‘It’s always the f***ing lesbian one,’ he shouted, with no mask on, centimetres away from my face.
Suddenly there were people crowding the aisles of the train, waiting for their turn to threaten me. My friends had to use their bodies as a barrier in front of mine, while my girlfriend stood with her arms around me.
Minutes before, I’d been trying to defend a vulnerable Black man with mental health problems from being goaded and picked on by a group of white teenagers.
He had been sat talking to himself when it started. Soon, a family piled on, accusing him of spitting on the children – something he hadn’t been doing – and another man stood up and threatened to fight him.
He eventually reacted by lighting up a cigarette, I think as an attempt to get people to move away. A white woman then phoned the police and reported him for smoking but failed to mention the people who had been harassing him.
I asked if she was going to report the white perpetrators rather than just giving a skewed account that turned a victim into some kind of villain. It was a comment that put me in the firing line.
He was chased off the train at the next stop, before the passengers then turned on me with violent threats and abuse.
One man jumped out of his seat and yelled ‘I don’t care if you look like a man or a woman, I’ll head-butt you anyway.’
I looked at bystanders squarely in the face and asked for help but they continued to stare at their feet. They could remove themselves from an uncomfortable situation. However, being visibly queer meant that for me, opting out was not an option.
No one did anything. I became a spectacle for a carriage full of people as I was subjected to vicious homophobia.
What should have been a conversation about racial bias quickly became a situation that put me in danger. I have not stopped thinking about what would have happened if my friends had not been there. It makes it harder knowing that I had asked onlookers for help and they made the conscious decision to do nothing.
Let me be clear: if you are a bystander you are an ally of nobody. For you, it’s an awkward train journey you’ll forget about tomorrow; for me it was a violent onslaught, physical or not, that has left scars deep enough for me to panic before stepping foot on public transport.
The day before it happened, I’d posted on my Instagram story saying that at the age of 25, I was finally at peace with myself, living shamelessly as a genderqueer lesbian and understanding the power of self-love.
Queer people have for centuries been taught to hate ourselves, that we are sinful and contagious.
Within 24 hours I felt as though I was watching my freedom to be happy being snatched away again.
When I got off the train, I collapsed onto the platform and the carriage erupted with cheering. It hurt so much to know that I was in the minority and that my fellow passengers chose to come down on the side of discrimination.
Not only did they not want me to speak or challenge their prejudice (whether that be racism or homophobia), they didn’t want me to exist.
A lot of people have asked if I’ve reported what happened to the police – my answer is ‘not yet’ because honestly, I don’t know if it would be worth the pain. I have never had a positive experience with the police and on previous occasions when I’ve spoken to them I have had to relive trauma over and over again to only ever reach dead ends.
Taking up space, being valued, respected and visible are things that so many of us are still having to campaign for. But what often doesn’t get talked about is the fact that invisibility is sometimes a luxury many of us don’t get to experience either.
What people don’t realise is that in situations like the one I found myself in, when folk are violently othered because of the colour of their skin, their sexual orientation or their gender identity, the most impactful thing that can happen is removing power from perpetrators.
In order for this to happen, bystanders need to act and step in to defend those at the receiving end of hate. I ask everyone to not choose the easy option.
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