The first time I heard the word “faggot” was out of the mouth of a gay man.
In response to my stunned and uncertain silence, he explained to me that using the word on each other took the power away from the bullies who used it to hurt us. I listened, and understood. Of course, I thought. If I want them to stop shooting, I’ll just take their gun.
The first time a straight guy used a gay slur against me was in the middle of my sophomore year at Sheridan High, when I wore a scarf to school. About halfway through the day, as I kneeled down to open my bottom-row locker and get books for the next group of classes, he passed behind me and threw just one word down on his way by:
“Pansy.”
I don’t remember wearing scarves after that.
It became obvious I was too gay, although at age 14 I still had five years before coming out, even to myself. But the message was clear. I existed too far outside the established norm, and I wasn’t safe.
So I learned. I hid. I stayed out of the way of the young straight men who ruled the school. We were all growing and searching and figuring out what it means to be a man, but with one glaring difference: I couldn’t make any mistakes. The fact that I did ballroom dancing was pushing it enough; if not for the beautiful girl in my arms, I would have been crucified. So as one of the school’s four openly gay students told me that his tires had been slashed once again, I stood there with my girlfriend and we listened and gave him a hug.
Years passed, I graduated high school, got a dance scholarship to a university, and moved into a dorm with five other guys. By this time I had mastered all the moves. At one point, one of my roommates had found out a former classmate of his had come out as gay, and he bragged to the rest of us that he’d known it all along. “I’ve got excellent gay-dar,” he said. I stood there relieved, and even proud. I was safe.
But it all still hurt. When the six of us watched Katy Perry’s newly-released video for “Firework”, specifically the part when a young man at a club finds the courage to go over and kiss the guy he’s been eyeing all night from across the dance floor, the same roommate cringed. I cringed too because right as I felt a volcanic sense of hope erupt inside me, I remembered the risks.
Meanwhile, I had two younger brothers looking to me for answers. Their father was a poor excuse for a man (as was mine before him), so I became in many ways their default dad, without the ability to take the role voluntarily. Though I would never change my relationship with my brothers, that’s a tough role for a young man who has hardly answered questions of his own. The advice I gave to them was just as much aimed at myself.
Two more years passed before I decided I couldn’t take it anymore and chose my health over my safety. The first person I came out to was the girl I had dated that same year.
I left college, then moved to England, then moved to Arizona, ultimately ending up in Los Angeles, a city with one of the world’s largest pride festivals in a state bluer than the ocean that touches it. Young and on my own, I began to explore. This was my time.
Right?
I had dreamt of the moment already. I would drive to West Hollywood and wander around Santa Monica Boulevard, maybe stopping at a few clubs here and there to show off my dancing skills. At some point, someone would ask my name and where I’m from. I’d give him the already-rehearsed blurb of my life as a newly out gay man, and he would tell me about his endless search for real people, and we would take to each other. For the rest of the night, I would just enjoy the music and the people and, for perhaps the first time, myself. If I got lucky, the night would end with a kiss.
I look back now and see my naivety, of course. Along with everyone else, I learned soon enough that adulthood is an animal only tamed by experience. I fell, I made mistakes, I hurt people, people hurt me. Trial and error are what your twenties should be all about.
But I am twenty-five now, and I still don’t feel safe just being gay. Around anybody. Around gay men. I know now that West Hollywood is more of an adult jungle of alcohol, drugs, and insecurity than it is a haven for unjustly persecuted youth, but where can I catch a break?
I used to be too gay. Now it seems I’m not gay enough.
I have had said of me that I act straight because I’m not comfortable in my gayness, and that I need to empower myself. What does that mean? Should I call my boyfriend my girlfriend and call my friends bitches? Because I could have sworn the whole definition of “empowerment” was being comfortable in your own skin and not pretending.
At first, I did try to hide the “gay” parts of me, but then I realized the only gay part of me is that I like men. The other things are just parts of me. I have great style. I’m sensitive. I’m organized. I cry in movies. Half of the times that I pee I do so sitting down because it makes less of a mess and I don’t need to prove my manhood to a toilet or a stranger at an airport urinal. And guess what? I still get hit on by girls.
This is not an argument about masculine versus feminine. It’s a frustration that after so many years of trying to be someone else, I thought the gay community was one where I could be the most open, and many times I feel just as alone, if not more, just as image-conscious, if not more, just as tempted to keep trying to be somebody else.
It is not wrong to be a certain type of gay man. We can fight our insecurities without projecting them. We can accept the fact that we are the same in that we are vastly different. Our symbol is, after all, the rainbow.
To those who do believe that using words on ourselves takes the power away from the oppressors and reclaims it: we can do better than that. That’s not taking away their gun, that’s buying the same brand and pointing it at the same person. We are supposed to be each other’s safe place from the bullies; we’re not supposed to refine their tactics on one another. It has to stop.
I don’t feel left out because I’m not more effeminate; I feel left out because I’m not mean. Even some gay men reading this are bound to think that I just need to thicken my skin, not take things so personally, kill or be killed. Well, I’ve heard those demands before.
When bigoted straight men come after me, I can usually predict what they’re going to say, and I prepare. Their words hurt, but I just grab my box of They’re Just Ignorant Band-Aids and it’s bearable. Gay men know how to scar. They know the tender spots. And they get away with it by hiding behind the ruse of connection: “I’m hurting you because I know you, and that means we’re close and you can trust me.” But that’s just the newest drug being passed around at The Abbey, meant to numb what little vulnerability we may have left. This is why I hate the word faggot. I hate the word fairy. I hate the word princess. And I don’t care who calls me them, I hate them. I don’t feel less offended when another gay man says it, I just hear it more and hate it just the same. You have no right to call me names. You have no right to ask me if I’m a top or a bottom. Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean you get to call me a girl; I’m not one, and I worked hard to get myself to believe that. Hell, I’m not even totally there yet. But I fought through the bullies once, and I refuse to suffer through that again just because we’ve all been conditioned to fear each other and to spend more time on our masks than on our hearts.
We as gay men hate when someone propagates stereotypes about us, so why do we jump right into them when we’re with each other? Empowerment is not buying someone’s poison and reselling it as alcohol.
We are each other’s solace. We are the ones who must say to each other, “You don’t need a tougher skin, you need someone to melt into, and I am that.” That’s empowerment. That’s pride. That’s love.
And those are words we all want to hear.
Originally published on Medium
***
What’s Next? Talk with others. Take action.
We are proud of our SOCIAL INTEREST GROUPS—WEEKLY PHONE CALLS to discuss, gain insights, build communities— and help solve some of the most difficult challenges the world has today. Calls are for Members Only (although you can join the first call for free). Not yet a member of The Good Men Project? Join below!
RSVP for Intersectionality Calls
—
Join the Conscious Intersectionality FACEBOOK GROUP here. Includes our new call series on Human Rights.
Join The Good Men Project Community
All levels get to view The Good Men Project site AD-FREE. The $50 Platinum Level is an ALL-ACCESS PASS—join as many groups and classes as you want for the entire year. The $25 Gold Level gives you access to any ONE Social Interest Group and ONE Class–and other benefits listed below the form. Or…for $12, join as a Bronze Member and support our mission, and have a great ad-free viewing experience.