Content warning: This personal essay references homophobia, self-harm and drug and alcohol abuse.

‘Black people don’t do dem tings,’ was what my father said whenever he saw or heard anything related to homosexuality. I don’t remember the context but the words, and the disgust in his tone, are unforgettable. In the 1970s and 80s when I was growing up, these issues were rarely mentioned. 

My mother is a devout Christian, so my siblings and I got Bibles as soon as we were big enough to hold them. I read mine repeatedly, and it taught me that a woman’s purpose was to serve and obey men, get married and bear children, and that there were rigid rules surrounding sexual behaviour. Homosexuality was a sin, an abomination, unnatural and punishable by death.

I wrote constantly as a young girl, and was entered into writing competitions by teachers where I had some success. I also discovered that I had a good singing voice at school, where I had my first experience performing on stage. I loved it. The energy exchange between performer and audience was magical, and I added singing to the short list of things I wanted to do when I grew up, next to teaching and writing.