A fortnight ago, I sat in a chilly, near-empty basement bar in Prague that smelled of beer, sweat and fried cheese, watching the Czech equivalent of David Gray. Between songs, he swigged disconsolately from a bottle of red wine. He was obviously as sad as my husband and I were about the night out. After two tequilas, we cut our losses.
As we left, I looked longingly over the road at Patra, the best queer bar in town. It was hosting a Eurovision party, with drag queens, cocktails and a glorious, shouty crowd spilling out into the street. I lingered at the door. I was wearing cowboy boots and head-to-toe leopard print – was a woman ever more ready for Eurovision? But I was also with my husband. Yes, I am queer, but I knew I wouldn’t be going in. The space was not mine to take up when I could go to any other bar in the city.
When I married a man, I knew it meant changing how I represented and inhabited sexual identity. Before I met my husband, I had long-term relationships with women, so I am deeply aware of the privileges of being straight-passing. Never again do I have to carefully insert my partner’s pronouns into conversation while gauging the other person’s response. I rarely experience discrimination or fetishisation. Even after seven years, I am still amazed not to be jeered at from cars when we kiss, or have B&B receptionists goggle as we ask for a double bed.
I am finding a middle ground. I take our son to the family days at Pride. We have hung a rainbow flag in our window (much to the curiosity of our neighbours); I advocate for LGBTQI+ rights. I am still learning, but I am trying to give what I can while not taking what is not mine any more. I am queer and proud, but I know my place. Sadly, it is not at that fabulous Eurovision party, but it is not, thankfully, listening to Czech David Gray, either.
Kerry Hudson is the author of Tony Hogan Bought Me an Ice-cream Float Before He Stole My Ma and Lowborn
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