A look at the legislative landscape of the UK and many neo-liberal, western democracies across the world at the beginning of the twenty-first century would suggest that a fundamental shift has occurred in how lesbian, gay, bisexual and trans people and their intimate and familial relationships are perceived. From living lives that were considered not only deviant but dangerous and a threat to society and its core institutions such as ‘the family’ and its children, laws have been passed that legitimate their lives and relationships and provide many of the same protections, rights and obligations as heterosexual women and men (see Weeks, 2007). Simultaneously, however, there is also evidence that in the living of their everyday lives, intimate and familial relationships, LGBTQ people still face enormous challenges, discrimination, hostility and violence. It would seem that at the same time as arguments have been won that human rights are universal, regardless of sexuality, perceptions about those living outside heterosexuality position them as different. The differences seem to fall into two categories, both of which find their origins in the centrality of heterosexuality to the organisation of society and the location of social power. The first is that sexual minorities are perceived as outside society and therefore that they pose threats to society. This is most often applied to gay men who are still associated with being a threat to children and young people because of a particular, erroneous, perception of their sexuality that confuses it with paedophilia. The second category of differences relate to an apparent inability to comprehend how same sex intimate or same sex parental relationships work: the central dilemma here focuses on whether they are the same as heterosexual relationships or, because of essentialised assumptions about gender, different. Such debates have been countered from within LGBTQ communities in opposing ways. Those arguing that ‘we are all the same’ , insist that ‘we all want the same things’ and seek to reassure the heterosexual majority that there is no threat to society’s institutions by including LGBTQ people in them. Those arguing that ‘we are different’ are interested in challenging society’s institutions to change them for everybody to address social inequalities and oppressive power structures.
These opposing perceptions and arguments have profound impacts on the everyday lives of those living outside heterosexuality and are exacerbated by the additional inequalities that result from being young, disabled, working class, or from within trans and/or black and minority ethnic communities. These inequalities mean that on the one hand positionality has an impact on the multiple ways in which an individual comes to understand their sense of self and how others perceive them as a member of the multiple social groups to which they belong.
On the other hand, an intersectional exploration of their experiences reveals how their multiple identities, positioned unequally in social and cultural hierarchies, has an impact on their potential and actual access to material and socio-cultural resources available in, and treatment by, the social groups, networks, localities, regions and broader society in which they live. For example, alongside the exclusionary experiences those identifying as LGBTQ recount from broader, mainstream society are the exclusionary experiences they recount from within LGBTQ communities because of their ‘race’ and ethnicity, their social class, their faith, their age and/or their disability.
In this chapter, while remaining aware of the multiple identities of LGBTQ people within society we unpack those pertaining to the differences perceived about LGBTQ people and heterosexual people more generally to understand how these might have an impact particularly on how DVA is experienced and understood by those living in same sex relationships. The centrality of heterosexuality, not only as an ascription of identity but as an organising framework in society, along with associated assumptions about gender, should not be underestimated because, as we argue, perceptions of how adult intimacy might work have profound implications both for how survivors of DVA might understand their own experiences as well as how those who might provide support may understand them.
We also wish to counter the current emphasis in the literature exploring the experiences of DVA in same sex relationships which focuses on psychological and individualistic approaches and instead to foreground the importance of the social and cultural contexts in which those in same sex relationships come out and engage in intimate, familial and parental relationships. We do not disagree that individuals’
cognitive and psychological potentials will have an impact on how they react and respond to the heterosexism and homophobia they face in carving out a life as a lesbian, gay woman or man, a bisexual, a queer and/or a trans person. We also want to make the case, however, that how individuals make sense of their sexuality and/or gender identity, along with their other multiple identities is shaped and influenced by
social and cultural norms constructed through material, structural and institutional processes that are profound in their impact.
To talk about the ways in which the institution of heterosexuality is central to understanding how DVA is understood in both heterosexual and same sex relationships we use Weeks et al (2001) concept of the
‘heterosexual assumption’. Similarly to Rich’s (1980) ‘compulsory heterosexuality’ and Blassius’ (1994) ‘heterosexual panorama’ this provides us with a way of describing and analysing a society organised and constructed as if all of its citizens are heterosexual and aspiring to heterosexual goals for personal and intimate lives. Not only are individuals assumed to be heterosexual but society’s institutions, infrastructure, legislation and policy also have embedded in them dominant ideas about how heterosexuality should be lived, for example, in provision for welfare, families, health, security, employment, and so on. The heterosexual assumption or heterosexual hegemony, is based on ‘the naturalistic fallacy [and] gender and sexual binarism and their hierarchical positioning’ (Weeks et al, 2001, 42) and facilitates a nuanced exploration not just of the obvious and explicit but also the implicit and covert ways that heterosexuality is expected, normalised and privileged in neo-liberal, western societies in private as well as in public lives. Such a take allows us to acknowledge the apparent gains achieved by LGBTQ people in countries across the western world and some developing countries while being able to point to the myriad ways in which the heterosexual assumption persists and has a negative impact on individuals’ decisions to come out and live openly as LGBTQ.
