Member-only story
We didn’t just meet in the dark. We lived in it.
When Beating Up Gay Men Was Just Saturday Night Fun
A queer reckoning with violence, silence, and the legacy of beats, bashing, and survival in small-town Australia
I was in the grocery store when my uncle leaned in and said, “You’re a shame to the family name.”
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. The whole town already knew.
A few days earlier, I’d written a letter to the local newspaper. It was honest. I was trying to say I’m here. I exist. I didn’t out anyone. Didn’t share family secrets. I just said what I felt. But in a town like mine, even that was too much.
After it was published, I wondered if I’d fucked up. I mean, I did get some encouragement — a few people reached out quietly. But it was my uncle’s voice that stuck. That echoed.
That moment in the grocery store broke something open in me. Made me start asking questions I’d never thought to ask. About my family. About all the things we never talked about. About the silence that felt so heavy sometimes I could barely breathe.
That’s when I found out about “poofter bashing.”
