I thought I was safe from racism at Pride – until last year

It was a hot mid-afternoon in June 2024, and I’d been soaking up both the sunshine and good spirit of Pride in London when something – or more accurately, someone – stopped me in my tracks.  

As I fanned an acquaintance, Albert*, an outspoken anti-discrimination advocate and gay man of Turkish heritage, he turned to me and said: ‘And who said slavery was over?’  

My jaw, and fan, dropped.  

This man was supposed to be an ally, yet here he was perpetrating the same violence he spoke out against. I felt betrayed, frustrated, and angry.  

As a gay Black British man of Ghanaian heritage, navigating my journey came with unique challenges.  

I grew up in spaces where cultural and religious influences didn’t validate a queer existence, which made me feel like an outsider for 18 years. During this time, I concealed my sexuality – all until I went away for university and began chipping at negative self-beliefs around my identity.  

And it’s only been due to the allyship of friends and acquaintances that I’ve been able to find true belonging.     

Then, at the age of 23 – in what felt like a milestone in my personal journey to self-acceptance – I attended my first Pride in London. Seeing so much representation of the community in such a diverse pageantry that I hadn’t seen before reaffirmed to me that I am not alone and my queerness isn’t some blip. 

I ended up meeting and dancing with new people, sharing affirmations, and it felt like a safe space to let down my barriers. I’ve attended every year since and each time I’m reminded of how vast the LGBTQ+ community is and of our right to exist joyously and shamelessly.  

But my experience last year changed everything. 

In the aftermath of Albert’s remark, I wanted to retaliate with some witty intellectual comeback, but – too stunned to speak – I simply cast my eyes to his friend in what was practically a silent call for help. Instead of calling him out though, this companion simply raised his hands in a gesture of surrender as a way of saying ‘I’m not involved’. 

Turning my attention back to Albert, I was hoping and willing him to say ‘it was a joke’ – not that this would detract from the offence in any way of course – or apologise. Neither came.  

At that moment, I realised he didn’t seem to see any issue with what he’d said.  

Therefore, my default in this situation was to restrain myself from reacting with strong emotion and instead turn away from Albert, put on a smile, and carry on.  

However, mentally I’d clocked out and felt deeply upset by it all. So I decided to match my mental exit with a physical one not long after, telling myself that I’d confront Albert properly once Pride was over.   

Once home though, my emotional guards fell and my upset metastasised. Then, having talked through the ordeal with two close friends who hadn’t attended Pride and seeing them react with outrage, I concluded the confrontation couldn’t wait. 

So I sent him a text telling him I thought his remark was ‘offensive and racist’. I added that ‘using race for cheap jokes is demeaning’ and it’s ‘not inclusive or appropriate, especially for an occasion such as Pride’. 

I finished by saying that I won’t accept those kinds of comments being made at my expense and that I hoped he’d be more careful with the language he used in future.  

I was careful to make it firm but measured. Challenging but inoffensive. Because that is how I should deal with racism, right?  

To my surprise, he rang me immediately to apologise and take accountability. And yet, I was left unsatisfied.

From the message I wrote to the way I handled our phone conversation, I felt like I sanitised my feelings and absolved him far too quickly.   

Why had I policed my tone and held myself to a higher standard when he’d struck me with a dehumanising remark? Maybe my words deserved to cause discomfort. 

Suddenly, my upset was replaced with rage. While it’s an emotion that is uncommon for me, I realised I wasn’t wrong to feel that way.  

The injustices faced by Black people are sadly still all too common – not to mention that there is also an unspoken (and senseless) racial hierarchy in pockets of the gay community too. 

According to a 2018 report by the charity Stonewall, half (51%) of Black, Asian, and Minority Ethnic (BAME) LGBTQ+ people face discrimination within the queer community because of their ethnicity. This number rises to 61% for Black queer people specifically.

I find these statistics to be troubling but not surprising. Experiencing it firsthand sobered me more to the reality of it.

While Albert was penitent, I still feel traumatised by his comment. But I refuse to let it ruin Pride in London for me. 

In fact, I’m choosing to be more proud, loud, and courageous than ever this year. I’m even performing flash throughout the day for the first time, which will be nice to play a role in bringing joy and entertainment to others. 

The whole experience made me realise that we each have a personal responsibility to be kind and interrogate our biases, however big or small they show up in our words and actions.  

Despite what happened, I am really proud that I leant into the power of my voice and challenged discriminatory behaviour, which showcases some of the things Pride is all about. 

So to embody that makes me feel more connected to the true essence of it. 

*Name has been changed 

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing James.Besanvalle@metro.co.uk. 

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