a darker shade of grey when I looked up, and I was near Kings Cross. I checked the time on the screen of my phone, took a deep inhale, and pressed the stop button.
I got off and made my way across the street and into the British Library. I went to the ground floor cafe, queued for a lemon and poppyseed cake, took my latte in a paper cup, and found a table in the corner. I sat in the admittedly uncomfortable chair and turned my phone off.
About two hours later, when my cup was almost empty and my plate licked clean, I decided it was time for a walk. I gulped down the rest of my coffee, got up and wrapped my scarf around my neck as I was walking towards the exit. I knew where I was headed.

I started walking towards the Brunswick centre. I used to live close about 4 years ago, so I knew the streets and shops relatively well. A few more steps, and I would stand in front one of the most important shops in LGBT British identity. And, sure enough, there it was.
Sandwiched between an Internet Cafe and a spa, Gay’s the Word looks a little out of place; a little queer. The blue sign, the wooden frames, the charm that it exudes making it look like it just appeared out of nowhere. If there ever was a gay version of Harry Potter, this would definitely be the Ollivanders Wand shop.
Greeted by a bell on the door and a warm smile at the counter, GTW can not disappoint. It is a literal literary tardis, housing in a relatively small space a plethora of LGBT work: in its shelves, one can find the latest queer studies, academic work, non-fiction, fiction, magazines, DVDs, postcards and small gifts (for others; or yourself; or bought for others, but kept by self).
The space’s relaxed atmosphere is partly due to the clever layout and quirky interior, but mostly to the mesmerising presence of Jim Macsweeney. Cool blue eyes and a knowing smile, Jim greets people that walk in as if they used to know each other from a different past, a different life. He radiates a disarming warmth, his face lighting up when talking about the space, the events, the customers.

I tell him about the first time I saw the store. It was my first year in London, and everything seemed so vast, so chaotic. Apart from my conviction that it was really cool to wear only red and black when going out (the delusions of youth), and that Topman was the centre of the universe (the source of the delusions of youth), I was pretty lost. I was out to my friends from home, but as I was making myself at home here, I did not know where the outside was. I was walking down the street from my student halls with my Sainsbury’s bags, and there I saw it. I stopped; walked past it; stopped; went back to it; inhaled; and walked in.

You see, like for many GTW customers, visiting this shop was a small brick to building my gay identity. It is not a badly lit bookshelf in the corner of a sex shop. It is not a pile of books next to displays of double dildos. It is an actual bookshop, a place where it is ok to be out: out in public; out in press; out in writing; out to the world. I bought a couple of books, went to my room, and read them at the same night, sat on the green rug next my bed, my phone on silent, my eyes sponges soaking up all the words. Since then, I would visit the store almost every month: from my AXM and Attitude copies, to references for my MSc dissertation, I knew I would find everything I wanted there.

Jim smiles. He tells me how the customer age group ranges from 16-85, and how just the other day, two young guys came in the store; the more confident was bringing the novice to browse. We started talking about the importance of a bookshop like this one in the normalising process, and he told me that after 32 years, GTW is the only remaining LGBT bookshop in the UK. Not surprisingly, it was in the Top 50 Independent Bookstores list, and was shortlisted for the Best Bookshop of the Year Award.
What really impressed me though is the unyielding positivity that Jim has. ‘Yes, customers are happy, we are happy, sales are great, everything is fine!’ he says. I look at him suspiciously. ‘What about ebooks?’ I say, ‘surely that must worry you. It is worrying most of the publishing world for their future’. Jim looks at me cryptically, tilts his head and says ‘I prefer to stay in the present. We have survived a lot of other things, and I am sure we will survive this one; ebooks can be something we can look for the future, but for now, life is good as it is.’
A constant LGBT presence, it must be a bit unnerving for him to see popular outlets like Waterstones and HMV to have a G&L section now, after GTW gave a fight for all the years that these stores would never commission LGBT literature. ‘Not at all’ he says, ‘I actually think it is brilliant. It makes LGBT literature visible. It makes it accessible. I would much rather prefer young people walking in their local Waterstones in Cardiff and finding LGBT material available’. He smiles. I am amazed, and a little speechless.

Here is a man and a store that have survived 32 years open, during which they have had their shares of threats and misfortunes, from rent raises to political boycotting. Even after all this, they choose not to be bitter, or miserable, or short-sighted. They choose to celebrate life. They stuck with it when the going was tough, and even if people do not necessarily realise it as they dance in clubs, or hold hands in public, or tell their colleagues they are gay, we owe a lot to this little store.

We close our discussion with talks about community: apart from a weekly Lesbian Discussion Group and monthly Trans Discussion Group, they now have a monthly LGBT Book Club, discussing works that are not necessarily under the LGBT umbrella. And if all this was not enough, Jim tells me how excited he is about the March events, and the work that GTW customers can explore:

First, the fascinating work of psychiatrist and criminologist Donald J West, who 55 years after publishing Homosexuality, can write openly as a gay man about his own experience of marrying a ‘deviant’ sexuality with a ‘mainstream’ career. The event centres around his new book Gay Life, Straight Work (01/03/2012, 19:00-21:00), and is absolutely free.
Then, the new and exciting voice of Justin Torres, in his new coming of age debut novel We the Animals (22/03/2012, 19:00-21:00, £2 entry); and Patrick Gale’s sold out event for his new book A perfectly Good Man. If you want signed copies of the books but can not make it to the events, fret not: just drop them an email at sales@gaystheword.co.uk, and they will find a way to make it happen.

