South Africans are Xenophobic

I write this as I complete a third draft of my PhD Chapter on Xenophobia in South Africa. The situation in the country is still unfolding, but certain attitudes and issues are rooted in history. 

Areas of South Africa have once again been experiencing horrific displays of violence directed at foreign nationals.

Across social media are messages and hashtags of shock, disbelief, pain and support. These, I have seen, are often coupled with sentiments that the “savages” (in the words of one of my contacts) are “out there”, not online.


That view is precisely a part of the problem. You see, South Africans are xenophobic. Not a minority: a majority.


Extensive research by the Southern African Migration Project shows that 90% of South Africans feel that there are too many migrants in the country. Xenophobia is not just ‘out there’ in a mob: it festers beneath the surface of your/our day-to-day attitudes and encounters.


It’s there when outrage is expressed at violent acts but no action is taken to challenge the administration or to challenge Home Affairs, which is mandated to enforce and monitor (rather than protect). It’s there when leaders are not held accountable by those with the economic and/or social means to hold them accountable. It’s there when solidarity is only shown when one is at the receiving end of prejudice (it’s easier to remove statues than to remove xenophobia).


It’s there when one says “this is Afrophobia, not xenophobia” – because while it’s important to recognise that this is violence directed towards (some) Africans, claiming that it’s not xenophobia merely buys into a rhetoric that denies the possibility that South Africans can be xenophobic. It buys into a decade-old system of denial, and in turn it perpetuates a sense of exceptionalism: South Africans aren’t xenophobic, they’re *Afrophobic*. How twisted it is to feel that “we” must be special in some way.


It’s there when one refuses to acknowledge the painful truth that those who have been oppressed are capable of oppression, and that those who have historically oppressed continue to oppress in different ways. It’s there when one refuses to acknowledge that privilege and disprivilege sit hand-in-hand.


It’s there every time someone mentions how exceptional South Africa is – a national pride based on how the country’s history makes it ‘better than’ the rest of Africa.


It’s there every time someone buys into exclusionary nationalism – how ‘proud’ one is to be South African, and if you don’t buy into that then just leave the country (!). For to set up the parameters of South Africanness means to fundamentally define who does NOT belong.


Yes, it’s a minority of people who remain eager to use violence against migrants (only about 11% of the population by SAMP accounts).

Yes, reasons for such violence are varied and complex. No simple economic or social combination of factors can explain it all.


And indeed, xenophobic violence can be argued to be a symptom of absolute social discontent and disempowerment – a feeling of hopelessness.


Addressing the social and economic factors which contribute to xenophobic outbursts are crucially important, but as important are the psychological considerations. The journey ahead is not short and easy, but a necessary starting point is acknowledging that South Africa has historically been an incredibly xenophobic space, and that in 2015 South Africans on the whole are, to varying degrees, complicit in attitudes of xenophobia. The illusion of exceptionalism must be stripped away.


This is a painful admission, for it goes hand-in-hand with recognising a failure to create an inclusive society over the last 25 years. But this failure also presents the opportunity to start anew and begin to create an inclusive space – one which, importantly, transcends the bounds of artificial and random nationhood.

I’m uncomfortable speaking about privilege like we do

Got Privilege?

I feel uncomfortable speaking about things like “white privilege” and “male privilege” and other forms of privilege. I don’t like debating about them in the form such debates often take (read: Facebook and Twitter wars).

The reason I feel uncomfortable is not one you may think. It’s not because I’m (socially understood as) a white male who is unhappy with relinquishing a place high up in the social hierarchy. Far from it.

Instead, the reason I feel uncomfortable talking about privilege (which is an important topic for social dialogue) is that so often discussions and arguments take a thoroughly decontextualised, moralistic, self-serving form.

Discussions, particularly in the South African dialogue space, are often conveniently stripped of other influencing contextual factors, warped under the agenda of political machinations, and not at all subjected to reflection and consideration. Claims about the need to overcome racial and gendered divides often pre-emptively shut down any critique launched at the strategies being proposed (be it through “oh, this is too academic” or “you’re complicating it” or other such dismissive utterances).

My discomfort stems from the very real – lived and academic – and disturbing trend of basing ‘transformation’, dialogue and social justice on identity politics rather than a politics of coalition and reconciliation.

