“Open the door,” barks Annaliese, mimicking the stern voice of cops by banging on the floor of the theatre with resounding, echoing thuds. “Open the door or we will break it down”.
I’m at one of the regular Queerstories nights, listening to comedian, writer, and activist Annaliese Constable perform a story. From the moment she starts speaking, I can tell that this is going to be something special.
You could have dropped a pin at this point, and everyone would have turned around and screamed: “why are you dropping such an insanely loud pin, we’re trying to listen to a story.”
One of the joys of Queerstories, which has a regular home at Giant Dwarf in Redfern and the Melba Spiegeltent in Collingwood, and periodically tours all around the country, is the sheer, baffling, and delightful range of stories that you get to hear.
In the same night, you can hear a joyful comedy about a lesbian and her cat, or about a dildo mistakenly smeared with hand sanitiser instead of lube. You can also hear beautiful, and touching stories from queer elders, and stories of heartbreak and persecution and loss.
Queerstories creator and host Maeve Marsden says people often refer to the event as “queer church”.
This particular event is held in the regional NSW city of Wollongong, in a huge beautiful room at the local art gallery. The South Coast queer populace have arrived in force, and the energy of the room is thrumming and boisterous and fabulous.
Annaliese’s story starts off with a squad of riot police breaking down the door to a University of Wollongong classroom she and two other activists are occupying. They’re fighting the university for a dedicated queer space on campus after a number of homophobic threats and violence. It’s a big and compelling tale, but Annaliese peppers the drama and heroism with comedy and wry commentary.
But what hits me like a roundhouse fish-slap is the sudden realisation that this story, set in 2004, happened while I was at that university. While the cops used a battering ram to shatter a door and subdue three of my peers, I was probably sitting only a few metres away, drinking beer and trying my hardest to remain in the closet.
One of my friends, Dan, was one of the people arrested. And I had no idea — literally no idea. A small moment of queer history, of gay rebellion, was happening right next to me.
At the time, a friend Joe had been kicked out of home after coming out. When he had nowhere else to go he would crash in the Queer Space. It was a home for all of us.
It made me realise that so much of queer history — especially the long haul acts of activism and advocacy, and the small yet meaningful victories — can often get forgotten along the way. And seeing the story read aloud at Queerstories also made me realise how we should be chronicling and celebrating these tales when we can.
We need to show the world that queer people are still fighting a big fight, and what those battles look like.
It made me realise that 2004 is both so recent and so far away, and was such a unique time for queers, that it needs to be remembered precisely for that moment.
Plus, this story is funny, important, and ultimately uplifting — so I reached out to Annaliese Constable, Dan Bledwich, and Mika Lodsman for an oral history of the fight for the Wollongong University queer space. This is that story.
The Space Was Damp, And We Were Continually Camp
Annaliese: I remembered four years earlier when there had been a queer space on campus, next to the unibar.
It was a warm, welcoming space and a hive of social activity and political activism for the queer collective, Allsorts. We celebrated the sexuality week event Miss Homo De Nile in the Unibar, with Pauline Pantsdown performing her iconic “I Don’t Like It”.
At the time, a friend named Joe had been kicked out of home after coming out. When he had nowhere else to go he would crash in the Queer Space. It was a home for all of us.
Somewhere our chosen family met, shared meals, argued, made up, and sometimes made out.
In 2000, the University of Wollongong announced they wanted to build a new Unibar. The queer collective were told we would get a temporary space and then be rehoused alongside the new Unibar. After the new Unibar was built, the university did not rehouse the Queer Space on campus and the queer collective began a four-year campaign to get our space back.
As the Unibar was rebuilt, the Queer Space was shunted across the road, off-campus, into a repurposed garage in an area not patrolled by security.
Dan: Students were being baled up and threatened in the temporary queer space across the road from UOW’s campus.
The space always flooded and the power outlets were very low to the ground. John Howard and the media were creating a really homophobic atmosphere nationally — but for the first time in my life I felt proud of who I was, and the community I was a part of.
I think I was Queer Rep in 2004, and there were queer community expectations that something should be done — we wanted to DO something, and collectively we were sick of feeling powerless.
Somewhere our chosen family met, shared meals, argued, made up, and sometimes made out.
Annaliese: The space would regularly flood from light rain and water would run down the walls behind active power sockets. The water would pool on the floor rotting our furniture and the space was continually damp. We were continually camp.
Dan: Why was it so important to have a queer space in 2004? Let’s be honest, Wollongong is a bit of a shithole (I didn’t fully realise that then). A steel port town populated with rednecks isn’t the safest place to come out, be seen, live, and thrive. I haven’t been back in a long time, but I hope things have changed.
