How PROUD are we really?
After decades of progress for the LGBTQ+ community, hate crimes are on the rise. But why? And, crucially, what can we do to stop them? Amelia Abraham investigates
"I like your T-shirt," I say, smiling at the teenager sitting next to me. It's black with white writting and it reads: "The world has bigger problems than boyswho kiss boys and girls who kiss girls."
In this linoleum-floored community centre in Stockport, Greater Manchester, sit 25 teenagers. The playfighting and felt-tip pens scattered across the table make me feel like I’m back in a classroom. But unlike the single-sex Catholic school I went to, the room is filled with people who identify across the gender spectrum, from trans and non-binary to queer, pansexual and “I don’t know yet”. This support meeting is a place to talk among like-minded others: a safe space. That is, until April last year, when it was attacked.
On a Wednesday night much like this one, a teenage girl burst through the doors during a meeting, spewing homophobic abuse. She threw furniture at the people there, physically attacking one, until she was restrained and the police were called. “She tried to scare the gay out of us,” one teenager jokes now,“but seriously? It wasn’t funny… it was terrifying.” Sam, the man who runs this meeting and other support groups around Greater Manchester on behalf of LGBTQ+ charity The Proud Trust, tells me that since the incident, he bolts the doors and lowers the blinds during meetings
so no one can see who’s inside. Still, on a recent group outing to a park, boys on bikes circled the kids, shouting,“Are you lot gay?”
Aggression like this is currently playing out all over the country – and indeed the world. But in an era of seemingly globalised acceptance, commercialised Pride events and more inclusive freedom around pronouns than ever before, why is the LGBTQ+ community
I’m a part of experiencing such significant levels of violence?
know. But Laura Russell, director of campaigns, policy and research at LGBTQ+ rights charity Stonewall, says the numbers are “the tip of the iceberg” because four out of five people still don’t go to the police.‡
I wondered if, perhaps, these statistics only applied to the older generation – that today’s teenagers were rewriting a brighter, more accepting future. But back at the community centre, a queue forms to speak to me, each person with their own tale of violence and shaming. Take Leanne,** a 16-year-old who came out as gay a year ago. School bullies have targeted her ever since, and not long ago someone drove past and threw a bottle of Coke at her head, shouting abuse. She didn’t report it. “The bottle hit me, but it wasn’t that bad; I wasn’t beaten up,” she offers.
Then there’s Dani,** a trans man, who says he’s called “lesbian” or “freak” most times he leaves the house. Billie,** 18, who is nonbinary and has been coming to the group for two years, says it’s the only place they can truly be themselves. In public, they wear jeans and a hoodie, but at the group they change in the toilets, putting on a dress, make-up and heels.“There aren’t many places like this,” they shrug.
Other support groups I speak to echo their experiences, including one for non-binary adults in Leeds, co-run by Joni Clark. Once or twice a month, up to 20 people meet for coffee or go to the theatre, and discuss how to cope after experiencing the abuse that
is a mainstay of their lives. Joni says members have been shouted at on the street, cornered on nights out and threatened with knives.
What they, and so many others who have experienced similar instances of physical and verbal violence, might not realise is that all these things count as hate crimes in the UK. A hate crime can be anything from a slur to a physical attack or repeated online abuse, but it is clearly motivated by discrimination based on gender or sexuality. Yet LGBTQ+ people tend to shrug them off because they don’t necessarily realise they’ve experienced a crime, or don’t want to take the time or emotional energy to report it; they just want to get on with their lives. As Melania explains, speaking out about her attack meant that she had to “go through it all again”, dredging up the trauma. Other
LGBTQ+ people fear what will happen if they do make a report, including Joni Clark.“I think we distrust the police because it used to be illegal for LGBTQ+ people to love who we want to. Even now, with a non-binary person, the police might say, ‘You’re a man’ if they see a beard, or ‘You’re a woman’ to someone with boobs. We feel vulnerable and worry the police won’t understand us or will make the situation worse.” The City Of London Police say,“There is never any excuse for abuse, racism or hate crime of any kind. We are committed to tackling this sort of crime and want people to feel they can go about their daily business without fear of violence or threat.”