Articulating my discomfort has been a bit of a winding journey for me. It started off with a nagging feeling reading about the Renate Barnard case and speaking to Merle Lipton about equality and change in South Africa.  It got me thinking about the categories which we employ in the law and in society. Admittedly, I’m not a law student and my understanding of policy and the law is limited to my own research. However, from what I’ve gleaned employment equity in South Africa seeks to advance previously disenfranchised groups including all ‘people of colour’, women, and people with disabilities. Noble, just, and rightly necessary to remedy the wrongs of the past.

But I began puzzling over something to which I couldn’t find any easily accessible answers. I was able to voice my query at a Sussex Africa Centre seminar on gender, sexuality and the law in Southern Africa – but no-one was really able to address what I was getting at.

The question I posed was: what if someone seeks employment equity on the grounds of their sexuality? Is this possible? Has it happened? Why is sexual orientation not included as a category of “previously disadvantaged”?

Interjection: I know that’s a contentious thought. I’ve tried to raise it as a point for consideration on multiple occasions, but it always – frustratingly – gets dismissed. I’ll get back to why I raise it in a moment.

The language, the actions, and the social views around change in South Africa centre (on the surface) on correcting imbalances of the past and bringing about an equal society. The treatment of what is now loosely termed ‘the gay and lesbian community’ by the apartheid government and by the liberation movement was nothing short of horrific. The apartheid government explicitly linked the policing of race with the policing of sexuality, and it wasn’t right up until the late 1980s that the liberation movement – and the ANC – shifted its ideology to make way (through much contestation) for the inclusion of “gay rights”. The history of sexuality in the country is incredibly layered and complex, and it is not my intention to reduce it to a simple linear understanding.

But what can be said is that there are numerous projects, resources and accounts of the cruelty that ‘gays and lesbians’ faced under the apartheid regime. Stories of the forced labour camps, the electric shock therapy, the rapes, the beatings, the systematised stigmatisation and encouraged social victimisation.

The promulgation of legislation, including the Constitution, has advanced – in writing – the status of (some) ‘gays and lesbians’ to ‘world-class citizens’ (say what?) post-1993. But it still strikes me as discomforting that ‘correcting the ills of the past’ doesn’t extend to – at the very least – a consideration for this demographic. I can rationalise, to some extent, why not. Some of the arguments I’ve come across include:

  • “Oh, but gays and lesbians are a minority” – Certainly. But as Chimamanda Adichie reflected earlier this year, “the mark of a true democracy is not in the rule of its majority but in the protection of its minority”.
  • “Being gay or lesbian is an individual choice – there isn’t a real community, and applying the policy to such individuals is more about advancing that individual person” – So completely void of historical understanding. Void of all knowledge of the rich sexual history of the country.  This view also fails to take into account the absolute decimation of thriving socio-political communities by Aids, the government, and the lack of social/legal recourse to claim protection and solidarity against both of these plagues. It also fails to take into account the enormous collective psychological trauma of growing up gay or lesbian in South Africa and feeling completely disconnected from any sense of community, feeling ashamed to be a part of a community that is still widely stigmatised, or oscillating somewhere between.
  • “You can’t claim recognition of being a lesbian first and foremost – you would be seen as a woman, or black, in the law. And so you would be entitled to seek advancement within these categories” – Now THIS is starting to get to the heart of it. But I’d first like to point out how incredibly problematic it is to assume which identity or subjectivity a person values ‘most’. There’s something horribly controlling and authoritarian about declaring what someone else is and what someone else must value within themselves, stripping that person of any sense of day-to-day community and agency.

This last protest, however, does offer a legitimate realisation that in reality it would only really be gay, white men who would benefit from any sort of adjustment to employment equity views. The common assumption here is that all gay white men are middle-class, well-educated, privileged individuals – very often the case, but wholly ignorant of the reality.

Back to my interjection above: it isn’t my intention in this piece to claim, therefore, that all white gay men should be advanced within the scope of employment equity. It’s not my claim that white gay men are the most hard-hit demographic in post-apartheid South Africa, and that focus should be shifted to helping ‘them’. Indeed, the tendency to focus on (white, Western) ‘gay rights’ in other contexts, at the expense of other social problems, is hugely problematic. Neither is it my intention to critique the ‘fairness’ of equity policies – it is vital that we correct the wrongs of the past, and such critiques of ‘fairness’ are better left to legal experts for now.

Rather, the intention of this piece and my Renate-inspired-mind-wander is to think about how we view privilege, equality and progress in South Africa.

Within the current discourse someone has to categorise themselves as a person of colour and/or a (cis?) woman and/or disabled. And what this speaks to is a rigid hierarchy of identity categories which current strategies of change perpetuate and which current debates allow (even encourage) to fester.