Mika: By 2004, I was absolutely obsessed with engaging in as much non-violent direct action as possible. I was spending summer breaks in old-growth forests trying to obstruct loggers from turning it all into woodchips. I was calling people every week to get them on the roster of the food co-operative on campus. I was helping the environment officer run the Green Collective. I was doing a lot. I was really hungry for change.
When Annaliese told me about the action they were planning to win back the Queer Space, and asked me if I would be there, of course I said yes.
Annaliese: I thought of my friend Tracey. She had recently been trapped in the off-campus queer space by a man threatening to burn her to death for being queer. He blocked her exit with his bike and flicked a lighter at her. We reported this attack to the uni and they did nothing.
For the Queer Collective, this was the last straw — as deadly to queers as they are to sea turtles.
Occupy Wollongong Uni
Annaliese: Two days after Tracey was attacked, we occupied that room and locked those doors.
At that point, yes, there was regret.
Our campaign to be rehoused on campus raised the visibility of the queer collective and in response we were met with heightened and regular queerphobic threats and intimidation. We reported these incidents to Uni security and administration — we were ignored. Time and time again.
They couldn’t ignore us now.
Dan: I think Anna, Mika and I knew things were going to get out of hand when we saw more and more cops on the campus on the Sunday morning/early afternoon.
Our supporters were moved away from the building, the mirror we had facing toward the door so we could keep track of who was outside the room was removed, and we received word of riot police showing up, I think. We barricaded everything as well as we could, but the windows were a major point of weakness.
Mika: All of that felt so much easier about two hours into the occupation when the initial excitement had worn off and everyone began to realise they were effectively trapped in a room, for who knows how long, and cabin fever was starting to kick in for a great many of us. Being stuck in a room is one thing. Being stuck in a room with people who have cabin fever? Whole other thing.
At that point, yes, there was regret.
Annaliese: It seemed like it was a blue reunion sans Water Rats.
Dan: The fear that rose in the three of us, as we were given one last chance to vacate, was palpable — it still gives me goosebumps. I remember Annaliese telling me that as soon as a hand came through the double doors, we had to fall back because if the door slammed on that arm we could be charged with assaulting an officer.
When that gloved hand inevitably appeared, the occupation was over.
“Open the door now. We don’t want anyone to get hurt” “Neither do we,” I yelled back, “that’s why we’re here.”
Annaliese: “Open the door” an intimidating voice yelled through the door. Dan, Mika and I braced ourselves and angled our bodies against the double door.
Dan: It was eight riot police with helmets and shields, against three queers who were peacefully playing board games, having naps and hanging out. The overkill was utterly ridiculous, in part because the opposing factions thought there was more than three of us inside. They had no clue.
Annaliese: Dan, Mika and I held on tight. We thought of the queerphobic death threats, the rape threats, the stalking, harassment and intimidation. I thought of the nightmares we all had. I thought of the faces of my friends, my chosen family, who had been devastated when eight of our queer banners were stolen, and our queer space petitions defaced with comments like “die fags” and “get AIDS and die.”
Annaliese: “Open the door or we will break it down.” said the cops.“Open the door now. We don’t want anyone to get hurt” “Neither do we,” I yelled back, “that’s why we’re here.”
Breaking Down The Door
Annaliese: On the other side of the door the riot police took a few steps back to break the door down.
They readied themselves to engage the battering ram. I looked at Dan and Mika and saw the same fear that I felt. I leaned against the door knowing that three peaceful protesters could not hold the doors closed against a battering ram and riot police.
It felt like my wrists could be broken at any moment.
I heard and felt the impact of the first battering ram at the same time, and even though I knew it was coming, it sent a shock through my body. The windows of the building shook from the impact and the hinges of the door weakened, as regular uniformed police blocked our supporters and allies in a room downstairs, so they couldn’t film the violence.
With each deafening ram my left ear and temple were smashed and a pocket of air was forced out of my body. A chair that was propped under the door handles began to buckle and trip Dan. As Mika turned to throw the chair out of the way the riot police rammed the doors twice more breaking them open. My girlfriend stood outside the building, 300 metres away, hearing my screams.
As the battering ram slammed through, Mika and Dan were jammed up against the wall behind one of the doors.
The furniture we’d used as barricades avalanched backwards and the door hinges were heaved off. The surrounding walls crumbled and white plaster scattered over the carpet. The riot police burst through the doors pushing me to the floor. I scrambled away from the guns, shields, helmets and battering ram and sat cross-legged with my hands on my knees.
The riot police twisted my hands behind my back into a rear wrist lock. A rear wrist lock is used for pain compliance. Pain was being used against me to force me to comply. It felt like my wrists could be broken at any moment.
