It was UK Black Pride on 29th June, last weekend. This year, it ran parallel with London Pride. I think that was the only reason I went to Black Pride this year. Not that I actually went to any London Pride things, I just didn’t want to feel alone.

My day started boldly. I put on a striking leopard print shirt and eased my hair into a wonderful quiff, painted on the eyeliner and grabbed a sugar-free caramel, non-blended iced soya latte. As I approached the centre of Soho, arches of rainbow balloons appeared, followed by laughter, a merry hubbub – shameless and fearless, proud and loud. The air was hot, electric, and I made my way to Golden Square, proud host of Black Pride. Almost immediately, the air felt uncomfortable, the hubbub retreated, and I suddenly felt like a sheep in wolf’s clothing.

There I was, in a space that was so close to my heart. A safe space. It was me, a wonderful web of culture, race, gender and sexuality only I thought I spun. It was me. And within this web, my friends, my brothers, my sisters, my family. I walked around Golden Square once, twice, slowed my pace, thrice. The leopard spots on my shirt started to growl, intimidating me. The family around me lost familiarity, faces were still nameless. Apprehension grew and I felt the pressure. The pressure of this safe space, for me. The pressure of the delicate strands of this wonderful web to guide me, to protect me, to feel like home.

There I was, a sheep in wolf’s clothing.

Thinking back, it’s somewhat devastating. I’ve never ever been somewhere I felt totally safe. Somewhere where I felt like my gender, my race, and my sexuality are understood equally. Black Pride was it. It took me a while to put my finger on it, but the was so much pressure for me to feel comfortable there, I had chosen to find my safe space, I had made the effort to go there, to show off my colours, whether they were leopard print spots or stripes, it wouldn’t matter. But it did.

The same way I feel guarded in safe spaces around me with my race, here in a community of colour, I felt extremely guarded over my gender. I felt like people would be looking closer at me, if they had made it past whether I was Indian, Pakistani, or Arab, they would then think, why don’t you look like an Indian, Pakistani or Arab boy I know? I felt like they knew something more that queer white people around me don’t pick up. It’s something dangerous. People of colour pick it up like a weapon.

As always, with every pride comes a party. My destination was Urban World Pride at Club Colosseum, Vauxhall. Despite my unease, I knew it was nothing that a strong drink and a wild dance with queer people of colour couldn’t fix. It was a blurry wonderful night. I danced and danced, recognising songs I only ever hear blasting out of rudeboy cars in Southall. And then, as expected, nature called.

The boys toilet.

I hesitated. There’s something different about going into a toilet here. I waited for a cubicle quietly.

“Shouldn’t you be going into the girls toilets?” A young effeminate black man forced my head to turn around with his sharp words.

“Oh sorry you’re alright.”

I was relieved that he had decided to leave me alone, understanding that I do indeed have the right to urinate here. Because, you know, cisgender people have ultimate authority in toilets.

“Wait, but you know you’re a girl,” he said, making sure I felt uncomfortable for the duration of our time in a queue together. He wanted to make sure I knew that he knew who I really am.

“I’m a boy, I can piss here,” I said casually, trying to keep the tone light. I didn’t want any trouble. Not tonight.

“Go like that,” he raised his head and rubbed his hand across his Adam’s apple. I refused, shocked, speechless and scared. “See you’re not, what are you.”

“What’s in my pants is none of your business,” my casual tone shook and so did my confidence, but I remained calm, making sure this didn’t turn into an argument. I knew from experience all too well that you cannot argue with idiots.

“It’s a simple question, if you had no problem you would say either you’re a girl or a boy, but you’re getting defensive,” he closed in with the full attention of the young men of colour right behind him.

“I’m not getting defensive, I’m just saying, someone’s gender is none of your business, it’s nothing.”

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I stopped writing there. I haven’t looked back until now.

Yesterday I saw the date for Urban World Pride 2014 had been announced: Saturday 28^th June. I wanted to feel excited. But I just felt sad. I do feel sad, betrayed and shamed. A community that I looked up to, people I thought of as family, just didn’t care about me. It was such a special day, and Black Pride created such a unique space. But it wasn’t safe.

It happened almost a year ago, but whenever I hear my queer friends of colour talking about Brighton, how white it is, how racist it is, how it’s unsafe for us to be there… I feel a sting of hurt and I remember how I felt at Black Pride, surrounded by queer people of colour. I feel angry and embarrassed at myself, wondering what I’m still doing here if that’s really the case. But where would I go? It doesn’t matter where I am; it doesn’t matter where we are. Prejudice and hate will always find a target.

I guess I’m not at my strongest right now.