by Reggie Yates
Returning from the holiday, I found myself coming back to what Charlie must have been going through for years. He would wear a mask to appease the people around him for fear of being cast out and he wasn’t alone. The internal conflict he’d experienced I knew was happening up and down the country and I became desperate to have uncomfortable conversations pertaining to my journey and his. Culture, religion and family were at the core of so many black British homes; it had taken me a while, but I’d begun to understand the platform I now had and just how many people I could reach with subject matter I believed in.
I asked Charlie to appear in a film I wanted to make. I saw it as an incredible opportunity to share his story and potentially help so many in the process. He declined to be involved and I was disappointed but understood his reasoning. Aware of my usual audience size and demographic, Charlie knew appearing would impact his anonymity and he was right. He didn’t want to be known as the gay one, he just wanted to be Charlie. I couldn’t argue. I got it.
So, inspired by Charlie, Benny and all the other friends and family members I’d seen wrestle with the same issues, I went head first into filming Extreme UK: Gay and Under Attack. Making the film felt timely as gay parenthood, rights and marriage were all legal in the UK for the first time in history. And yet, some Brits still saw homosexuality as a decision, and as a black British man, I knew a large chunk of the community I belonged to held that view. But despite gay marriage being legalised in the UK, being black British and gay retains a stigma rendering conversation at best awkward, but more commonly, a taboo.
Now, I’m the first to call myself a massive tart as I love to get dressed up and a huge part of feeling good comes from my weekly haircut. Think of it as the make-up some can’t leave home without applying. Before I go on, yes, I did just compare getting a haircut to a full face of slap. It changes the way you look in exactly the same way! We can debate this later, but I’m sure a disproportionate amount of you are thinking – weekly cuts are a little excessive? Well, in the black community that is normal. If you’ve ever been in or driven past a black barbershop on a Friday night you’ll see customers literally queuing out the door. Why? Because for a black man, a fresh cut for the weekend is as much a part of the weekly routine as a car wash or visit to the launderette.
Let it be known, I’m fully aware I’ve fallen into the trap of not feeling fresh without a crisp trim. That being said, a huge draw to the chair and those clippers on a weekly basis comes from the unrelenting banter and debates usually led by my barber Mark ‘Slider Cuts’ Maciver. Anything goes and everything is said, as the barber shop has always been a place black men can go to vent. The quintessential British pub was never a massively welcoming environment for me growing up, but the barbershop always offered a safe space to talk trash and talk loud.
So with my love for the swivel chair and the honesty it encouraged, I headed to south London. South of the river has eternally been seen as a whole other country to those living on the other side of the water, but as someone who made the north to south jump at the tender age of fourteen, my allegiances are city wide. Moving south-east so young was a huge culture shock as the minute I settled in, I began to notice things looked a little different down south.
The largest population of black men in the UK live in south London, including me, so my desire to start a healthy conversation felt best-placed southside. With barbershops on every corner, the bustling, predominantly black area of Peckham was where I’d start.
I was meeting Max in Jowas, a black barbershop on Peckham High Street. Regardless of the fact that it was a weekday afternoon, the place was packed. Music and conversation was ear-splitting, as debates about football quickly became arguments. It felt like exactly the sort of place I should be starting. Max was in the chair getting a cut as we spoke and the evil eye his barber kept throwing my way was cold but understandable. I was distracting his customer and the haircut he was giving might suffer. He wasn’t particularly happy but I pursued.
Max’s parents were born in West Africa just like mine, and the life he’d led having being born and raised in London was dramatically different to theirs. Always knowing his sexuality, Max only began to accept it at eighteen. While at church, Max decided to share his situation with the pastor who subsequently outed him to his father. Once news hit, Max was kicked out of the family home and didn’t speak to his dad for three years. We both found a way to smile through what was clearly a difficult story to tell, but our similar backgrounds helped a level of understanding. Max had been raised by a typical African authoritarian and stood no chance in attempting to have a conversation that wasn’t one way.
Clearly having made peace with the situation, Max was balanced and open about what had happened, putting a large part of the blame on religion. I’d always felt that religious beliefs could be a block for an entire generation of parents when it came to so many modern issues. The immigrant need to maintain traditions from back home were a constant. To be of god and maintain cultural norms while desperately trying to assimilate, I saw become a conflict for so many of my friends’ parents.
I’d always felt frustrated when I saw so many immigrant parents look down on anything resembling change. For the ardent set, embracing the progressive nature of their children was seen as abandoning their culture.
Max jumped out of the chair as the silent but no longer frowning barber waved over a young kid from the couch. His waiting mother had been in London for sixteen years and had roots in Liberia and Sierra Leone. I asked how she’d react should her son come out as gay, something which she admitted not fully understanding. Her first question to her child wouldn’t be ‘Have you always known?’, and she didn’t envision an outpouring of support either; her reaction would be one word. ‘Why?’
Quietly listening on a nearby chair, a young guy in a thobe and kufi wore the signs of a man committed to his Islamic faith. Ibrahim’s parents were born in the West Indies and between his background and religion, a stereotypical picture could easily be painted.
