Being Seen

I never see myself portrayed on TV. In fact, I rarely see characters like my friends or family, or the worlds I inhabit, on screen. And that's OK. I'll happily watch dramas about lawyers or aliens or Russian nuclear disasters. But the stories and characters that really hit home, that take over my head and my heart to the point where I'm heading to online discussion forums, reading the scrips, watching YouTube interviews with the writers, even penning my own fan fiction - those are the ones with worlds and characters that I know, that I've met, that I understand and relate to. It just happens so rarely that when it does it hits me like a sledgehammer.

The first time I remember feeling that punch was with Queer As Folk. I knew people like that, I understood that world. The bars, bitchiness and hedonism of Manchester's Canal Street reflected my own experiences of Birmingham's gay village. I was seeing an aspect of my life portrayed on screen for the first time and I fell hard. I got two goldfish and named them after the characters, I travelled all the way from Milton Keynes to Manchester for a Q&A event with the writer, I bought the soundtrack and played it on a loop, I read the scripts, went to London to see the actors on stage, watched the episodes again and again and again. For the first time, that part of my world didn't feel like a grubby secret - there it was, on television, watched by millions, celebrated. Seen.

A few years later it happened again, this time with EastEnders. I'd watched the show since it started and over the years there were characters and storylines I was more taken with than others, but it was escapism, fantasy - people I didn't come across in my own life, doing and saying things completely outside my own experience. Fascinating, but other. That all changed when Syed, the Muslim golden boy, apple of his devout mother's eye, locked lips with out-and-proud gym bunny Christian Clark. Once again I felt that punch to the gut. Not only did I have a number of Christian Clarks in my life, but years of working in Birmingham's Asian community meant I also knew a lot of Syed Masoods. I understood how impossible their relationship was, the battles they'd have to fight against their families, their cultures, their communities and their own internal demons. The storyline took over my life, because I needed them to find a happy ending, because they weren't just characters on a TV show any more, they were my friends, my neighbours, my community. The real life struggles I was seeing around me every day were being watched by millions. Seen.

Another punch to the gut happened when I saw the movie The Heat. The friends I'd watched this feel-good buddy comedy with were astonished when I burst into tears as the end credits rolled. For the first time in my life I'd seen an overweight female character that wasn't eating in every scene, wasn't laughed at for her size, was confident and sexually desirable. The lessons she learnt during the movie had nothing to do with food or weight or health or exercise. I cried, because I realised I'd been holding my breath, waiting for the ridicule or the lecture, but it never came. She was a successful woman, loved and accepted not just by the other characters, but by viewers across the world and her size did not define her. I can't convey how important that moment was in my ongoing journey to self worth. If that character deserved a place in the world, then so did I. I too deserved to be seen.

And so to the event that sparked all this reflection, the latest fictional drama to punch me in the gut - Albert Square bedecked in rainbow flags in a much-publicised episode of EastEnders, the first UK soap to feature a Pride parade. I knew it was going to be special - it was written by Pete Lawson, my favourite EastEnders writer, who I knew would do a great job. I also knew that the episode was really important to him personally, and would undoubtedly pack a strong emotional punch. It was also a key episode for my current favourite storyline - another complex, angst-filled, coming-out love story. I was going to love it - and I did. But not for the reasons I expected. 

What made it special was that, in that episode, for the first time, I saw my own life on screen, in all its queer complexity. Pride is MY celebration. The colourful crowds were MY people. The outfits, the music, the exuberance were much closer to my annual Eurovision parties than any other gathering Walford has ever seen. And it could have stopped there - feel-good fluff, full of cowboy hats, glitter and a romantic ending for our fledgling lovers. But it didn't. In a handful of short scenes interspersed with two other unrelated storylines, Awesome Lawson gave us a masterful snapshot of the diversity, tensions and harsh realities of the LGBT+ experience. I've known guys like Mitch - the reluctant ally uncomfortable with the camp excess, like Gray - the straight guy who revels in being hit on by other men, like Keegan - who thinks it's all hilarious. I've known Karens - the over-enthusiastic allies who see Pride as one big party. Then there's Kathy, Mo and Witney - the entrepreneurs taking an opportunity to make a bit of rainbow cash. I have older friends like Tina, who understand the importance of being part of a community and its rich history. I've had friends who struggled with their sexuality, like Callum. And I have friends who've been gay-bashed like Ben. But at the heart of the episode was Bernie. And that's what delivered the biggest punch in the gut. Because her story is my story. 

Insecure, out of place, struggling to understand myself - like Bernie, I was supported and loved, but never felt entirely at ease. Until I found myself in a gay club, at 2am, in the middle of a crowded dance floor, bathed in spinning lights, cocktail in one hand, the other reaching for the stars. That's when I finally knew who I was, who my people are and where I belong.

Now, after 34 years of viewing, Walford is no longer a foreign country that I study from afar. When Bernie found herself on that dance floor - while Ben bled and Callum cried and Tina hugged and a bearded drag queen sang a disco classic - EastEnders captured so much about what is great and awful and difficult and special about the LGBT+ experience. For the first time, Albert Square became MY community, MY neighbours, MY home. I felt seen. By the people who make the show, by the millions watching but, most importantly, by myself.