Dan and Mika were held in the same way and we were all frogmarched out of the building to two paddy wagons. As we approached the paddy wagons it became clear the riot police were about to separate us by perceived sex.
I protested and said, “Please don’t separate us, I’m worried about Dan’s safety” and a riot police officer said, “You should have thought of that before.”
Law And Order
Annaliese: The acting Vice-Chancellor Chris Grange said he sent riot police in to arrest three peaceful protesters because of hygiene concerns. For 48 hours Mika, Dan and I had all been using a bucket as a makeshift toilet which was routinely emptied by volunteers.
“If you’re worried about hygiene send us a bar of soap,” I said. The riot police didn’t even have wet wipes. What are all of those pockets for!?
We were each charged with trespass. “But I booked that room,” I said, as I was told that I would be charged with trespass. I had my mug shot taken still proudly wearing my rainbow badge.
Dan: That came back to bite me in the arse during the court proceedings though, as I already had two trespassing offences and the magistrate wanted a single plea for both charges. Whoops! Two weeks later when I was arrested during the occupation, I felt like Jean Genet by that point, being used to a life of hardened crime. Haha. I caved and pled guilty, largely because of my prior offence which was indefensible.
I made some poor choices, but the occupation wasn’t one of them.
The riot police didn’t even have wet wipes. What are all of those pockets for!?
Annaliese: Over the next year Mika, Dan and I each had five different court appearances, each appearance being used as an opportunity for further media coverage. If the university were not going to do the right thing for the right reasons we were going to shame them into doing it.
At the time of my court appearances, I was living on Dick Street. My favourite part of going to court was getting to say “Dick” loudly into the court microphone.
Mika: I had a set of court appearances to deal with. In preparation for that, I spent a lot of time in the university’s law library trying to figure out how to use that part of the library, and prepare something like a defence.
Dan: There was friction between Annaliese and I, because she wanted the three of us to plead not guilty, and I felt like I needed to save my skin. Legal Aid didn’t want to touch us, and my fate basically hung upon the goodwill of some pompous judge who looked down his nose at me. For my first trespassing charge I was fined something like $400, and for the occupation I was put on a 6-month good behaviour bond with no conviction recorded, I think.
Mika: What I didn’t expect was all the media attention. Not much happens in the Wollongong region, and Annaliese has solid media skills.
A Queer Room Of One’s Own
Annaliese: The Queer Collective delivered the handwritten petition with over 1000 signatures and 90 letters of support from the Greens, Labor, and Clover Moore to the university administration. The letters and petition urged the University to address the queerphobia, and to grant the queer space on campus.
On this day, Dan and I both wore a patch on our clothes that said: “The uni set riot police on me and all I got was a lousy trespass charge.”
Dan: There was good and bad repercussions. On the one hand, I remember there was an incredible group of friends, activists, and randoms who surrounded us and supported us after we were charged and released. It was incredible. I recall feeling like an ‘activist superstar’, which really catered to my youthful ego at that time.
The uni set riot police on me and all I got was a lousy trespass charge.
Annaliese: On August 4, 2005, three weeks shy of the one year anniversary of the riot police violently arresting us, the university announced that a queer space on campus had been won.
As a result of the campaign the Vice-Chancellor sent an email to all University of Wollongong staff and students urging mutual respect and detailing a campus education program to address queerphobia. An Equity and Diversity Committee was formed, and an educational campaign addressing homophobia was developed.
Following four years of campaigning, death threats, stalking, rape threats, flooding, abuse, a 48-hour occupation, intervention from riot police, three arrests, court proceedings and presenting the University of Wollongong with the 2004 Homophobic University of the Year award, Wollongong University Queer Collective Allsorts and queers across Australia came out as the clear winners.
Three weeks later was the annual University Sexuality Week and Miss Homo DeNile. The queer collective moved into the new queer space and we all celebrated our hard-fought win. We hung the photos of me, Mika and Dan getting arrested and we all painted our hands and imprinted them on the wall with our names.
Next to my hand I wrote, “Annaliese Criminal Constable.”
A Queer Story
Maeve Marsden: [Following Queerstories] The response was really positive, both at the Sydney event and in Wollongong. In Wollongong in particular, people came up to Annaliese who had either been at the uni at that time and remembered, or were studying there now — they wanted to thank her, so that was really beautiful.
Annaliese: To have a bunch of baby queers from the uni come up to me after performing the story in Wollongong was really moving.
The baby queers wanted a photo with me, and thanked me and the rest of the Queer Collective for fighting and standing up. They were very grateful and it was a very sweet moment. It was kind of weird for me, but I’ve learned that the best thing to do with a compliment or thanks that comes my way is to accept and appreciate it.