Critical conditions
For hate to thrive, particularly at a time when LGBTQ+ culture has arguably never been so mainstream, a certain set of conditions has to exist. Perhaps the political climate and general swing to the right, both here, in the US, and in places like Turkey and Brazil, is creating such a melting pot.
“Several commentators in the US have debated whether Trump’s election has affected hate crimes in the country,” explains Amin Ghaziani, a professor of sociology at the University of British Columbia. He points to research by the Washington Post, which showed that hate crimes jumped a staggering 226% in counties that hosted 2016 Trump campaign rallies.“There is a palpable sense of xenophobia and licensed bigotry on the streets. It feels real and more pronounced since he became president.” And in 2019, the American Medical Association described the
“We feel that our very existence is up for debate”
level of violence against trans people as an “epidemic”, with trans women of colour falling victim to a particularly hostile trio of deeply ingrained societal misogyny, racism and transphobia. In 2019, it’s thought 23 transgender people were murdered in the USA.
This might sound extreme, but a similar thing could be happening here. Evelyne Paradis, executive director of ILGA Europe, a panEuropean LGBTQ+ rights organisation, says that while UK laws are relatively progressive (Italy and Greece do not allow same-sex marriage and Russia has an anti-gay-propaganda law), “people are starting to see the words of prominent figures in the UK as permission to be violent”. Boris Johnson has called gay men “tank-topped bum boys”, Jacob Rees-Mogg is against same-sex marriage and Nigel Farage defended Ann Widdecombe’s claim last year that there could be an “answer” to homosexuality, which was widely viewed as an endorsement of conversion therapy. When LGBTQ+ people see these comments in the media, we feel our very existence is up for debate, which can be profoundly damaging to our mental health, as well as stoking hostility from the wider public.
Brighter future?
I’m hopeful, though, that I’ll find a few glimmers of optimism for the years to come in the young people at the Stockport support group. Before I leave, I ask its members whether they have seen any positive steps towards a future where they won’t have to fear being who they are. Emily,** who identifies as pansexual, is heartened by the number of LGBTQ+ celebrities young people have to look up to now, like Cara Delevingne and Troye Sivan.“I had a crush on Ruby Rose when Orange Is The New Black was first on,” she tells me. “I remember talking to the straight girls I’m friends with, and them saying, “Yeah, Ruby’s beautiful,” which meant it wasn’t such a shock for me to say it.” Another sign of hope is improved language: there are more ways to define your identity than ever before. While I worry about how normal these kids seem to think it is to experience homophobia, biphobia, transphobia and hate crimes, I take comfort in how normal they also know it is to be non-binary, queer or pansexual – identities we didn’t even have the language for when I was at school 10 years ago.
But famous role models and labels only go so far. All the teenagers I spoke to agreed that the answer to reducing hate crime, if there is one, is education; if kids were taught about LGBTQ+ rights and relationships in schools, it would make life a lot easier for them, but also for generations to come, because those taught acceptance now would grow up to be more accepting adults. “It’s not that people don’t agree [with LGBTQ+ issues], it’s often that they don’t know enough,” says Billie.
This year, their wishes will become a reality: in 2019, the government made teaching about same-sex relationships in primary schools mandatory. This change will be brought into classrooms from September. Stonewall is also working with the Crown Prosecution Service and police to make sure hate crime is better understood. Police officers receive regular training on how to deal with these reports, and prosecution rates are higher as a result.
These shifts give me hope – I love being invited to friends’ same-sex weddings, watching Drag Race and seeing LGBTQ+ celebrities on the red carpet. But high-profile media moments don’t always reflect what LGBTQ+ people are experiencing on the ground. In the real world – in clubs, on buses, at the cinema – being LGBTQ+ can be scary. Unless I’m in a gay bar or at home, I feel nervous being affectionate with the person I love. Melania, who is still suffering the lasting effects of her attack, has now left Britain because she doesn’t feel safe. In Spain, where she is living, she often feels frightened when she sees a group of men together. “It’s not fair to be targeted just for being who you are,” she tells me, and I agree. Why should being ourselves and loving who we want leave us vulnerable to violence?
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