I always want to write something about Pride when it comes around, but I’m never sure what. My position remains evergreen: so much progress has been made, and yet ... The “and yet ...” is the painful part. The “and yet ...” is news of yet another attack. The “and yet ...” is the blood boiling when someone saying outrageous things is platformed on Irish radio. The “and yet ...” is reading another column from someone who is ignorant of the issues within the LGBTQ+ community, but is still given space to write about things they have no idea about, plucking “culture war” discourse off the shelf in the most superficial, canned way imaginable without even realising their own cliche.
The “and yet ...” is the level of homophobia and transphobia I’ve seen articulated – in the crowd, and on placards – at anti-immigrant marches, and understanding the vicious intersection of racism, fascism and anti-LGBTQ+ hate. The “and yet ...” is hearing friends say “I hope nothing bad happens at Pride.” The “and yet ...” is seeing gay politicians dealing with horrific abuse online and off. The “and yet ...” is knowing, hearing, seeing, experiencing, the ongoing street harassment and online abuse that LGBTQ+ people face.
Multiple things can be true at the same time. It can be the case that Ireland is a more open society, and also that we are still experiencing homophobia, and especially transphobia. The “and yet ...” is not a new feeling for me, but one from the past that has been made present, where, for example, having had the luxury and freedom for a brief few years to not second-guess holding my wife’s hand on the street, the uncertainty has dropped back in. I hate that this has happened. I even question the feeling when it arises: is this to do with what I’ve experienced in the past, or is it about now? Am I bringing my baggage into the present, or is this a legitimate fear? Ultimately, one has to trust one’s feelings. They don’t come out of nowhere. LGBTQ+ people have always been made vigilant because we operate in a society that has varying shades of hostility towards our existence. We deal with the consequences of such whims. The “and yet ...” is knowing that an attack can happen, although unlikely.
The “and yet ...” is seeing young trans and non-binary people having to contend with borderline insane disinformation, while also seeing crowds of young queer people out and about, confident, free and happy. The “and yet ...” is the tired feeling that comes when people express their “shock” about an attack, despite the fact that LGBTQ+ people keep ringing alarms and keep trying to get people to listen to us about the broader consequences of transphobic discourse, and also appreciating that many cis-straight people do actually stand up for us, and abhor this bigotry and violence too. The “and yet ...” is understanding that often we are not listened to as equals and that we need others who have more privilege in society to stand up for us. Again.
A good while ago, I was at a trans rights demonstration outside the Dáil. One of the speakers talked about visibility. The idea that representation and being seen is a positive thing, but it is a complicated one in times of threat. The speaker spoke about “visibility on our terms” in relation to trans and non-binary people. This is a key point. Today, so much so-called “visibility” when it comes to trans and non-binary people in particular, is imposed. It is a spotlight that is often not asked for or voluntarily stepped into, but shone as though a searchlight or interrogation room torch.
Generations of LGBTQ+ people in this country have thought deeply about what Pride means
Last Thursday evening, I was out for a drink with three friends, who all happen to be gay men, and asked them what was on their minds about Pride this year. One man said that he thinks a lot about how marriage equality came into being from conversations that happened in Ireland, and what’s required of us as a society – and what the outcome is – when we talk and listen to conversations about desire and love.
One man spoke about how he often thinks about those LGBTQ+ people who never came out, who hid themselves in heterosexual marriages. One man talked about the so-called “shadow marches” in early Pride protests, meaning those who walked to the side of marches, to protect themselves from being seen. These were protests within protests, things that created gentle, hidden tracks along our streets.
Generations of LGBTQ+ people in this country have thought deeply about what Pride means. Our work, activism, protest, individual and collective evolution has gifted something profound to Irish society in terms of openness and empathy. And yet, while Irish society benefits hugely from this, there’s a sense that we are still left to do the hard yards. I don’t want to instil guilt in those outside of our community. Guilt is no good to anyone. I want to encourage action and solidarity. And yet, the dichotomy is there: the progress and the regression, the joy and the pain, the celebration and the fight. It all coexists. The question for broader society is whether everyone is prepared to collectively build on compassion, or let things slide. The answer to this, even in 2024, hangs in the air. And that, after all, gives meaning to Pride as protest.