Image by @nordacious
I’ve spent a lot of time the last few years unpacking the perils of growing up closeted and invisible. Writing about the slow realisation of my sexuality being different from the mainstream, the vulnerabilities inherent to minority status and the pleasing gains that have been made in Australia to carve out space for LGBTQ+ people to live openly and authentically. It fills me with pride to see our community emerge from social seclusion and renews my motivation to advocate on behalf of other under-represented groups, be they parts of the LGBTQ+ collective or beyond.
I’ve always had an idea that there are elements of LGBTQ+ identity that connect us in fundamental ways. Coming to terms with your identity and coming out to loved ones, for example, are generally things we’ve all had to navigate. They’re shared experiences that underpin some commonality amongst LGBTQ+ people, despite our proud and evolving diversity. When I see a gay man expressing himself openly – holding hands with his partner in public, wearing a rainbow lanyard at work, presenting a kid’s TV show – I smile, because I feel like a I know him a little. That I have a sense of what he might have had to overcome before he got to that point.
Having been so caught up relishing the heart-warming visibility cropping up around me I hadn’t considered the dark side of the spotlight. Those moments when we see parts of ourselves in another person whose story is shrouded in devastation. It’s natural to be heartbroken, I think, when you stare at a smiling face, full of promise and joy, and know they’ve suffered the most brutal and shameful crimes. But that added familiarity, that glimpse of yourself and your community, makes the heart crack even harder.
Like so many, I’ve been gripped earlier this year as the shocking murders of Jesse Baird and Luke Davies were pieced together on the national news. From reports of their disappearance to assurances they wouldn’t be found alive, to the final pieces of the puzzle falling into place as their bodies were recovered, the harrowing account has rarely left my mind. There’s no logic to such a violent act, even as the details are slowly revealed, leaving us to simply despair at how arbitrarily cruel life can be. To grieve and pour out love to Jesse and Luke’s families and loved ones. To be thankful for short lives well lived, and a blossoming romance between two young men who, by all accounts, were happy, spirited and adventurous. We grieve together, with our friends, our chosen family and our community.
Complicating matters is the accused perpetrator’s identity as both a gay man and police officer. Where do we situate someone’s actions in the intersection of vocation and sexuality when their profession has such a dark history of violence and neglect towards LGBTQ+ people? If we’re old enough to remember, or are avid readers of the news, we’re likely used to seeing images of gay and bisexual men who had been beaten and murdered in our newspapers and on our televisions and social media feeds. We’re used to hearing about the indifferent or harmful responses of police when crimes against us have been reported. Recently, we heard an apology from NSW Police Commissioner Karen Webb for the force’s handling of gay hate crimes between 1970 and 2010 and hoped those images and behaviours would be confined to the past. But when something like this rocks the heart of a community, the collective pulse quickens, spreading feelings of hurt, harm and betrayal. It breathes new life into past wrongs and sows seeds of doubt for the future. These murders make it apparent Commissioner Webb’s apology doesn’t close the book on police violence towards our community. It simply turns a chapter.
The murder of two young, gay men by a police officer, using a firearm registered to police and likely employing skills and insight he acquired, at least in part, through police training, drives home the sad truth that our community’s fractured relationship with law enforcement is far from mended. It will take more than apology to reconcile the current divide.
On the question of NSW Police being excluded from Mardi Gras, their own desire for visibility and inclusion may be a well-intentioned attempt to show support and create some distance from the wrongdoing. Yet if the community affected feels it’s not the right time, that should be respected. There will be mourning this Mardi Gras and, while LGBTQ+ police may also rightly wish to express their grief and solidarity, it’s also right that they do it out of uniform. At least until the pain has eased and we can find a reason to celebrate one another again.
With deepest condolences to the families and loved ones of Jesse Baird and Luke Davis.