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    My daily writing--emails, journal entries, marginalia, more emails, blog posts, and tweets--shapes me as a writer, helping and hindering the big stuff I'm trying to accomplish. Every word counts.

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Losing That ‘Phobic Edge

This evening as I unlocked my car outside the Y, a car zoomed through the parking lot in my direction. It was dusk, but the remaining sunlight and increasing fluorescents revealed there were three or four people in what appeared to be a souped-up Neon, similar to one of the cartoonish Hot Wheels cars I had as a kid and hoped to drive someday.

The passenger-side window was down, which seemed odd since it was a little cold out, and one of the passengers’ heads was leaning out. My brain and body went into anticipating-gay-bashing mode: I re-unlocked the door, reached for the handle, tried to calculate through felt sense whether I would be able to get into my car before the three or four assailants could leap out of their losermobile, meanwhile scanning the area for possible escape routes. To say avoiding danger is second nature to me is an understatement.

As I swung my driver’s side door open, a teenage boy pushed himself out of the window of the losermobile and shouted, “Yo, I’m GAY!”

I didn’t really process what he said until I was safe inside with the door locked and the losermobile had vacated the premises. Yes, there was an anti-gay insult; being gay was, according to the young man’s tone, laughable. But rather than throwing the insult at someone (me), he threw it back on himself. His technique was reflexive and somehow self-deprecating. Having experienced a fair (actually unfair) number of “faggots” and “homos” hurled my way over the years, I was surprised by this development.

At the risk of overanalyzing (you know I’m going to risk it): Maybe he’s depended on “That’s gay” as a guaranteed laugh-getter, but it doesn’t get the approval it once did. Perhaps he’s been a hobbyist homophobe but he’s losing his edge. So instead of hurling a “gay” pie at someone else, he turned it on himself. The payoff didn’t seem worth it to me, but to be fair, I’m not his target audience.

I found the whole scene (which took only a few seconds, actually) so befuddling, I haven’t even been able to think of clever comebacks that would have slain him with wit if I’d been able to think of them. He just seemed like a pathetic little fuckwad. Being able to see him that way is a vast improvement for me. Situations like this usually trick my mind into believing I’m a vulnerable adolescent. In a dark parking lot, that way of thinking is probably still the best strategy.

3 Responses

  1. I swear, I’ll never understand people. That said, I think “pathetic little fuckwad” is my new favorite description for a person.

  2. Not kidding: You were one of a few people I had in mind as I wrote that and asked myself “Is the language strong enough here?”

    Passing the Ricker Test means the writer didn’t pull any punches!

  3. Nice overanalysing. My brain doesn’t have the strength or flexibility to get to a place where that even begins to make sense. Glad you’re safe.

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