Growing up in rural Devonshire in the mid to late 2010s, Pride often felt detached from its political origins. To many young people, it resembled a commercial event rather than a civil rights movement. Corporations adopted rainbow branding during June, attaching it to existing products, while the structural realities facing LGBTQIA+ communities received far less attention. Whether entirely fair or not, that perception shaped how Pride was understood locally. Its roots in protest and collective resistance were rarely foregrounded in school or community spaces.
That perception existed alongside a broader silence within education. Conversations about sexual orientation and gender identity were limited and often reactive rather than embedded within the curriculum. Homophobic and transphobic language circulated in corridors with little to no challenge. The absence of structured discussion did not create neutrality. It created ambiguity, and ambiguity in matters of identity often defaults to stigma.
This culture cannot be separated from legislative history. Section 28, enacted in 1988 and repealed in 2003, prohibited local authorities from “promoting homosexuality” or teaching “the acceptability of homosexuality as a pretended family relationship.” Although repealed before many current students were born, its institutional aftereffects persisted. Teachers who trained during or shortly after its enforcement entered the profession within a framework of caution. Even in its absence, uncertainty about professional boundaries remained embedded in some school cultures.
There are, however, competing perspectives. Some argue that overt inclusion of LGBTQIA+ content risks politicising classrooms or infringing on parental preferences. Others suggest that corporate participation in Pride increases visibility and signals mainstream acceptance, even if commercially motivated. These arguments reflect ongoing debates about the scope of education and the role of markets in social change.
Yet visibility without context can result in superficial inclusion. Rainbow branding does not substitute for curriculum literacy. Avoiding discussion in order to maintain neutrality does not eliminate difference from the classroom. It removes the language needed to understand it. When discriminatory language goes unchallenged, it becomes normalised. When identities are unnamed, they are more easily marginalised.
Inclusive education is not about endorsement. It is about equipping students with historical and social literacy. Teaching LGBTQIA+ histories situates contemporary debates within broader movements for civil rights. Providing age-appropriate discussion of identity does not create difference. It acknowledges that difference already exists within the student body.
The consequences of silence are not abstract. LGBTQIA+ students consistently report higher rates of bullying, poorer mental health outcomes, and significantly elevated rates of self-harm and suicide compared to their cisgender and heterosexual peers. In this context, inclusion is not symbolic. It is protective. Clear guidance and confident classroom discussion create consistency rather than leaving responses to individual discretion.
In places like rural Devonshire and campuses within the Highlands and Islands, where visibility can feel limited and difference more pronounced, that consistency matters. When LGBTQIA+ lives are treated as ordinary parts of social history rather than exceptional topics, stereotypes begin to lose their force. Pride then becomes more than a seasonal aesthetic. It reconnects with its purpose as recognition, resistance, and community