Writer and activist Nathaniel J Hall reflects on the lifelong battle to overcome shame and feel proud
When you think about Pride month or Pride parades or Pride festivals, what comes to mind? Rainbow flags? Glitter? Drag queens? Partying in the street?
It’s a fascinating question for me because every time I sit down to write about being gay, I almost always end up talking about shame — the very antithesis of pride.
I’m often asked to speak at Pride events, on stages and in workplaces, to educate on equality, diversity and inclusion. But what do I know? I’m just an artist, a storyteller, right?
When you come from a minoritised community you become an expert in managing personal safety. So, expert in fact, that you don’t even realise you’re doing it.
You self-police what you say, what you wear, how you behave. I bet you do it too. When you step across the threshold of an LGBTQ+ space, you know what to expect. But out there? That’s a different story entirely. And that self-policing comes from shame. Deep-rooted, internalised shame.
When I was a kid, even before I knew or understood I was gay, I was being bullied by people who homed in on my differences — singled out for being kind and gentle, for liking drama and not football. Every day became a battle for survival.
That might sound hyperbolic. But when you witness a boy get beaten up at school because he is less able to ‘tone down’ his gayness aged thirteen, and when you yourself are regularly spat at, pushed and even punched, it really is a battle for survival.
These days, I’m a successful playwright, performer and activist, and you could be mistaken in thinking shame no longer gets a look in.
I regularly get asked to speak to millions of people – BBC Breakfast, Good Morning Britain, Steph’s Packed Lunch… even to gay icon Lorraine Kelly. I’ve performed in multi- award-winning TV drama It’s A Sin. And I have written, performed and published two critically-acclaimed plays based on my experiences.
But sadly, for people like us, the threat of violence that first began
in school never really goes away. I myself have been violently attacked and held at knifepoint while gay slurs were hurled at me. And just the other month the drag artist Aida H Dee and their partner were attacked in Cardiff on the very same night they got engaged.
I have to admit that as the UK slips down from first to seventeenth place in the European ranking of LGBTQ+ safe countries, and reports of homophobic and transphobic attacks rise AGAIN, I’ve struggled to get into the party spirit this Pride season.
But it’s precisely for that reason that Pride month is so important.
It’s precisely for that reason we put on the war paint — the glitter, the rainbows, the flags — and we take up space in the streets.
As an activist, people often lament to me that Pride is no longer a protest, but I disagree. Partying with pride is
a defiant, subversive and sometimes downright sexy political act.
But what of that masking, that self-policing of myself? Well, as with anything in life, it’s complicated. And those deep-rooted fears and anxieties aren’t always easy to shake off. But when doubt creeps in, I remind myself that for the most part, I am safe to out myself. I can talk about HIV, and I can have the difficult chat about sex and drugs and mental health, because
on the stages and in the workplaces where I do speak, I have the privilege of being able to leave. There’s safety in this spotlight. Not everyone has that privilege. And so, I tell my story, to ease that burden on others.
You know, despite the onslaught of hate recently, I am hopeful. Partly because I feel a wave of positive change approaching after the general election. But mostly because you’re all here – not only celebrating during Pride season, but being loud, proud and visible 365 days a year.
Follow Nathaniel
nathanieljhall.co.uk @nathanieljhall
