Culture Slut: Trans Pride has Finally Returned
The earth is healing. Sort of. Well, actually, I guess in many ways lots of things are actually getting a lot worse, the rising heat of our climate being one of them, but some things are healing. This year marked the extremely welcome (physical) return of Trans Pride, both in London and Brighton, and it has never felt more vital. Despite not being reported on by the mainstream press, well over 20,000 people turned up for each event and showed us all that thousands of people do care about the rights of trans and non-binary people, and that support feels spectacularly affirming.
I have been attending Brighton Trans Pride (the first of its kind) since 2015, back when it was just in a small garden park off St James street, with a couple of poets on microphones and an after party in the upstairs room of a bar. That party was, incidentally, one of the most euphoric moments of my life, where I danced completely naked on stage to Don’t Leave Me This Way by The Communards and received rapturous applause from a cheering audience. I wrote about this experience in a previous Culture Slut column about nightclubs, but it bears repeating. I have loved Trans Pride ever since. It has swelled exponentially, but it has never grown in to the bloated corporate corpse that Pride has, maintaining its grass-roots activism, community support and celebration of trans existence.
This year also marked the long awaited return of the underground queer cabaret collective I am part of; Club Silencio. Before the pandemic, we had a residency in one of Brighton’s last gay sex clubs, putting on a monthly surreal variety show with singing clowns, radical poetry, musicians, comedy and other vaudeville acts, along with immersive art installations, screenings of B movie horror films, and Dark Room Life Drawing, featuring me. As our popularity grew, so did our show, and after the breakaway success of our annual Christmas nativity play, we started putting together full scripted dramas, with sets and music and original writing. We became a staple of queer night life in Brighton, but when Covid hit, it all went away.
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Since the end of lock-downs, we had tried at various points to relaunch, but it never came through. The sex club that gave us free reign and never charged us anything no longer exists, and finding somewhere with as much freedom was difficult. But we finally came together for a show in the basement of a gallery and gave a fund-raiser for Trans Pride, and it was one of the best shows we’ve ever done. Written by Juno Dawson, a spectacular best-selling author and trans icon, it was about a non binary person visiting a transphobic beauty salon run by a certain famous author of second rate wizard school books who then tries to force them into conversion therapy. It was very fun, a great entry point for audiences because it maintained our anarchic surrealist roots, but also presented a strong narrative that was relevant and powerful. One of the best feelings about being in it was the fact that I was a non-binary performer, playing a non-binary role, written by a trans woman, mocking the transphobic micro-aggressions we all feel every day. This wasn’t just pride-associated claptrap, this was queer art, transgressive queer art created by trans queer people, and it meant the world to be able to share it with everyone again.
On the day of the march, I walked down to the starting point in blazing sunshine, and I knew that the stars were smiling on us. The opening speeches were rousing and passionate, the crowd was larger than it had ever been. I saw people I hadn't seen in years, everyone came back to Brighton for the cause, kids who had never been before stood in excited clumps, and the old girls emerged from their quiet elderly lives to take up the mantle of liberation once more. The people I enjoy seeing the most at these marches are the old girls, the girls who have been in Brighton forever, women I recognise from St James street from when I was a teenager sneaking into bars, grande dames who would hold court in hole-in-the-wall bars like the Marine Tavern, or the Bulldog, women who lived out in the open decades before surgeries where as easily accessible or lace-front wigs even existed. These women are the pillars of strength that the entire queer community rests on and they deserve to be celebrated at every opportunity.
“It was gratifying to see that the streets hadn't been cordoned off, cars had to sit and wait for us to march past, probably for hours. Buses were at a standstill, curious and interested faces peering out at us from upper decks.”
Once, when I was a young cross dresser walking home in the early hours, I was getting harassed by a group of straight men on the other side of the street, and the minute they made to cross the road towards me, this woman in a blonde wig barrelled out of the doorway of a dive bar and yelled so fiercely at these yobs that they backed off immediately and scuttled off down an alley. She was incredible. She used swear words I had never even heard before, her command of language and tone inspires me to this day. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen this woman again in subsequent years, or if we’d recognise each nearly two decades on, but I’ve never forgotten her and what she did for me. She made me feel safe and showed me how much strength we can find in ourselves, how much strength we can harness just through harsh words.