The heterosexual assumption pervades interactions in everyday lives in both the public and private spheres. Alongside assumptions about the primacy of heterosexuality are those constructing the flawed, dangerous, threatening nature of those who are not heterosexual. We also argue, however, that gender must be understood as an intricately embedded aspect of the heterosexual assumption. Thus ways in which people live their intimate and familial lives are understood to be shaped not only by their sexuality but also by the simultaneous expectations of conformity to gendered expectations about how they might interact as children, friends, employees and employers, service users and providers, intimate partners and as parents. These gendered expectations themselves are constructed and mutually shaped through the diverse nuances resulting from ethnicity and ‘race’ both from within minority communities but also from the stereotyped and prejudiced perceptions and expectations of the majority communities. We argue that these gendered expectations develop in parallel to expectations
attached to heterosexuality and that discourses and ideologies about heterosexuality are central to constructing and shaping ideas and expectations about masculinities and femininities. Thus hegemonic masculinity is fundamentally heterosexual: gay masculinity can only be a subordinated masculinity (Connell, 2000). Likewise, emphasised femininity can only be understood if it is understood as heterosexual femininity. Thus, both gay men and lesbians are still typically understood to stand outside not only the norms of heterosexuality but also outside the norms of gender. Furthermore, these experiences of subordinated masculinities and femininities are, at the same time, interpreted through individuals ‘raced’ and ethnic positioning, their social class positioning, their age and whether or not they are disabled.
Such assumptions about gender and sexuality are nowhere more important than in the doing and living of intimate lives. The heterosexual assumption not only shapes ideas about what is possible in an intimate life for those who live in heterosexual relationships but also, as we will demonstrate, has an impact on those entering same sex relationships. At the same time, service providers also have expectations about how intimate lives might be lived in same sex relationships that are ‘read off ’ from the heterosexual assumption, and includes the way gender might be enacted in those relationships, with added assumptions made about how gender might be performed by different cultures, at different ages, in different social classes and if an individual is disabled or not. Thus responses from service providers from a range of agencies responding to the criminal justice system, relationship breakdown, housing and DVA to those in same sex relationships will be influenced by the heterosexual assumption. Because historically, responses from providers of services have been shaped more by perceptions of the differences and dangerousness of LGBTQ people, the heterosexual assumption can also help explain the help-seeking decisions made by LGBTQ people. The latter includes making a judgement about their safety in coming out and the negative consequences of making the wrong decision: they could experience homophobia from those from whom they seek help, their confidentiality might not be respected, they may feel they have to come out in other spheres of their life when they do not feel ready, and/or they may fear how their decision might elicit homophobic responses to their partner, children, and others to whom they are close (see also Irwin, 2006). Similar arguments have also been made in relation to how the responses of service providers have been shaped by assumptions about ‘race’, ethnicity and social class (for example, Sokoloff and Dupont, 2005).
To begin the discussion about these issues, in this chapter we specifically focus on the extent to which heterosexual intimacy is similar or different to same sex intimacy; what impact a heterosexist and homophobic society has on experiences of DVA in same sex relationships; and whether and how coming out has any impact on the experiences of DVA in same sex relationships. First of all however we build on the outline in Chapter One, looking at how social and legislative change has provided a challenge to the heterosexual assumption and opens up spaces for more inclusive ways of living and loving for those in same sex relationships.
The changing legal and social landscape for those in same sex relationships
In the UK and most liberal democracies, those living in same sex relationships are now able either to marry or otherwise enact a civil partnership or union conferring all or most of the same rights and responsibilities of marriage on the adults. In most countries, parental rights and responsibilities in same sex relationships have also been secured (France and Ireland are significant examples of exceptions where adoption and fostering is excluded from the partner registration models). In the UK lesbian couples becoming parents using licenced fertility clinics and donated gametes are also allowed to register both the biological and non-biological mother as the legal parents on the child(ren)’s birth certificate (2008 Human Fertilisation and Embryology). In addition, since April 2010, gay male couples are allowed to apply for a parental order which if granted will allow the birth to be registered and show both men as the parents in the Parental Order Register. Same sex couples are now able to adopt and foster as couples (2004 Children Adoption Act) and LGBTQ people are protected from discrimination by the 2010 Equality Act and the 2008 Employment Act in the provision of goods and services and in employment respectively. There is, however, still provision made for providers of single-sex services (such as refuges) under the law to refuse access to a trans person if the provider can show that to do so is reasonable. Clearly this has implications for trans women’s access to refuge if they experience DVA.
For trans people the 2004 Gender Reassignment Act now enables individuals who have had medical treatment (not necessarily surgery) for severe gender variance to be given a Gender Recognition Certificate (GRC) which they can use to change their birth certificate and be legally identified in their chosen gender. While this is an
important change in legal recognition for trans people there were important caveats such as a married trans person having to divorce their partner in order to be given a GRC. This was because, until April 2014, same sex marriage was not legal. In addition, those who do not wish to have medical treatment may not qualify for a GRC and therefore will not be able to change their birth certificate with all the ramifications this has for citizenship such as getting a passport and gaining services as a survivor of DVA.