Someone else’s appreciation of me is a gift that I will unwrap and pop next to my self-doubt. Suck on that self-doubt.
Dan: As time went on, things got a lot harder. I think I maybe had a very mild PTSD. I wanted to run whenever I saw a police car. I loathe the po-po, and without fail during protests I still get The Fear when I see shields and batons. I’m not much of an activist nowadays (which is a deeply personal disappointment I hold against myself); there is so much inequality to stand against, but I shy away.
Mika: On reflection, to be honest, I think I was doing much more than enough activism. I think I had my fingers in too many pies, on top of study, and I’m still a bit burnt out, to this day. I thought burnout couldn’t touch me. What a ridiculous thing to think.
Dan: If our story, and what we went through, inspires or helps just one other UOW student or Wollongong queer, though, that is huge. There have been so many times in my life where I struggled to find something to keep me going through the darkest depression, and it’s always been my friends, our queerness, and sheer fucking spite which has kept me going. Queers are my fucking Gatorade.
I know the UOW Queer Collective grew immensely in the mid to late 2000s. I dunno what size it’s at now, but I’d love to learn more of its history, and how queers fare in Wollongong these days.
Queers are my fucking Gatorade.
Samira: I was at Wollongong Uni from 2005 to 2011. The Queer Space was my coming out. Literally, I knew one gay and after having one conversation she was like, “dude, come to the Queer Space” and then I did, and it was a magical haven of non-binary babes, and I realised I was not confused but in fact deeply queer, and I never left. Well, I left the space, but not the state of being out of the closet.
I DID hear about the occupation — there was a photo of Annaliese being taken away by cops in the space, and then I heard the whole story at a queer conference later that year. It certainly made me appreciate it more — like I always loved it, I was like, how great is this? Rainbows on the wall and limitless cuddles! But it was only as I started to spend time with people who LOOKED queer that I saw how they were treated differently, and also understood the safety aspect of the Queer Space.
Mika: [Upon learning that current queers from the University of Wollongong heard Annaliese’s story] This is the best. I mean, what’s the point of social justice work if we can’t learn from each other, what worked and what didn’t, and build on something that is much bigger than any one of us can make happen on our own?
Bee: I’m a second-year student at the University of Wollongong, and I’ve only really started hanging out in the space pretty recently at the start of this semester, because all of last year I was dating a guy, I thought I was cis, and I didn’t think I was queer enough to take up stakes in queer communities, which obviously is bullshit, but I was still very much in that mindset. So, it’s pretty new to me being okay with myself enough to actually take up space in my community. But now that I am actually doing that, I feel really good and I feel like I have people that are on my side, and a place where I can be, and not pretend I’m someone I’m not.
Safe spaces are so good. They’re just so good, and people don’t use them enough. There’s many people that I would not have the connections that I have with, like, friends that I’ve made that I would never have made if the Queer Space didn’t exist.
Annaliese: Now, over a decade after everything happened, I have a lot of feelings about what went down.
I feel grief for what we lost and what we missed out on while putting energy into fighting for our safety. I feel an emptiness for how poor my mental health was, and sometimes is, as a result of the injustices and traumas experienced along the way. I feel grateful for the lessons I learned and the relationships I developed throughout the campaign. Most of all I feel proud of what we achieved.
Mika: Homophobia is still a reality on university campuses, especially those outside of capital cities. Safe spaces are important for that reason alone.
Annaliese: I definitely think a queer space at a university is still important in 2019. Ultimately, in a world of isolation and discrimination LGBTIQ people need a space where we can connect, organise and agitate. Outside of this space we may be tolerated or accepted, but inside the queer space we can be celebrated.
Bee: There are some photos up in the space of someone getting arrested, and all that stuff, but we don’t really … that’s the most I’ve actually heard about it. I hadn’t really thought about it that much. But when you said it, it makes a lot of sense. And I was like, “Oh, yeah, that did happen.” I’d love for us to — at the space, at the uni talk — about it. That’s our history.
It’s crazy, but it makes me really proud because we (queers) are so strong, and we have this ability to get what we need and to fight for it. And it sucks that we have to fight, but the fact that we’ve done it and that we’re in a better place now makes me really proud and grateful.
This piece was first performed at Queerstories: Wollongong, supported by Wollongong City Libraries. For more stories like this, subscribe to the Queerstories podcast: queerstories.com.au
Annaliese Constable will be performing her tragicomic show, Perfect Child, at Giant Dwarf in Sydney on October 12.
Patrick Lenton is the Entertainment Editor at Junkee. He tweets @patricklenton. Annaliese Constable is a writer, performer and queer rights activist working across theatre, stand up and community health settings.