Lez be fair, gay?
Upon confirmation of my Facebook friendship with the Billion $ Boi Toi, a newer crush of mine, I discovered that he too enjoys thwacking the ball around. Thus, my friend Liana, conniving as she is, offered to take some photos of our next, our first opposing tennis match. It would be an opportunity for her to dust off her latent artistry as well as draw my crush’s attention to our shared hobby by posting the pictures online.
Lookin’ all sexy though we were, we had forgotten it was not just her camera that had been neglected, but our grasp of the game. While the length of our rallies did increase, we certainly haven’t recovered a finesse anywhere near worth capturing on film for private consumption, much less encouraging commonalities between myself and a romantic interest. Any lingering notion of inviting the Boi Toi on a court date was thoroughly shattered when, running for a backhand, I smashed the whole left side of my body against a metal pole securing what was likely meant to be a barrier between the courts but appears nothing short of a completely extraneous and highly dangerous chain-link protrusion.
“I’m alright! I’m alright!” I appeased the concern of the boiz bandying next to us, holding my hands and racket aloft to illustrate my point as I limped back to the baseline, perpendicular to my tittering friend.
I’ve got a lumpy, tender upper femur and a bruise so thin and defined it appears as though I nearly avoided a blunt trauma induced laceration; but the most pervasive assault to my dignity was yet to come and it would leave no physical evidence.
“I’m gay, I’m gay, I’m gay, I’m gay, I’m gay, I’m gay, I’m gay…” came jarring through the forest green mesh separating us and the adjacent jungle gym. “I dare you – I dare you – I dare you to run around and say “butt” 30 times,” a barely pubescent boy continued, prompting another of his three friends. “I’m a faggot, I’m a faggot, I’m a faggot,” followed, and that’s when I began to seriously contemplate kicking some 12-year-old ass.
“SHUT YOUR MOUTHS YOU LITTLE PUNK BRATS!”
“YEAH!” Encouraged one half of the pair of otters who had taken the place of the previous gay opponents on the neighboring court.
“Wha – whaaat?” they uttered after a moment of stunned silence, seemingly more confused than hostile. Yet, just as I began to soften, let kids be ignorant kids, they started back up again with another round of, “I’m gay, I’m gay, I’m gay…”
“This reminds me of my days as a behavioral therapist,” Liana began to soothe my seething. “You tell them, flat out, that what they are doing is not okay and then you ignore subsequent episodes until they stop. Later, you explain why it is wrong.”
“I don’t think I can subscribe to that,” I countered, “But at least I did say my piece.
My snarl simmered, but the most vocal of the otters only became more agitated upon hearing one of the body hairless hoodlums bellow, “YOU SUCK DICK!”
“HEYYY!” He roared in a very bear-like manner, finally scattering the mouthy, young jerks.
Children or not, they were in West Hollywood. Gay town. Our town. In this municipality, heterosexuals are the interlopers and it is our culture which should be respected.
“Gay,” was a popular insult when I was a kid. “That’s gay.” “You’re gay.” “Gay Gay,” my name was regularly punned and usually followed by a titty twister at the hands of my best friend’s older brother. Once, at an indoor soccer tournament, said friend and I walked around shaking the hands of all our teammates and inquiring, “Lez be friends, gay?” Of a funnier exchange we could not think.
That was the 90s, though. We didn’t know any better. The adults didn’t teach us, they didn’t teach each other. I didn’t even fully understand what homosexuals were until my freshmen year of high school – at least. But it’s 2010 now, folks (queer or otherwise). Gone are the sideways hats and analogous logic. We are the grown ups and it is time for us to take a stand.
“WHAT did you just say to me?” I responded to a straight acquaintance’s dismissal of me as a “fag.”
“Oh, shut the fuck up. You know what I mean.”
“No, actually, I don’t.”
“It’s just something I say. My other gay friends say it’s cool.”
“No. It is not just something you say and it’s never okay to say it. I disagree with your gay friends. I don’t even let gay people call me a faggot. That is like the n word.”
“No – it isn’t.”
“It is the n word. It’s the c word. You wouldn’t go up to a woman and call her a cunt, would you?”
“No!” He was aghast.
“Oh, that’s the worst thing you can call a woman,” a straight female friend chimed in. “I understand what he means, though. “That’s gay” – I say it sometimes without even realizing.”
“Yes, yes it is. But there’s nothing for straight white men. Redneck? Asshole? Puritan? Nothing is as harsh as the n word, cunt, or faggot. I’m not scolding you -”
“Yes you are,” he interrupted.
“Okay. Yes I am. But I know it’s not coming from a bad place. Just be cognizant.”
He’s working on it, as is she from whom he gained sympathy. Even my best friend from home slips up on occasion, but almost always catches herself before I can do more than frown in disapproval. I’ll admit some flippancy with the c word myself, and “retarded,” but we all need to move away from any derogatory application of these adjectives. The answer is not to take ownership as the black community has with the n word, but to completely relinquish all usage that does not advance this agenda of extradition.
I dare you – I dare you – I dare you to try it.
hmmm. I agree. Although I love the c word. :-\