This reliance on identity categories and the privileging of certain categories over others is understandable. Natural, even, given the systematic disprivileging of those same categories in the past.

But the reliance on those categories we resort to in our discussions of WHITE PRIVILEGE or MALE PRIVILEGE or RACE RELATIONS  fundamentally perpetuates the acceptance – socially and legally – of those very categories. And as Catherine MacKinnon reflects, “categories and stereotypes and classifications are authentic instruments of inequality. And they are static and hard to move. But they are the ossified outcomes of the dynamic intersection of multiple hierarchies, not the dynamic that creates them. They are there, but they are not the reason they are.”

I like that phase: ossified outcomes. The hardened, reinforced century-old bones which give skeletal support to our social bodies. But these sturdy categories of understandings are merely the products of hierarchical social structures. The identities, stereotypes and categories do not produce the structures themselves; they are merely the instruments.

And so when we uncritically perpetuate categories, and when we create systems based on those categories, and when we undertake noble campaigns which seek to bring about change on the basis of those categories, we are only fooling ourselves. For the structures which give rise to those categories – and thus those pains, inequalities, social ills – still exist. Indeed, we work with them ourselves.

Such a realisation is not new. Indeed, many friends reading this have shared similar thoughts and resources about how the fight against white privilege, or male privilege, is about changing the system – about changing the structures. We will always need labels and words to describe, and people will always identify with certain words and concepts. But it is one thing to have identity categories and another to base politics on them.

In expressing such realisations, where many of these thoughts and resources fall short is in considering the meeting point(s) of both power, and disempowerment. Privilege, and disprivilege. It is far more comfortable, and comforting, to speak about how “thinking about your white privilege will disturb you – and that’s ok, then you can act” or how “feeling ashamed about your male privilege is okay, because now that you’re aware you can change your actions” because it creates a clear binary between those who do “check” and who are “checking” their privilege, and those who are not. It creates an alliance between the victims, survivors and enlightened ones and sets “us” up against “them” – those not yet enlightened, those who exercise their privilege shamelessly.

It’s not comforting to think that some of those ‘others’ may be disprivileged themselves. It’s not comfortable to think that many of ‘us’, we who ‘check’ ourselves so regularly our metaphorical eyes are perpetually rolled back in self-reflection, sclera making us blind to our surroundings, have lived power and privilege over others. It’s easier to divide according to categories than confront the blur that is experience.

Discussions of change and privilege in South Africa often rely on a single-axis understanding of identity and discrimination. Race, or gender, or sexuality. The Renate Barnard case made me think of the 1989 case that Kimberlé Crenshaw engaged with – though obviously drastically different in content and context. Crenshaw looked at how the American legal system, in terms of anti-discrimination law, rarely treated black women as self-identified black women – they were either protected under the law as ‘black’, or as ‘women’. But the historical, social, economic and political specificities of experience linked to being a ‘black woman’ were absent, not understood, and disregarded. Crenshaw argued that rather than relying on a privileging of one dimension of inequality or power we need to consider “the multidimensionality of marginalized subjects’ lived experiences”.

Crenshaw offered the approach of ‘intersectionality’ – giving a name to a perspective that has existed since the 19th century. With its roots in black feminism, critical race theory, and activism, ‘intersectionality’ is effectively an approach – a sensibility, a viewpoint, a mode of understanding – which is primarily concerned with a critique of social power by considering and working against interlocking forms of oppression. A highly contested term (it’s become a bit of a buzzword in academia), intersectionality is primarily concerned with the politics of power and knowledge production and the ways in which these are implemented in and adopted by society. It’s an activist-driven concept which moves away from identity politics: it moves away from emphasising categories as discreet objects, instead shifting attention to multiple forms of discrimination, power and privilege.

And indeed a part of recognising the “multidimensionality” of life is that individuals can at once occupy a space of privilege and disprivilege. Of being empowered and disempowered. These are linked to the underlying structures in society – structures which permeate identities and experiences.

Intersectionality as a concept, as a method, and as a framework (many authors and activists had developed models and views about how to do this – Grzanka’s collection is a great resource, as is the special edition of the Signs journal dedicated to the topic) can be employed – should be employed – as a way to critique not the categories of power in South Africa, but rather the structures of power. Change should be based on shifting those structures and speaking to complex experiences rather than on a game of oppression Olympics.

