Sometimes that was great and sometimes it was confusing. There were plenty of (mis)adventures and moments of self-discovery along the way. When I was around 14 or 15 I really came to accept that I was gay but I still continued to question it a bit:“I’m black, and black guys aren’t gay”. I mean, it was fairly reasonable to feel like this – I didn’t see them in lil’ ol’ Adelaide – or anywhere really. This was well before the days of social media and the internet had barely become ‘a thing’. I remember slipping into Adelaide’s only gay bar at a young age and feeling excited but also so disappointed being the only non-white person in the room. But in this struggle of race and sexuality I’d flip between one extreme to the other with internal dialogues in my head:

from “you’re gay so you should be into Kylie Minogue like every other Adelaide gay”

to “you’re black so should be into rap music and dress like a gangster” (as that sadly was my only reference point for black people at the time).

I look back at that now and think how ridiculous and binary it all was but those are some of the struggles we diverse people have when there isn’t the representation or voices around us to connect with or draw upon.

Anyway, on this issue which was very complex to me at the time, I thought that maybe I could compromise. So, I went shopping with my sister one day to buy the homie g (gangster) clothing – picking out the oversized jeans and the baggy jumper. I felt pretty proud of this purchase but the feeling was short lived. The next day my sister and I were walking up to the shops and I was singing and dancing along to a Britney Spears song that was in my head. (Britney being my chosen gay icon as I could never bring myself to like Kylie Minogue – sorry Kylie!).

Turning to me with the deepest brow furrow I’d ever seen, my sister quickly scolded me with a “Byron, that’s not how homies act!” statement.

I stopped the dancing immediately. But, I never wore those clothes again. That moment helped me to really think about who I was and what it was that I was trying to be. And I realised that I didn’t need to try to conform to a particular look or style. Because, in trying to straddle two distinct identities I was happy in neither. It was my “ah-huh” moment as Oprah would say. I was a black. I was gay. I was living in bloody Adelaide! Some people may have felt overwhelmed by that. For me, in part by having the most supportive mum and sister (my mum was marching in Pride rallies long before I was even ready to!), I felt like it was such a unique opportunity to be whoever the hell I wanted to be. No stereotypes, expectations or pretence (and gladly, this meant fully embracing Britney Spears over Kylie guilt free and not feeling like I was betraying my people)

There was something I found I could never quite escape though. Often I was the ‘first’ that many people would meet – first person of colour, first black guy born in Australia (the shocked faces some people would have when I would start speaking with an ‘Australian’ accent), the first gay guy (yep although I’m a millennial I’m at the upper end of the bracket so am old enough to still remember how much of a bigger deal it used to be to be gay). And because I was so many people’s first, in so many ways and for so many different reasons, I felt like the poster child and representative for all types of diversity at the time.

The thing was, I didn’t want to be on the (metaphorical) poster – I wanted to be able to look at posters of other people and be able to see myself. I so craved and wanted to see diverse representation in Australian culture.

There wasn’t a specific age or moment, but at some point I came to the realisation that I was it. That there wasn’t some cavalry of diverse people – black, queer, or other types of diversity – who were suddenly going to take over television, politics and general society in Australia. That if I wanted to see that diversity I actually needed to be and live that diversity. So I felt that I had a couple of choices. I could either begrudge growing up diverse in Australia with everything I felt at the time it didn’t offer. Or, I could choose to focus on the positives – because ultimately I do love this country – and look for opportunities to contribute in some – any – small way – to increasing diversity. I’ve tried to do that throughout my life (my current job is all about diversity – talk about commitment to the cause!).

There’s a TV show I love to watch called Ru Paul’s Drag Race where a bunch of drag queens compete to be the ‘ultimate drag superstar’. Towards the end of each season there’s a moment on the show where the contestants are shown photos of themselves as kids and then asked what they would say to this younger version of themselves. To be honest, this is probably the part of the show I have always hated to watch – to me it is a complete cringe session as the host asks “What would you say to yourself?” while waiting for the inevitable tears. But something struck me as I’ve been working through this written piece – it is pretty much what I am doing now. It’s like I’m writing something to my younger self – to say that yes you will have some great and not so great experiences but those feelings of longing for belonging will subside. Don’t worry about the difference and just be you.

If I’m being honest, there’s another reason too. And it’s not because I think I’m remarkable and everybody needs to know about me or my experiences (although if there was a greater word count I could quite happily share a whole heap of interesting tales). It’s because I wanted to write this so that other people out there who might look like me or can relate to my experiences can read this and know that their voices are being represented and reflected somewhere. And to know that they – we – actually exist. It’s ok to be who or what you want to be. My hope is that where my experience is about growing up diverse in Australia future generations can truly speak to experiences of growing up in diverse Australia.