Life is a mystery

Everyone must stand alone

I hear you call my name

And it feels like home                                                          

(Madonna - ‘Like A Prayer’) 

I’m told that all great artists are experimental with their work. Some actors switch from film to theatre; alternatively, I thought it might be interesting to experiment by writing something that wasn’t innately cruel, sardonic, and angry. Like most experiments, it will most probably be poorly received and quickly forgotten. But don’t worry, the unimaginably poor quality of the writing will still feature in this column, so the departure won’t be too drastic.

While Madonna’s song is predominantly about oral sex, brilliantly presented using religious phrases, I have been thinking about the far less exciting parallel between these words and my relationship with the LGBT+ community. For some, a third connection might be made between oral sex and the LGBT+ community, but quite frankly I never leave the library, so that’s another article, for another time, for somebody else to write.

I was thinking about this recently, having read something written by a guy I went to school with. He described what anyone would consider a successful university life. For someone like me, who at times feels as though they are crashing through their degree with all the destructiveness of a brick in a washing machine, much of this was not relatable.

However, as he moved on to describe a sense of needing greater meaning in life, I found myself relating to a straight white man for the first time (gasp!). That’s not to say that, like him, I discovered Jesus – sadly my guiding light can’t turn water into wine, but I could comprehend the need to have aspects of your life that provide meaning and support. For him, the church community provided the solution to his search.

"All shit locomotive analogies aside, these people were the LGBT+ community in Cambridge, and I am grateful for the enormous amount of support that I gain from some of its members"

For me, the answer came in the form of my college father, who wore just a little more make-up than I had been raised to expect within the heterosexual paradigm of the nuclear family. Being confronted with someone as rude, antagonistic, and actively spiteful as me was a shock to say the least: we became best friends. From this point on I had boarded a runaway train fuelled by glitter and gin, and as I surveyed my surroundings I noticed something distinctly queer about my fellow passengers.

All shit locomotive analogies aside, these people were the LGBT+ community in Cambridge, and I am grateful for the enormous amount of support that I gain from some of its members. While the rituals of the church might include mass and prayer, our rituals include drinking too much gin and tonic, and listening to Shania Twain. I’ve worshipped at the altar of queerdom at Pest Control, and witnessed one saucy sister transform into an even saucier Theresa May at Dragtime. Or maybe she was just an apparition, who knows? We might not pray often, but I have lots of friends who spend plenty of time on their knees – Madonna would be proud.

Lesbionage: Gal-pals undercover

The LGBT+ community in Cambridge is an excellent support network for many students. I’m not suggesting that queerdom is equivalent to finding God, but if you don’t think the LGBT+ community is as valid and significant as a religious community or any other, you are – among a host of other adjectives – homophobic and wrong. What we gain from each other is much like the sense of fulfilment that rowers pretend they get from one another, but without the early starts and with much better lycra.

It’s quite amazing how much some students are able to develop their queer identity while at Cambridge. I can see this in my own success story, where I transformed from a quiet and modest West Country girl to the formidable force of gay-ture that I was always meant to be. No, really, I was born on the first day of LGBT+ History Month – people literally hoist rainbow flags on my birthday. I’m a big deal. So, I suppose I just wanted to time out from curating my encyclopaedia of Cambridge’s many snakes, to kneel down in gratitude to everyone who makes this community such a great place to be –

I’m down on my knees, I wanna take you there

Literally, stop it, Madonna, that is so inappropriate. I am trying to say something nice and sincere here. Understandably, a lot of queer journalism in Cambridge, mine included, discusses the problems we face as a community. However, as LGBT+ History Month approaches (happy birthday to me), I think it’s important to acknowledge the fact that we do, for the most part, face these problems as a community.

Cambridge’s queer community has helped me, and many others, to be as queer on the outside as we always were on the inside, and I think that’s worth a mention. Returning to my shit analogy, I hope that all my fellow passengers have a great LGBT+ History Month, and you’ll be relieved to know that this train will be  back to running its usual, less sentimental service next week.

And, yes, I too have noticed my reliance on obscure train- or church-related metaphors to express my feelings