Ōtautahi, Spring 2018

Before I came out, I was already part of the diversity and inclusion working group at work. I found it difficult to contribute to the working group, when I had to filter everything I had to say with the fear that I would give myself away as Queer.

“I don’t understand what the big deal is about coming out,” the chief people officer once loudly announced during a working group meeting. “I’ve had to come out to my mates when I told them I liked football more than rugby. It’s just about preference, isn’t it.”

Senior leadership frequently made flippant remarks like this. These diversity and inclusion initiatives were just a facade.

When I finally came out, I quickly realised that there was an absence of Queer representation at work. While this worked to my advantage when I was still in the closet, it did not help when I wanted to form a community. Naturally, I wanted to use my lived experience to ensure that everyone at work could be their authentic selves.

My initial goal was to establish an informal social network for Queer staff. I took stock of the Queer people at work. This was not an easy task. There were few people who were openly Queer in the public service –​ let alone our office in Ōtautahi.

“Why would anyone want to come out in a place like this?” I would think to myself.

“Would you like to help me form a Rainbow Network in the office?” I asked Hannah one Friday afternoon. She had told me she was bisexual at another after-​work drinks and I thought she would be the best person to ask first.

“How did you know?” she responded in shock. Hannah was surprised by my question.

“Don’t you remember?” I told her. I was quite confident I did not imagine this interaction. “You told me you’re bisexual.”

“Oh, really?” she was clearly trying hard to remember when she came out to me. “I thought it was something I had done.”

“Nah,” I laughed at her. “I’ve got a pretty dysfunctional gaydar.”

“You’re right, that really doesn’t make any sense,” Hannah seemed a bit more relaxed now. “I guess it won’t hurt for us to start a network and see where it goes.”

We started by organising a discreet morning tea at a bar across the road from the office. The Rockpool was a self-​described gastropub, but it was honestly more of a dive bar. Tradies (trades people) would come in for a cheeky pint of beer after a hard morning of work.

We assembled a small group of people who were out in the office. As we sat in the dingy bar, we drafted the purpose of our network, and what we wanted to achieve. Over time, our network slowly grew into an expanding mailing list as more Queer people wanted to connect with other Queer people in the office. We devised strategies to invite people discreetly. We would include each email address as equipment so it would not be so obvious in the calendar. As our network grew, our meetings became more frequent, and our purpose became more transparent.

We wanted greater visibility of our Queer communities; we identified the lack of accessible spaces; we wanted a transparent transition at work policy; and we wanted a greater say in how our organisation engaged with our Queer communities. More and more Queer people began to join us from across the country.

“I didn’t even realise we had a Rainbow community here,” a senior staff member told me one day over a cup of coffee. She had been in the organisation for over a decade. “We’ve always been here, but we’ve just never had a space to create a community.”

We realised we had become complacent with tolerance, but we were still far from acceptance. Some of us were comfortable with the status quo when there was still a need to advocate for our transgender and non-​binary communities.

“Do we include allies?” became the recurring question at our meetings. Our initial stance was that Queer spaces were for Queer people, but I did not have to look too far into the past to see the hypocrisy of this belief. I too once heavily relied on my role as an ally and an outside observer to navigate my Queer identity. I realised that I did not want to be the gatekeeper.

Being part of a network gave me the opportunity to connect with and learn from Queer people throughout the country. I met Dan who was a human resources adviser. I was surprised when he made me realise that I was affected by the ethnic pay gap.

“I have spoken to your manager, and I told him he has one of two choices,” Dan told me excitedly on the phone. “He can admit that he’s racist or homophobic if he doesn’t do anything about your salary. You should get a salary review letter soon.”

Dan also made me realise the inequities experienced by ethnic and gender minorities in the public service. I could not thank him enough for advocating on my behalf. He is still a remarkably close friend of mine to this day.

As I turned my focus towards myself, the network flourished and developed into a fully-​fledged employee-​led network with funding from the organisation.

Ōtautahi, Spring 2018

“You look like someone who can handle a ball,” Ritchie asked me jokingly while we were in the tearoom eating lunch. “I’m organising touch rugby this year. Would you be interested in joining the Standard Deviants? We play at South Hagley.”

For the uninitiated, rugby has attained a religious status in Aotearoa. Many kids grew up playing a version of rugby: ripper, touch, union, or league. Neither of my parents saw the benefit of contact sports, so I was not involved in any rugby at all. The first time I handled a rugby ball was in October 2018 with the Standard Deviants.

