Ben Mack: Why we need queer spaces in New Zealand

When I'm raving away at an ungodly hour, I can be myself, free from judgment. Photo / Getty

It may sound more ridiculous than a gerbil taking up a career as an acupuncturist, but every Wednesday at about 6:30am you can find me in an Auckland club, adequately named "Morning People". (I question if the people who go so early are really people at all rather than incredibly lifelike androids or zombies that haven't begun decaying yet).

There's a whole host of reasons why I love it. For one, I've been a serious devotee of electronic music for as long as I can remember (to the point that I literally have no idea what Tom Petty or Drake or even - and I swear - Miley Cyrus sound like, but can rattle off the most obscure Hernán Cattáneo or Gabriel & Dresden remixes like nobody's business).

If I'm being honest, there's also an element of nostalgia: recalling the days of bleary-eyed mornings after hours spent in a club from which I'd emerge stumbling so far forward my face was basically parallel with the frozen ground. I'd stagger across the Warschauer Brücke to the metro station, then drift in and out of consciousness during the eight-station journey to Kurfūrstenstrasse.

Then it was up the stairs, a half-block to the right, through the creaky metal gate and up some more stairs to the third floor - then down the short hallway, to the left, and already dreaming before collapsing atop my beige-sheeted bed, only to wake up in a few hours and end up doing it all again (such were my two-plus hedonistic years in Berlin).

And there's another reason, too: when I'm there, raving away at an ungodly hour, I can be myself, free from judgment.

We all know how important such spaces are for our mental and emotional health. Heck, people write entire books - and series of books - about that, don't they? This particular column could also be a lot longer if I went into detail about that, but I'm sure you have important stuff to do (such as reading other Herald stories).

Anyway, I've been accused of sometimes being a bit oblivious, but I'm at least self-aware enough to know that not everyone prefers my particular, um, pastimes. But everyone needs a place where they can hang out, socialise, and generally have a good time with other like-minded people, and be completely themselves while doing it.

That's why queer spaces are so important.

A lot of queer readers will know why - and I imagine a fair number of non-queer folks, too. But for those that don't, here's the deal: queer spaces - whether it's a social club, discussion group, or whatever - are homophobia, transphobia, biphobia, racism, sexism, ableism, and any other phobia or ism-free zones. In other words, they're places outside of one's home where people can freely express themselves. And, of course, in such spaces you tend to meet other folks you can relate to; when you're part of a minority, that's pretty bloody important.

Ok, so that's that. I've been to meetups of queer writers a couple of times here now. But can I confess something?

The first time I went, I wasn't quite sure what to expect.

It's true. You see, I've only recently been open about my identity as a non binary person. Believe me: it's not exactly something you want to confess publicly when you're running around in places like North Korea, Afghanistan, Zimbabwe, Palestine, Brunei or Russia (at least not if you want to be around for your next birthday), as I have. Likewise, I didn't exactly have a lot of openly queer friends or people I knew.

So when I strode in (customarily late), I was a bit nervous. Would I be forced to give some kind of speech about why I identify as non binary? Would I be "accepted," even though I'm straight? (Sexual orientation and gender identity are two completely different things, yo).

Surprise, surprise: I had absolutely nothing to worry about.

Call it cliché all you want, but I'd never felt more accepted by a group of complete strangers. Heck, within the span of about two minutes, these people weren't strangers at all.

Like myself, lots of other people said they used they/them pronouns, even other people with beards like mine. I didn't even need to discuss what it was like being me - they KNEW. And it wasn't a big deal to them at all.

I could keep gushing, but I have a sneaking suspicion that you get the point. Queer spaces are important. Queer spaces are necessary. And, considering the suicide and victimisation rates for queer folks are far higher than the general population (as basically any study, ever can tell you), queer spaces can save lives.

Queer spaces are also important because of this: according to a recent study commissioned by ANZ and conducted by Galaxy Research, LGBTI (lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and intersex) Kiwis are more than twice as likely as non-LGBTI folks to feel uncomfortable holding hands in public. Leading those statistics? Young people.

Translation: queer people aren't comfortable being themselves in public.

So you know what? We need these spaces. Because everyone should be able to be themselves, and because everyone has the right to feel safe.

Isn't that a novel concept?

And here's something even more novel: it shouldn't be at all.

I think you all know why: human rights.