The Trans Pride march winds its way through streets and on to the sea front, where it stretches all the way to a large park in Hove, Brunswick Square. It was gratifying to see that the streets hadn't been cordoned off, cars had to sit and wait for us to march past, probably for hours. Buses were at a standstill, curious and interested faces peering out at us from upper decks. I imagined being stuck on one of those buses and having to call in to work to explain why you were going to be late. I smiled. I love anything that makes me late for work, its good to remind your bosses that they don’t own your life. Many of the cars on the other side of the road tooted their horns in support as the sped by, eliciting a great rumbling cheer every time they did.
The park was large and well spaced, with lots of community tents at the beginning which then give way to shaded and quiet areas, with the performance stage and food trucks down the other end. My favourite thing about Trans Pride in the past is the truly unhinged vibe of the stage performances, either the most earnest poetry you’ve ever heard in your life, or very loud angry trans death metal bands, and absolutely nothing in between. This year seems more organised, there is at least a definite attempt at the curation of the vibe, not just a free for all. There are choirs, comedy hosts, cool bands, poets, even Travis Alabanza giving a rousing address. At the very end, there is one of the death metal bands, and I was so happy that they were still there performing that I fully threw myself into the crowd and danced with wild abandon.
As I wander around the park, I bump into old friends and make new ones. Some people I don’t recognise tell me how much they loved our show the day before, and how pleased they are that Club Silencio is back. There are lots of trans artists and photographers prowling around, taking portraits and documenting the expressions of joy and resistance going on everywhere. I am stopped fairly frequently because I am wearing a crown of red and pink roses with a large pink tulle boa. I’m also not averse to posing for the camera. I remember as a child how I used to dream about looking androgynous, being a beautiful willowy goddess with porcelain skin and a supermodel walk.
I remember the gender-fluid villains and magical girls in Sailor Moon and thinking THIS is how I will look, and THIS, and THIS. And then my adult body set in. Broad shoulders, chest hair from the age of fourteen, giant nose and the distant promise of a bald future. Stocky Irish genetics designed to withstand a famine, not engender comparisons to swans or lilies or any other of the delicate things I wanted to be. So I had to make a decision there and then, as puberty swirled all around me, I could either hate my body for the rest of my life, or just choose a new way I wanted to look, a different way to express my gender. So I did. I chose to look like a boy in a dress, which is just as well, because that’s what I look like most of the time. And I love it. Halter necks showcase my big shoulders and skim my waist. I LOVE women’s blazers from the 80s with giant shoulder pads that make them even bigger.
I love that because I look like a boy, I can get away with fashion faux pas that most women can’t. There is no such thing as a skirt that is too short for me, because by conventional standards, I shouldn’t be in skirt to begin with, which cancels out any other rules. My legs are very hairy so I never wear tights. I don’t need to worry about plunging necklines because I never wear a bra, and I love showing my chest hair. When I was younger, I thought a day without a nip-slip was like a day without sunshine. I love my body now. Of course there are times when I feel too old, too fat, too thin, too short, too anything, but I reason that that is just part of the experience of having a body. Bodies are limitations, and sometimes it’s good to test them.
After the park, I sit in a shady courtyard and look at my phone. Tonight, the Trans Pride closing party is in Concorde 2, a much bigger venue that has previously been booked, along the seafront. I want to go and dance with my friends. I want to see drag queens and show girls and other performers take over the stages. I want to make friends in the smoking area. I want to snog someone in a dark corner and grind our bodies together under coloured strobe lights. I look at my grindr profile. It seems very dull. I feel so full of light and energy, I’ve connected with the core of my being, the essence of my self worth and beauty, I’m so high on just the validation and joy that Trans Pride gives me that I immediately overhaul my profile. I take down all the pictures of me looking like a cute boy, no more sportswear or butch attitudes. I upload pics of me in make up, in dresses, looking and feeling truly happy. I change my name from Dreamboy to Culture Slut. Finally, I call in to work, tell them I’m sick , and go out into the night, dancing down the streets.
Words & Collages: Misha MN