I was an awful player, but I was glad Ritchie had asked me to join the Standard Deviants. Little would I realise that a sense of Queer liberation would come to me in the form of a rugby ball. Fast forward to September 2019, I was at FriGay night drinks at the Pegasus Arms on Oxford Terrace. At that point in time, I had left my abusive relationship and I was free to go wherever I wanted without guilt.

I was at a bar leaner with Owen and Hannah when a stranger approached me. He tapped me on the shoulder. He was wearing a shirt with a massive Rainbow across his chest.

“Hey, how’s it going? I’m Nathan,” Nathan asked me as he handed me a flyer for the Christchurch Heroes. “Have you played touch rugby before?”

“I’ve tried playing for my work team, but I’m not any good at it,” I told him. I took the flyer from him nervously.

“You should play for us then. We’re not any good either, but we have fun,” he replied jokingly. “I’ll see you at training then!”

Nathan smiled and then waved at me before walking away to the next group of people. I examined the flyer: “Christchurch Heroes, a collective of LGBTI+ inclusive sport teams which aim to empower the Rainbow community, and their whanau, to engage in sports and activities.”

“You should give it a go. What have you got to lose?” Owen told me as he returned to his pint. He seemed unfazed by the interaction.

I put the flyer away, and I went back to my pint. I could sense that this was going to be another fateful coincidence.

I tossed and turned on the idea for weeks before I finally built up the confidence to attend training. I biked from the university to Westminster Park in Mairehau. As I reached the field, I felt my heart pounding in my chest.

“You must be Rawiri,” I said as I got off my bike. I had sent him an email a few days earlier. I felt like I needed permission before I could participate.

“Yes, I am, you must be Sidney,” Rawiri held out his hand. “Welcome to the Christchurch Heroes. They’re just warming up now.”

The first training session did not last long as it began to rain shortly after I arrived.

My first time on the field playing rugby was the pre-​season game against the Vipers from the Burnside Rugby Football Club. Once again, I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. I was on the wing, but I was too slow, unfit, and unskilled. I only managed to initiate one tackle.

“You did well, young man. You need to learn to trust yourself. You need to learn to harness and control your aggression. If you don’t commit yourself fully, the only person who’ll get hurt is yourself,” Mark the medic told me after the game.

We lost by a massive margin. I felt defeated. This sense of defeat continued over the course of the next two years, but we persisted. We experienced the best, and the worst.

Now that I was aware of how my identity occupies intersecting marginalisation in society as a Queer and Asian person, this taught me to navigate the world with fear –​ I had to make the conscious effort to take up spaces where people like me were regularly excluded.

I still clearly remember the remarks coming from the opposition sideline when we were playing against the Wankers from Shirley Rugby Football Club:

“Go home faggots!”

“Get off the field gaybos!”

“Poofters!”

I knew those people shouting insults at us from the sidelines were not just directing them at my team and me, they were directed at our Queer communities. They did not think we had the right to belong. This only made me want to grow stronger and more resilient.

I still fondly remember the moment we won our first game against the Bullocks at Linwood Rugby Club. It was a tough grind over the eighty minutes. When the referee blew the final whistle, the whole team ran on to the pitch. We had won 17–​31.

I learnt that representation could be as simple as being visible.

“You’re the first homo I’ve ever met,” a player from the team told me after a game of rugby one Saturday night. He was bent over a fence after throwing up into a bush. “I’ve never met a gay before, until I met you. You’re just a normal guy.”

I also learnt that allyship came when I least expected it.

“Do you have any rainbow tape?” another player asked me in a message. “It’s International Pride month and I want to acknowledge it at tonight’s night game against the Sumner Sharks.”

A night game under the floodlights was a special occasion for a social team like ours. We did not normally get the same recognition as the premier teams in the club. I was surprised that a player from my team would want to show his support for our Queer communities.

“Here you go!” the player told me as he handed me a pair of Rainbow laces, as we were getting ready for the game in the changing rooms. “This is the best I could do.”

When I was playing touch rugby or rugby union, I felt like I was part of something greater than myself. Who would have known that a simple rugby ball would propel me on my coming out journey?

Ōtautahi, Summer 2019

“Don’t forget, the Christchurch Heroes is having its annual general meeting this weekend.” Oliver mentioned after a game of touch rugby. We had lost miserably that afternoon. “We can’t keep doing this without volunteers.”