I hoped to be surprised by his outlook, but was quickly deflated as he explained why homosexuality was something he didn’t agree with. He was respectful to Max and took his time to gently explain his feelings. ‘A lot of good comes from men and women being together. Even the animals, they are like this. Even the plants …’
He saw sexuality as a choice and Max looked like he was about to explode, but somehow, he eloquently made a brilliant point. ‘It’s probably the most ridiculous thing saying that someone would choose to be gay. If you look at the world we live in, being gay has never been easy so why would anyone at any age say – I wanna be a homosexual?’
Ibrahim was a British-born, thirty-year-old black man holding views in total contradiction to his broad cultural experience growing up in the UK. I couldn’t hide my surprise at some of his views. I’d always assumed that there was a gulf between the generations in terms of attitudes towards the LGBTQ community. What my time in the barbershop had clarified was that I had a lot to learn.
The attitudes held by Ibrahim were informed largely by his faith, but I’d always been taught religion was about acceptance and love. Seven out of ten black Britons come from Christian homes and over a quarter of all churchgoers in London are black. If my personal beliefs held any truth, attending Sunday service should have been the place for answers. I arrived at a south-west London Seventh Day Adventist church, ready to listen and learn.
My sermons are just me, like it or leave it
All that I knew about the Seventh Day church was that they followed a literal interpretation of the Bible. Followers of the faith believed smoking, gambling and drinking were all vices, even when consumed in moderation. That was all I had in my locker when I arrived at the church, so I was open to an entirely new experience.
I was quickly introduced to Pastor Andrew Fuller, a beard-sporting, suit-wearing young black guy with an undeniable warmth about him. My bald man-child face may have given away my instant jealousy of his ab
ility to grow a real man’s beard. Even if it did, I wouldn’t have known, as his smile was huge.
Preaching since the age of sixteen, Andrew had briefly abandoned the church, returning after a short hiatus packed with girls and drugs. By his own account, he had fallen into sin, only to return to god.
The brief history lesson left me desperate to know more about the man but Andrew had slightly bigger fish to fry in the shape of a packed church waiting for his sermon. I found a seat at the back and enjoyed the choir while doing the embarrassing dad thing of not fully committing to a full-on stood-up dance. Shuffling around in my seat to the beat, their voices were so soulful I almost forgot I was in the UK.
The scale, atmosphere and polish were very American and reminded me of churches I’d visited across the pond. My time in Pentecostal Ghanaian church did not look or feel like this. Where were the sweaty old ladies waving white hankies? Why wasn’t anyone speaking in tongues or catching the Holy Ghost? This church was something else entirely and, as Pastor Andrew got the room warmed up, I noticed just how broad his audience was. Lots of young men and women had come to worship without their parents, almost matching in number the older couples and families. This was a young church, and Pastor Andrew’s candour definitely had a lot to do with it.
Controlling the room, Andrew was all arms. His massive suit sleeves flapped with every wiggle and wave during his impassioned statements. He was straight-talking, and felt like a typical young guy being passionate and honest. ‘My sermons are just me, like it or leave it,’ he announced off the back of rapturous applause. He made every point with the kindly concern of a wise big brother, and had the younger congregation members in the palm of his hand.
I couldn’t help but feel that he had chosen the topic of tolerance and acceptance to fit in with the documentary I was about to interview him for. Explaining that he too had fallen from grace, he couldn’t look down on anyone. Andrew was speaking in a way I’d never heard from a pastor. The spectrum of ages nodded in agreement and once the service was over, I had to wait in line as everyone wanted to shake his hand.
He was clearly tired from the energy he’d not only given on stage but to every person who cornered him for conversation as they left, but I needed to bend his ear about his interpretation of scripture. We grew up in the same part of London and were similar ages, surely his attitude would be closer to mine than his older religious equivalent?
Pastor Andrew believed only heterosexual parents could raise a child successfully as he saw both parents vital to a child’s growth. Andrew was without doubt progressive and with his difficult past behind him, his understanding of that next group of worshippers placed him perfectly to draw in a whole new generation. That said, the difference in his delivery may have made him different, but fundamentally his beliefs were the same. Essentially, if you were gay the message was loud and clear. There would be no place for you in their church.
I’m as tolerant as the next man, and given my experiences hopefully more so, but it’s not enough to tolerate a person’s lifestyle through gritted teeth. Really, that’s just pretence. The church sticking to their guns could be seen as laudable, but to me, excluding people in this way was judgemental.
I won’t get with you now because you’ve got a dick
I left the big smoke and headed to Burton on Trent, a small town just south of Derby. My loud outfit and uncapped belly laugh while bantering with the crew saw a generous helping of side eye aimed my way on the train journey. But as I walked the quiet streets wrapped in terraced housing as far as the eye could see, the strangely oppressive nature of the place began to creep in.
I’d braved the long train journey in an effort to meet Tallulah, a mixed-raced twenty-something with Caribbean and English roots. Her Jamaican dad and local mum separated when she was just three years old, so she was living with her mother and gran from the white side of her family. Arriving at the house, the door swung open to reveal a glamorous young woman in a crop top and tight jeans. Her hair was flowing down her back and framing her full face of make-up. Her huge eyes pinged open, her smile was broad and she threw out a hand to shake mine.
