You know, I didn’t write about it here, but a few months back I had a really disheartening experience. First, the background: there’s a collection of kids, mostly boys ages 10-14, that usually plays in front of our neighbor’s house across the street – sometimes in the street as well. No biggie, this happens in neighborhoods with lots of kids and lightly-traveled streets. I was driving home from work one afternoon and one of the older boys flagged me down. I rolled down my window.
Me: “Hi, What’s on your mind?”
Kid: “What’s that tag on the front of your car mean?”
Me: “The rainbow flag? That’s a symbol of gay and lesbian pride.”
Kid: “So you’re gay?”
Me: “Yes.”
Kid: “Ewww.”
And he made a face of disgust and walked away. I replayed that scene in my head a few times, and I’m glad I didn’t lie or try to evade him. I have had pride in my identity for eight years now, and there’s no way I’m going to change that for the sake of some neighborhood kid.
Not much ever really came of that, with the exception of one morning as Dan took out the trash to the curb one of the neighbor’s kids (the one I’d vote Most Likely To Encounter Law Enforcement) shouted “Fucking faggot!” to him. Infuriating at the time, but not worthy of much notice in retrospect.
So, why dredge all this up? Well, today I stopped for lunch at Pop’s (my new favorite local joint for burgers and shakes) and the Hispanic woman who took my order saw my car and asked me what the rainbow flag meant. When I told her it was for gay and lesbian pride, she smiled and nodded, saying she was a lesbian. We had an interesting conversation about how hard life is for gays and lesbians in Mexico which is why she came to America, and how it’s so difficult meeting gayfolk in this area unless you go to clubs or something. I gave her directions to the local gay bookstore, and some pointers on some places she might try (like the lesbian club in Durham) and she was very happy.
So, the next time I ask myself if it’s worth it to have a rainbow flag tag on my car, I’m going to remember her smile, and the great feeling of finding someone you can connect with. Hell yes, it’s worth it.
Blame the parents
You don’t know me, but I caught this post ’cause you’re in the friends list of someone else WHOSE friends-list I usually check. So anyway:
In what general part of the world are you? I’m just wondering if it’s partly a function of regional culture. Being your basic breeder, I guess I wouldn’t know from such disgusting personal experiences as yours, but I’ll bet it’s more likely to happen in, say, Mississippi than in coastal, urban areas.
I remember that as a kid “gay” was synonymous with “stupid” or “unacceptable.” No, scratch that: it was a SUBSTITUTE for those words, ’cause at that age, we didn’t know what “gay” meant.
Anyway, sorry to hear it happened.
Re: Blame the parents
Glad you stopped by – always nice to see new faces.
Well, you’re sort-of right in guessing my location – just outside of Raleigh, North Carolina. An island of liberal attitudes surrounded by a sea of rednecks (they’re the ones that kept Jesse Helms in office for so long). Though it’s worthy of note that I experienced far more overt hostility in the few years I lived in rural and suburban Illinois than I ever saw here.
I agree to a degree that children reflect their parents attitudes (remembered from biology: progeny recapitulates ontongeny 🙂 if only because if the child expresses opinions to which the parent objects, the parent will correct them. Likewise, if they say something the parent agrees with, reward (or at least lack of correction) is in order. So even though the kid’s parents are cordial when we see them, I suspect their true feelings may be otherwise.
The other part of it is sheer peer pressure. “Gay” to a child that age is “different” and we all know how well “different” is accepted in those social circles. It’s the nature of the beasts, if you will.
All of that aside, though, I don’t really feel too upset about the whole thing. Why? Because I live my life to make me and mine happy, not them. They can call me names, make nasty faces, or whatever and it does not and will not impact my life one bit. They are not important to me, nor do I value their opinion, nor do I need their approval. That last sentence took many years for me to get through my head, by the way, and it’s still a hell of a lot easier to abide by in theory than in practice. It makes the difficult times much easier, though.