“I want to help,” I later told him at Baillie’s, our local bar. Up until this point, I had been a passive beneficiary of other Queer people’s goodwill and kindness. I thought of Peters’ advice –​ I must harness my privilege. This is my opportunity to give back to the community.

“Of course,” Oliver told me. “We’re always looking for volunteers.”

After a few short weeks as an elected board member for the Christchurch Heroes, I received a surprise message from Rawiri.

“I’m at a Qtopia strategy meeting at the moment. We were wondering if you’d like to join the board as a treasurer,” the message read.

“What have I got to lose?” I thought to myself. If it were not for Qtopia, I would not have had the confidence to explore my Queer identity.

“Of course,” I replied to Rawiri. “I’m happy to help where I can.”

This was at the start of 2020, just before the first Covid-​19 national lockdown. It was not until six months later that I had my first taste of what it meant to be involved in governance. I was there for the annual general meeting, and it was the first time I met the other board members in person.

I sat there in the co-​working space feeling somewhat out of place. The only other Asian was the outgoing treasurer. We had met a few times previously to organise the handover. It’s not unusual for me to be the only visual minority in a Queer space.

My experience as the social club president at work did not prepare me for this role and the amount of pressure it would involve. One of my first tasks was to organise the financial audit. Due to internal changes and the lack of staffing capacity, this was never completed.

Through this process, I learnt a lot about the financial struggles of a small under-​resourced Queer social services provider. I learnt that funding from government agencies is almost exclusively project based and never for more than a year. Although Qtopia has existed for over twenty years, we have never had a sense of financial stability or sustainability. How can our communities, let alone an organisation providing much needed peer-​support services, survive in such a precarious financial landscape?

A lot of this has to do with our location in Te Waipounamu –​ naturally, our Queer communities in Ōtautahi do not have the same benefit as other Queer organisations based in densely populated urban areas like Tāmaki Makaurau or in close proximity to central government like Te Whanganui-​a-​Tara. In many ways, our Queer population is largely forgotten.

“I would like you two to be our next co-​chairs,” the managing director asked another board member and me one afternoon. “Christchurch is too white. I want us to change that perspective. We need greater representation for our Queer rangatahi (youth) that Queer Brown people exist.”

I have not named the other co-​chair to protect their privacy, but neither the other co-​chair nor I knew what we were signing up to taking up the mantle as co-​chairs of Qtopia. As we went through the proceedings of the annual general meeting, with Rawiri chairing the public meeting, both of us were voted in unanimously.

“Now we’re coming to the end of the general meeting, does anyone have any general business they would like to share?” Rawiri broadcasted through the computer monitor.

“I do,” a group facilitator announced from the group of attendees. “I would like to read a letter of concern from our facilitators.”

“Please go ahead,” Rawiri signalled from the screen.

“What a way to start our first day on the job, eh?” the other co-​chair joked quietly.

I will not go through the details of the letter, but this letter highlighted a number of structural and systemic issues within the youth and social work sector. This turned into an investigation that spanned several months, and it put me and the other co-​chair in an uncomfortable position having to address twenty years’ worth of organisational debt.

I later found out through the Queer communities that the volunteer facilitators who were present wanted to roll the governance board. I did not even realise that I was at my first coup. We later made robust changes to the constitution at the special general meeting to ensure that nothing of this nature would ever happen again.

I still struggle with my role within Queer spaces. Once at an event with Queer youth and social workers, I doubted my abilities and what I actually contributed within this space.

“I need to tell you something,” I confessed to the other co-​chair.

The other co-​chair sensed something was wrong with me and took me with them to a quiet spot with a couch.

“I don’t know if I belong. I don’t feel Queer enough. Everyone here is dressed in Rainbows and shit. Maybe I’m the imposter.”

“Sidney,” the other co-​chair told me. “The fact you feel like an imposter is the very reason you belong. As Queer people, as Brown Queer people, we need to show the world we exist.”

The other co-​chair gave me a hug, firm enough to squeeze out my insecurities.

Many Queer Asian New Zealanders who have contributed and continue to contribute to our communities fly under the radar. Many continue to live a double life as they outwardly express their Queerness in some spaces but are still deeply in the closet at home. These are still unresolved challenges for our Asian communities in Aotearoa.