Her voice totally betrayed her appearance. Tallulah’s deep vocal timbre as we shook hands explained her story, and why I was so keen to talk to her. Tiny in frame and feminine in manner, she had a deep voice that somehow magnified her strong jaw and Adam’s apple. Tallulah was transgender and in the earliest months of her transition.
Tallulah lived with her grandmother, who hadn’t got used to the change just yet and still referred to her as him. On some level, it felt as though there was a battle to let go of the grandson she loved, exemplified by the collection of framed pictures on display. Several school pictures crowded a shelf, the most recent showing a fifteen-year-old boy smiling uncomfortably. Still referring to the boy as ‘me’, Tallulah explained that this was just before she’d come out.
Then known as Aaron, Tallulah came out as gay believing family and friends would find that easier to digest than the full truth of her need to transition. ‘I had to come out as gay just so people would get off my back.’ Having always had an attraction to men, Tallulah explained that she’d always been a straight woman internally. As she gained more confidence in her late teens, she left school knowing that to be true to herself, she had to live as a woman.
This was the first time I’d spent an extended period of time with a person in transition and her struggle with acceptance helped me understand her journey so much better. She knew her gender to be one thing, while her body and the wider world was telling her something completely different.
Coming out as trans was a totally public affair as Tallulah chose to do so in the national press. As one of five women filling a double page spread in one of the UK’s biggest tabloid newspapers, Tallulah was featured in a piece with the headline ‘guess our biggest secret?’ The unfortunately low-rent write-up also featured the awful subheading, ‘Our five striking beauties are not what they seem …’
It was a pretty impersonal way to share her change with everyone she knew, but I guess she saved a shitload of money on her phone bill. Definitely better than a group text. We laughed about just how much of a shock the story must have been to so many people in her life. I saw it as opening herself up to local ridicule and a journalist’s interpretation of her reasoning. She saw it as an opportunity to circumvent conversations she didn’t want to have.
Finally away from her grandmother and in the garden, I had the opportunity to ask some of the more personal questions I could only really cover in private. Obviously, I was curious about sex and relationships. She was young and sexually active but with who? Fumbling my way through a series of questions, my slightly sweaty uncomfortable delivery wasn’t a million miles off a dad breaking down the birds and the bees to his kid.
I mean, you tell me. How exactly do you ask someone you just met about the specifics of their breasts and vagina?
Wearing a tight top, she appeared to have breasts but I wanted to know if they were real. Describing her chest as ‘that area’ I was an embarrassing mess, but Tallulah laughed with me, helping the conversation become less awkward. She was on hormones encouraging some growth, but added size by wearing small ‘chicken fillet’ breast enhancers in her bra. Approached more by black men, she only dated white guys as the stigma of, as she put it, ‘Dating a chick with a dick’ would always become an issue.
She laughed while explaining how often she’d hear the same thing from men of colour: ‘I’d go there with you in four years’ time, once you’ve had surgery, but I won’t get with you now because you’ve got a dick.’ Her light and breezy tone stood out, as what she was saying sounded so painful. I’m without doubt so much more emotional than I probably should be at my age. I’ve already accepted I’m most likely going to be the dad that cries at everything his kid does, so I would have expected Tallulah to be more affected by what she regularly experiences in relationships. The more her flippant attitude showed itself, the more it
became increasingly obvious that it was a defence mechanism. I couldn’t begin to imagine just some of the pain she’d experienced denying her true self and dealing with conflict every time she left the house.
The small town Tallulah called home had a small black community but a large and growing South Asian one.
Predominantly Muslim and Sikh, the religious communities didn’t approve of her and weren’t shy in making it known. Tallulah had had verbal abuse and death threats to her face, and bottles thrown at her head. ‘Batty man go and die’ was a regular slur, but she’d got to a point of not ever reacting for fear of beatings.
Tallulah displayed an incredible resilience but had clearly been affected by her decision to openly be her true self. Fearing total strangers felt like the worst way to live; that was, until I met a man who ended up fearing his own family.
Back in east London, I was set to hear a story that would challenge everything I held dear. In London, I’ve always lived in a happy bubble of lefty-liberal tolerance and progressive attitudes, but I was about to realise I had no idea about grotesque things that were happening on my own doorstep. London may be a melting pot, but cultures live happily side-by-side even if they don’t always mix. I had never encountered Sohail Ahmed’s world, but the minute I learned of its existence it was a real wake-up call.
At twenty-two, Sohail Ahmed came out to himself. This process had taken years, as his faith had taught him that what he felt deep down wasn’t real. Raised in a home that followed a strict version of Islam, his beliefs bordered on the extreme. At his most radical, he saw homosexual people as evil, and he subscribed to the harshest sharia laws. He had believed in punishing anyone LGBTQ and felt that throwing sinners off bridges or stoning them to death was just.
No longer practising any religion, Sohail moved to a flat in east London keeping his location a secret from his former friends and family. Isolated from the community to which he once belonged, he was thrown out of the family home when his parent’s suspicions were vindicated in checking his internet browsing history.