It’s natural to expect South Africa to focus on race-related issues. It’s one of the biggest issues from the past, and it’s vital that equity policy address race relations. But I have a real problem not only with how this is often done, but also with how we speak about it. It comes down to the existing structures of power. It’s not that I deny that ‘male privilege’ is real and a problem. It’s not that I deny that ‘white privilege’ is a vile poison that needs to be cured. It’s rather that I feel framing social issues, social change, equity and democracy using this particular framework – or rather, using the framework put forward by many popular interpretations of the concepts – is not conducive to meaningful change.

Meaningful change will only come about when we have an honest discussion about the structures of power in society. How you can be a middleclass black man and still have privilege (if we consider privilege in terms of class), but still be disprivileged in terms of race. How you can be an impoverished, cisgendered, able-bodied woman and still have power and privilege – something uncomfortable to consider! – in relation to gender.

How, then, do we change those structures?

It’s not just a meaningless academic debate: countless projects exist which explicitly employ this intersectional view, rather than a single-axis ‘privilege’ view. Successful, meaningful projects – which are, unfortunately, not widely reported upon because our current language and framework for understanding often don’t allow us to see their value [I’m happy to share resources about the projects if you’d like to read more].

All of these projects share the recognition that key is a shift away from identity-based politics to a politics of coalition: a mode of operation where politics, policies and actions come from values and shared goals. Where identities stem from such politics, and not where politics stem from identities.

A privileged view of the world, yes? Perhaps. But one that is adopted successfully in other contexts. One that is certainly positively adopted in debate contexts.

It’s a dangerous line, and a potentially volatile proposal. It would be easy to take an ultra-liberal view and interpret the idea that everyone has both privilege and disprivilege as a way to excuse behaviour and not hold people accountable. It would be easy for it to be misinterpreted as apologist. Which is why a thorough framework for consideration would be needed, based on real-world models and a real recognition that the violence of our society, and the inability for a person – for example – to openly declare oneself as gay or lesbian in certain parts of the country without facing severe ‘punishment’ –, are, in part, inextricably linked to our current failure to address the systems which create such conditions of intolerance.

When we speak about privilege in our current framework we render those who are not so neatly categorised silent and invisible. We create divisions based on existing structures which facilitate the very privilege and inequality we seek to challenge. And we often fail to engage with other forms of privilege and disprivilege. Where, for example, are the nation-wide discussions about the privileging of South Africanness over Africanness? Over humanness? Of privileging being human over being ‘non-human’? All of these have a real impact on our societies and our ecosystems!

That’s why I feel uncomfortable speaking about male privilege and white privilege. It’s not that they’re not real issues. It’s not that we don’t need to speak about race, gender, sexuality.  Rather, it’s how the concepts of privilege are utilised and how they’re debated.

Discussions and proposed strategies for change often simply reinforce underlying structures. To claim one form of privilege is worse than another reinforces existing hierarchies of power, and makes us complicit in perpetuating those very hierarchies. We need to speak about social issues in a way which does not decontextualise privilege and power (note: re-contextualisation does not ever mean excusing behaviour or apologising – responsibility is as important as reconciliation). Intellectual engagements with privilege-as-concept do not necessarily decontextualise it – it’s just that often in the South African context popular applications and interpretations are guilty of implicit hierarchical imposition.

Let’s speak about inequality in relation to the structures which allow that inequality to exist. But beyond that, let’s speak about inequality and structures in an honest way: how we often select and choose who is equal, and how though we may say we are a society committed to positive transformation and full equality we often rely on (and celebrate) structures which fundamentally oppose our goals. And then let’s begin to challenge those structures, and challenge our own actions which allow them to thrive.

We naturally need to have priorities – but prioritisation must take the form of an intersectional engagement, or we risk ossifying the structures which shape our current realities. A shift in our view of society and the way we engage is needed. We need to feel enabled to speak out against all forms of inequality – and we need to be empowered to recognise when we are ossifying power dynamics which contribute to disprivilege and disempowerment.

My non-gay high school experience

16 year old me

High school me

It’s my high school reunion this year, and people I haven’t spoken to in nearly 10 years are adding me on Facebook and tagging me in photos. It’s made me think about my school years.

Although it ended nearly a decade ago school played an incredible role in shaping my anxieties, strengths, and how I see myself. It’s been a long and sometimes tedious process to reflect on who I was and what I did and what I was exposed to. I think being in the UK, where being a teenager is so drastically different from being a teenager in small-town South Africa in the 2000s, has made me really question how I perceived things ‘back then’ and how certain memories which stick out helped and hindered my own identity.

