PRIDE LONDON: LGBTQ?

A gay pride march can do more harm than good for someone who’s questioning their sexuality, says Amy Nathan)

On Saturday 3 July, I went to Gay Pride London for the very first time. The sky was blue, the day was warm and men and women in glittering gear gallivanted through the streets, leaving in their wake joy and rainbows. For the out and proud, the march was everything one would expect, with thousands taking to the street to celebrate that which united all and allowed them to march alongside one another with gay abandon.

But I’m not. Out and proud, that is. How can one be out and proud when one has no defined idea of one’s own identity? There’s a word for that: Questioning. I’m an unknown, an anomaly, an un-ticked box. Surrounded by a crowd thousands-strong all of whom knew who they were with absolute certainty, I felt alone and estranged. It was like looking through frosted glass at the window display of a bakery while there’s a thunderstorm raging. In that moment I wanted nothing more than to enter that world and know I belonged there, but the swirls of the glass distorted it beyond all recognition, rendering that world incomprehensible.

I found myself wondering why I was even there. What had I been thinking to even come? I didn’t belong there, and furthermore, I felt I had no right to be there. If I stood amongst those men and women and waved a rainbow flag, I would be telling the world that I was one of them, that I was ready to stand up and be counted as somebody who was proud of their sexuality, proud to be different and willing to fight for their rights. In short, I would be lying. I’m not ready for anything of the sort.

I had always thought that I had time. My position wavered between ‘I’m still young, I’ll work it out’ and ‘does it really matter? I mean, so long as I’m happy…’, but going to Pride and seeing children that looked about ten decked out in neon shorts and boys my age – I’m 16 - holding hands imbued me with a sudden sense of urgency. All at once I had a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach as I realised that until I work out who I am I won’t belong there. Then what? To call myself heterosexual would have been an even greater lie and somehow a betrayal (although of whom or what I’m still not sure).

So what am I to do? I could always avoid central London once a year, refuse to travel on the underground and try not to think about it. But that would be ridiculous. I’m going to try again. Next year I’m going to drag along a friend for moral support and dress up with corsets and eyeliner and above all else, try harder. And even if I can’t, even if it doesn’t work like that – I suppose that’s okay, too. After all, Pride started as an act of defiance. It was a celebration of people who were different, who refused to lie about their sexuality to appease the masses. They didn’t let anybody tell them how they should be or where they belonged. Why should I?

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