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Gscene Magazine - September 2020 | CRAIG’S THOUGHTS
WORDS ..They cut like a knife, cut into my life. Or: you’d better think.
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By Craig Hanlon-Smith @craigscontinuum
It was the Friday before what would have been Brighton & Hove Pride 2020. The train from London in the mid-afternoon was the busiest I had seen since before the lockdown with large groups of young people chattering and drinking as though this were any normal weekend visit to a sun-soaked seaside. Not a face-mask among them but when I was that age, I too was invincible. I began to navigate my way through the crowds and, although sporting my oversized noise cancelling headphones without any music playing, I was able to hear e v e r y t h i n g.
“Batty man!” one of them called out as I stepped through them to the door-well. I slowly removed said hearing-muffs and, turning to the direction of the brave young soul, asked: “Who said that?”
Most of their collective gaze hit the deck, I heard one of them say “oh my days”, two stared up at me but more out of curiosity than anything troublesome and all the girls sitting directly behind them giggled and drank from their wine bottles. My first thought was to congratulate them on drinking alcohol and that it made a change from inhaling chemicals from a rubber balloon, but I pocketed that thought for another occasion perhaps never to be said.
Having worked with young people across London for 20 years I reached into my knapsack of rehearsed epithets and turned to the chapter ‘disappointed Dad’.
“I’m going to assume,” I went on, “that you are on your way to Brighton, the gay capital of the United Kingdom. With everything going on in the world and our need to be mindful of others’ needs, I am so disappointed that one of your number would call out ‘batty man’ as I pass though the train minding my own business. I am of course assuming it was not a compliment but if I have that wrong now is the time to speak.” I moved on.
Although I shared the story with friends that evening, I thought no more of it and certainly didn’t feel impacted or particularly affected by the experience. The next day a good friend shared that in London on the same day, someone had shouted “Gay c**t” at him in the street and I thought of my Friday experience again. In both cases how quickly the words are selected and thrown out as if bonfire night fire-cracker, a quick smarting crack and then we move on.
Well not so fast.
During recent discussions in a professional context, twice within the same week and as part of wider diversity discussion, an influential member of the board informed me that while the ‘unseen’ diversity that I bring to the table is recognised, this is “not the right kind of diversity at this time”.
It was also pointed out to me that this comment was not in any way personal. I do not accept that. Words when directed at an individual however broadly intended, whether to make a different social point or in the case of the train, possibly just for a laugh, are absolutely personal. We cannot know the life journeys of those we attack, the rich cultural canvas of experience those in our unpleasant sights have worked through, just to be.
To dismiss a person’s sexual orientation, or in whatever context an observation may be made, is to utterly discredit who that individual is and everything about them. We undermine their journey, their struggles, the achievements they have made. We disregard their ability to get up in the morning and function in spite of a lifetime of political and social aggression, state-sponsored discrimination, physical and verbal violence, and an ever-pervasive threat thereof. It’s an act of individualised and focused social and cultural terrorism and like all forms of terrorism it is dangerous, damaging and has far-reaching consequences beyond those we experience in the moment.
American novelist and civil rights activist James Baldwin said: “I imagine one of the reasons people cling on to their hates is because they sense, once the hate is gone, they will be forced to deal with pain”. After almost 50 years of it I’m a little tired of being the sounding board for somebody else’s pain.
Last summer I stood in the shoe department of a well-known high street store perusing trainers next to a group of young lads, the same age and demographic of the teenagers on the Friday train. The lad nearest to me was handed a pair of trainers along with “What about these?” To which he replied: “Nah, they will make me look gay”.
I rested my hand upon his forearm and said: “Which would of course be absolutely fine.” The boys all ran off giggling. Some 15 minutes later as I was about to leave the store, he came back. All six foot five teenage lump of him and he said: “I’m pleased you’re still here because I’ve come to say that I’m sorry. It’s just when you’re with your mates, you know? I didn’t want you to go home thinking that I was prejudiced against gay people. So I’m sorry”.
And until that moment, I had no idea how much I needed him to come back and say that. Because in all of those years of being that sounding board, he is the only one who ever came back and said “I am sorry”.
Think before you speak. Then think again. Then think some more. And then decide if you need to say it at all. Words can cut like a knife, but they can also heal the sick and tired.