LGBT History Month is almost over. I read a lot of material on the press, about the adversity and difficulties we go though. The discrimination, the pain. I have felt it as well. I know what it feels like, the taste it leaves in your mouth. I know how important it is to put it out there. You know that. However, I think that once it is out there, it is even more important to show the next step. The step of acceptance. The step of moving on. Of celebrating life. Of focusing on the positive. Of looking at the world through rose tinted glasses, that you chose to wear on a cloudy afternoon.

I have mine on now; and the world looks a little bit magnificent.

Love,

G

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Feb2

Getting Personal: the Aftermath of Being Attacked – LGBT History Month

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I have been staring at the screen for the last 5 minutes. I wrote the text, proofed it, and the only thing that is standing between thinking and doing is one click at the publish button.

It started yesterday, when I was talking with a friend about the LGBT History Month. He was telling me that we everyone has a cross to bear, and that he did not understand why we should be having a whole month for the LGBT crowd; and then I told him what I am about to tell you. I felt as vulnerable sharing it then as I am feeling now, but if it helps at least one person, in any way possible, I genuinely think it will be worth it.

Everyone has a cross to bear. This is mine.

When I was 17, I woke up in a hospital. My mouth was parched, my head sore, and my eyes unable to focus. I felt the weight of the sheets, comforting and sickening at the same time, and swallowed hard. Next to me, my best friend was sitting looking bored stiff.

I asked him what happened; he looked at me quizzically, weighing in his head what response he should give someone lying on a bed with a bruised face and no memory of the many times he asked the same question in the space of the same day; he began by telling me that I had already asked him several times, he answered me several times, and after I dozed off, I would wake up to ask him again. When I started promising that I would remember, he finished my sentence with the exact same words I told him all the previous times. Nevertheless, he sighed, and started telling me.

I was visiting him, as he was just settling in a different city for university. On the day that I was scheduled to leave, I offered to run some errands. When I returned home, I had a massive bruise running from my forehead down to my chin. I told him I was ok. We sat down, and I looked at him blankly, before asking him if he just put that vase on the table; he reminded me that I put it there before leaving. I nodded, stood still, and formed a puzzled expression on my face. Minutes later, I asked him: ‘oh, did you just put this vase on the table’?

He called our friends, and they told him he needed to take me to a hospital. He called my father, who jumped on the first plane, and we hopped in a taxi. Of course, I did not remember all this; I still don’t. But I remember him telling me. And I then fell asleep.

When I woke up, my father was sitting at the corner of the room. His worried face was focused at me. I looked at him, and he smiled. I smiled back. I knew I was keeping a secret locked in my head, and for some reason, I felt that it should remain there.

We then went to a cafe before catching a flight back home. It was spacious, with large windows allowing the light to flood the room, fall on people’s faces and expose their identities. I sat there, watching my dad and best friend trying to talk as if nothing happened. I noticed that the room was getting quieter by the minute, time slowing down as a thought slid though me like a knife: he could be here. Whoever hit me could be here, in this room, and I would not know it. I would not recognise him. He could be the waiter, or the guy with his daughter, or someone passing outside. I blinked hard, and bit my lips. Time came back to normal, and my father was asking for the cheque.

The truth about that day escaped me for many years. I once dreamt that I was back on that street, panic ringing in my throat, when I noticed two men coming towards me from the opposite sidewalk. I woke up gasping for air and touched my forehead. I lied back down, and stood still as my heart was racing.

Throughout college, I took an active interest in psychology, and especially the study of homophobia. I did research, run experiments, and published work on the subject. I was particularly interested in the line between verbal and physical bullying, the split second that separates the swear word from the knuckles thrusting into flesh. I never knew why, until I came to London.

Pieces of the event were slowly coming together. I remembered dropping off the DVDs at the rental store; picking up my tickets to fly back home; talking on the phone to my friend as I was walking home. My memory stopped when I turned the corner to the street I was hurt. Then everything cuts sharply to black.

One night, I was out with a good friend. One drink led to another bottle, and soon we were talking about everything from our sordid past. And as I was telling her about this event, for a moment I stopped being in the pub; I was back in the street. My eyes were scanning the street, and I saw myself lying down, facing the pavement. And then life moved backwards, and I got up, and a man’s hand moved away from my face, and him and his friend moved away from me, walking backwards. I took a sharp inhale, and I was back in the pub, in uncontrollable tears. I remembered.

I was walking down the street when two men were walking towards me in the opposite sidewalk. I can still not remember their faces or shapes, but I am assuming that they must have been attractive, as I was looking at them. They changed their direction and came towards me. They asked me why I was looking at them, wanted to know if I was a fag, and moments later were hitting me to the ground.

My friend took me to her house, where I slept on her bed. In the morning, my cheeks were covered with dried tears, my eyes were blank, and my mouth was half open, ready to say something, not sure what it was.

I still have no detailed recollection of what happened that day. I will probably never know. What I do know though is that I can not ignore homophobia when I see it; I know that mocking someone and physically attacking them is not far away when you are with like-minded friends, caught in the macho moment in time. It is easy to feel superior by pointing the thing you consider inferior to the other. It is much harder to feel safe in your sexuality, and accept others.

This is why we should be having an LGBT History Month. It first started in the US, in October of 1994, and moved to the UK in 2005. since then, It relies on the individual and collective effort for change, both on a national and local level. From uncovering the sexualities of major historical figures, like Florence Nightingale, William Shakespeare and Leonardo da Vinci, to presenting the achievements and lives of current LGBT icons (with the recently popular J. Edgar and Alan Turing), it bring the LGBT identity out of the shadows.
This serves a really important purpose: show that gay people are not caricatures in the background of a 90 minute episode; are not an exotic addition to your daily life; are not ‘the other’.

You can find the full schedule of the London Events here.

Let’s change the world, one prejudice at a time.

Love,

G

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