I began high school (which, in South Africa, is a period of 5 years for ages 13 – 18) at a well-respected all-boys state school. For various reasons I was bullied and victimised and, through much sacrifice on the part of my parents, I was able to move to an all-boys private school. I was bullied and victimised less, and the smaller size of the school allowed me to grow and, to some extent, be an individual. (As a side note, 10 of 12 years of my schooling career were spent at all-boys school. Something to think on in another post, perhaps). On the whole I was able to flourish: by the end of matric (final year) I had acquired academic honours, cultural honours for debating, cultural honours for music, and was deputy-head prefect.

In retrospect, these (in the long term, meaningless) achievements were largely in part due to an absolute dedication to the schooling structure and schooling system. Certainly my work ethic was in part to having two teachers for parents, but it was equally in part due to a complete unwillingness to acknowledge any aspect of my sexuality. I don’t mean acknowledging that I was attracted to men (feelings of which I was aware since the age of 5 – again, another post): I mean, quite plainly, that I refused to acknowledge sexuality at all. Now and then in my final year I would flirt with ambiguous text messages and possible hints to one of my good friends. But for the most part it was good ol’ fashion denial.

I pretended that puberty didn’t exist, I literally refused to say the word “sex”, and I obstinately removed myself from any conversations which were vaguely sexual in nature. I tolerated human sexuality only through academic lenses: I could speak about it in biology, in English (thanks to poetry and prose), in religious education (more on this later), and in history (the reproductive lines of various kings and queens). I’m sure a bout of therapy would reveal all sorts of interesting reasons for this process of burying sexuality: a deeply religious (but balanced and loving) upbringing; small-town mentality; extreme stubbornness…

In many ways I unconsciously made myself as clinical and as asexual as possible. This was ‘complemented’ by an ardent and almost militant adherence to rules: rather than rebel against the rules I flourished under them, much to the annoyance of my peers. I never did anything wrong, and prided myself on never getting into trouble. I was a model student. Indeed, the thought of stepping out of line brought on anxiety attacks (for the first year of school I used to carry around a bottle of herbal anxiety medication. Freud and Foucault would have a field-day with me).

My final year dance outfit

‘Too gay to function’

Of course this was a ridiculous approach to life, and left me excluded from many of the discussions and experiences which define teenage years. Everyone else seemed to be aware of my sexuality before I was, as so often seems to be the case. Or rather, everyone else seemed to be willing to acknowledge my sexuality before I was ready to. I was hardly the defining example of assimilation and discretion, mind you: I mean, what 16 year old wears a bright purple jacket and fedora with purple ostrich feather complete with walking stick to their final school dance? It’s practically a scene from Mean Girls. Come on, Damien!

The beauty of retrospect is that I am now obviously able to acknowledge that my clinical approach to life and my pedantic adherence to rules was a warped attempt to somehow ‘fit in’. Although, curiously, I made a point of being an individual by never doing what was expected of me as a teenager – my rebellion took the form of resisting peer-pressure and getting a name as a goody-goody, and at the time I never wanted to fit in. But my love of rules was an effort to find some degree of acceptance, because I ‘knew’ deep down that should anyone ever discover my sexual orientation I would never be accepted. Well, that’s what I thought at that stage. I often wonder, now, how different my high school career would have been, and where I would be today, if only I had had a positive gay or queer role-model at school. Or even if the schooling system had spoken about general queerness. My experiences around gayness, that dark and mystical pathology, were wholly negative.

The context: all-boys Christian school (previously owned by the Catholic Church) with an emphasis on rugby and traditional masculinity, and a headmaster who explicitly and regularly said things like “boys who care about their mothers are creampuffs”, or “real men aren’t sissies”, or “if you want to be a real man you should care about your school, your country, and God”. Aside: school assemblies became hilarious once you realised you only had to watch some of the teachers’ faces during these moments; their attempts to suppress laugher often brought on bouts of stifled leaky-eyed giggling.

Hardly a unique experience on the whole I know, but it did make my own process of self-discovery pretty complex. [Another aside: I really think that being forced to wear a thoroughly Victorian uniform all year round, and not being allowed to have anything other than a military hair cut in an effort to “look like gentlemen” hindered, and continues to hinder, any form of self-expression and exploration…]

Within this context I have five defining memories about sexual orientation in relation to my sense of being and belonging.