Nevertheless there has been a sea change across public sector services in the design of equal opportunities policies and development of best practice to provide an inclusive service to all service users regardless of sexuality, gender and gender identity. The 2010 Equality Act requires those agencies providing public services (including in the voluntary and private sectors) to provide evidence about the extent to which they are being successful in achieving the goal of inclusion across a range of what are called protected characteristics: age, disability, gender, gender reassignment, pregnancy and maternity, ‘race’, religion or belief and sexual orientation (see Richardson and Monro, 2012 for a detailed analysis of these changes). Yet, we would argue that the extent to which activism and scholarship have been successful in achieving these legislative changes must be measured not only by the ways in which individual rights and obligations have been recognised and protected but also by their impact on the everyday expression of those rights through their intimate, familial and parental relationships.
It is true that the legislative landscape is unrecognisable now, as we enter the second decade of the twenty-first century, to that which it was only 25 years ago. Not only did the Conservative government then pass the notorious Section 28 (see Chapter One), but the age of consent for gay men was five years higher than that for heterosexuals, being found out as gay or lesbian in the military could result in a dishonourable discharge and lesbian mothers could lose custody of their children because of their sexuality (Weeks et al, 2001). Yet, notwithstanding the gains outlined briefly above there is also evidence that there is a sizeable minority of the population who have not been persuaded by the arguments for inclusion. This ongoing unease with minority sexualities and trans people is most clearly articulated in debates about what could be understood as the heart of human existence: adult intimacy and the creation of families. Here we explore briefly the impact of this unease in two areas: sex and relationship guidance in schools and same sex marriage.
Sex and relationship guidance
Led by organised religions, dissenters from the equality arguments are a vocal minority who claim to speak for a silent majority. They argue that sex between two women or two men is not only unnatural but immoral and that children should not be exposed to such an environment if they are to reach adulthood as mentally healthy, normatively gendered, heterosexual women and men. These more overt objections to inclusive legislation based on equal rights have not been the only signs that there is a struggle going on in society to accept equality arguments, however. There have been several pieces of policy and guidance that express the ambiguity that exists about full acceptance of different ways of living and loving. Of relevance here is the UK government Department for Education and Employment’s Sex and relationship education guidance (2000, hereafter the Guidance) for England and Wales which provides advice for schools on how to achieve their obligation to adopt a sex and relationship education policy. Given the evidence from this study and others that young people, regardless of sexuality and gender, are at higher risk of experiencing DVA than older people (Mullender et al, 2002; Hester et al, 2007; Donovan and Hester, 2008; Barter et al, 2009), prevention, begun in schools, would suggest itself as an obvious strategy. The Guidance, however, contains at least two potential barriers to the development of sex and relationship education that could be inclusive of young people who are lesbian, gay, bisexual, and/or trans and/or questioning their sexuality.
The first springs from the ambivalence articulated around what kinds of relationships children and young people should be encouraged to enter. On the one hand the document recognises that children are brought up in different kinds of families and that there are ‘strong and mutually supportive relationships outside marriage’. Thus, out of respect for difference and the recognition that these relationships can provide well for their children, pupils should learn the ‘significance of marriage and stable relationships as building blocks of community and society’ (DfEE, 2000, 4, our emphasis). On the other hand, and on the same page in the guidance, the responsibility of schools to teach ‘the nature and importance of marriage for family life and bringing up children’ is given priority.
The second barrier is what can be seen as a legacy of Section 28.
The Guidance has a specific section on ‘Sexual identity and sexual orientation’ and advises that schools are expected to meet the needs of all their pupils ‘whatever their developing sexuality’ ensuring that sex and relationship education should be ‘relevant to them and sensitive
to their needs’ (DfEE, 2000, 12). Homophobic bullying is specifically mentioned as behaviour that should be dealt with, although a caveat is added in the advice that arguably undermines what has gone before.
The advice continues to encourage teachers to: ‘deal honestly and sensitively with sexual orientation, answer appropriate questions and offer support. There should be no promotion of sexual orientation’ (DfEE, 2000, 13 our emphasis).
In the same document in relation to the role of youth work in the provision of sex and relationship education the same message is given:
‘[i]t is inappropriate for youth workers, as with any professional, to promote sexual orientation’ (DfEE, 2000, 28). Before Section 28 was repealed it was never tested through the courts. Its power was in its symbolic status and censoring role. Not only did it encourage self-censorship by those who might otherwise have engaged in activities the Section intended to prevent, for example, in schools (Moran, 2001) but it also provided those who agreed with the Section a rationale for discriminatory policies. For example, some local authorities were challenged with the use of Section 28 to stop their proposed spending
‘[i]t is inappropriate for youth workers, as with any professional, to promote sexual orientation’ (DfEE, 2000, 28). Before Section 28 was repealed it was never tested through the courts. Its power was in its symbolic status and censoring role. Not only did it encourage self-censorship by those who might otherwise have engaged in activities the Section intended to prevent, for example, in schools (Moran, 2001) but it also provided those who agreed with the Section a rationale for discriminatory policies. For example, some local authorities were challenged with the use of Section 28 to stop their proposed spending