Firstly, my best friend at the time (who came out after school) and I were sitting chatting one day when an older student approached us and initiated a very friendly conversation. As things go when young boys are talking, the topic turned to girls. The student asked us if we had ever kissed girls. I replied with a no, much to his horror, and my best friend said “of course I have”. Later, my friend asked why I said no. “Because I haven’t”, I replied (I didn’t see the point – I had no desire to kiss a girl). He frowned at me and said, “Well, neither have I, but sometimes you need to lie if you want to be accepted and you don’t want them to tease you”.

My second memory was after a (compulsory) religious education class. A good friend of mine was a fundamentalist Christian. We made an odd combination, but enjoyed each other’s company and helped each other study. The class discussion turned, I forget how, to homosexuality and the bible. After the class my friend asked me for my thoughts, and I remember quoting a passage (these were during my dark years of attempting to have a religion – beyond that now, thankfully) which mentioned that Jesus doesn’t judge, or something of the sort. He frowned and kept quiet. We moved on to our history class, and my friend asked our history teacher what she thought. She replied that she doesn’t judge people at all, and she felt that no person should. In all my time at school this was the only positive thought about homosexuality shared with me. My history teacher had an incredibly profound impact on me, and years later I would recognise the extent to which she helped me become myself. But naturally my friend wasn’t convinced by this and for the rest of the day he carried around his bible, reading various passages to me.

My third memory relates to my English teacher, to whom I was very close. She was young, and engaging, and the class loved her. She was passionate, and we shared many interests. During one of the school vacations a small group of students and staff took a trip to a national arts festival. The drive back was 12 hours, and – after having seen a production which dealt with bisexuality – she deconstructed the play with me. The outcome of that conversation was “Matthew, you can do anything you want to do, and be anything you want to be, but promise me now you will never be gay.” Being gay was disgusting, unnatural, anti-God, unholy, and a waste of all my potential.  “Don’t worry, ma’am,” I said,  “I won’t be – I agree with you”.

My fourth memory is of the one gay student I knew. He bravely came out at school. He was a year above me, and I couldn’t stand him. Not because he was gay – just because he was annoying. Personality clashes aside, I remember him being horribly teased. I remember the comments every boy would make as he walked past. I remember the teachers being quiet. I remember the ice being thrown at his head every day. I remember the headmaster not caring, dismissing it as “the boy’s choice to tell everyone about his preferences”. I remember shaking my head at him, and getting irritated, and realising many years later how incredibly difficult his journey must have been.

My final memory is perhaps my most formative. Upon consideration it’s not so much a single memory as it is a collection of memories about a particular individual. The school employed a middle-aged gay man; his stares at the boys were obvious, and his comments to the boys he assumed (correctly, for the most part) were gay were wholly inappropriate – not because of their homosexual nature, but because I am of the opinion that a person in authority should not make sexual remarks about students to other students. It’s an abuse of power: how is a 15 year old boy, with barely a shred of self-confidence in relation to his repressed sexual identity, meant to respond to comments from a teacher-figure along the lines of ‘doesn’t he look amazing in that Speedo? It fits him so well’?

He made inappropriate comments to my friends, who were all too afraid to report him. He made numerous inappropriate comments to me, but I ignored them and dared not question the structure of authority – after all, the structure was good and had made me a prefect, had made me a top academic, hadn’t it? A year after finishing school, through a series of events and my sense to use social networks discerningly, it transpired that on two separate occasions he posed as a 19 year old online to try and solicit personal information and pictures from 17/18 year old me. I caught him out, but never confronted him. As the only openly gay man I was exposed to as a teenager he did impart one shred of wisdom: in many ways he showed me the type of gay man, indeed the type of person, I never wanted to be.

ImageSchool was a strange time for me. I left wanting to study genetics, but decided I was more passionate about law and so switched faculties at the last possible moment. As life happened I became more interested in gender and culture, and here I am today – wholly more confident with my identity and sexuality, but still unpacking the implications of my schooling years. Despite the undoubtedly negative impact it had on my sexual identity development, school had some extremely positive effects on my growth. I learnt how to be independent and sceptical.

School is one of those things for which I feel equal affection and rage. It’s bizarre to watch coming-of-age films today, or read contemporary novels, and try and place myself in those contexts. It’s such a different landscape, in so many ways. Of course many students have it far worse than I: I never seriously contemplated suicide, and was never so severely bullied, and always had a strong family support structure. I’m incredibly grateful for the educative experience of school, but I’m not sure whether I’d call my school years happy or fond – I really became myself after school.

It’s the 10 year anniversary of my class this year. Evidently my class mates have very different memories of school, and many are excited about being reunited. I, for one, am glad that school is behind me.