I was planning to post about how the Equal Rights Amendment was just ratified by Virginia, the 38th state to do so, only 97 years after the amendment was first introduced. This is massive news from both a historical and a women’s rights movement point of view. But then something happened on Saturday that tore away my focus. So, I’ll get back to that next week. Content warning: homophobia. At my writer’s group this Saturday, I was the target of a 60-year-old woman’s homophobic rant. Apparently, she doesn’t hate gay people, BUT she does feel like gays are always shoving it in her face. She pulled out all the cards: “she doesn’t hate gay people, she has gay friends” and that she knew I was gay (who doesn’t) and was still okay with me (thanks?). It got derailed a few times by how, well, young people are all so sensitive these days and don’t know hardship. To prove how much she liked me, she confessed about wanting to set me up with her son (my age, don’t worry). I felt ten kinds of disgust.
I cried. I felt trapped and when she put her hand on my shoulder, I felt like I couldn’t breathe. It sucked at the moment. I mean, it felt like punch after punch in the gut. After having time to step back from it, here's what I want to say: First of all, I don’t care about her. I barely know her and never have to see her again. She has her own stuff to work through or not work through- whatever it is, it isn’t about me. I don’t need an apology nor want a chance to yell back. If I did, if I was snide and rude and gay back, then she would be right. And I would be her new image of (all) gay people. I don’t want to hurt people, especially not just because I can. It can be tempting, but it never helps or heals anyone. In my life, I have been told all sorts of horrible things by children and adults alike for being gay. And female. And having a Latino dad and being proud of it. And for a million other things about me and my life that near-strangers think they get a say in. What made this time different was who else was in the room. The next youngest person was in her 30s-40s (I don’t know, I’m terrible at gauging people’s ages), the other three were 65+. The point is, I was the youngest. I could be their grandchild. To them, I’m a baby. A brilliant writer of a baby, but still a baby. That detail doesn’t really matter, but I think it helps to put the whole ordeal into perspective. What mattered was that while she was yelling at the world, they were worrying about me. One of them confessed that I wasn’t the only person who was uncomfortable by this conversation. She said she was bisexual- I smiled and said, “Yaaas,” on instinct- which she didn’t have to do. It helped me not feel alone. Then, she pulled out a lovely card from her purse with questions for restorative justice from the International Institute for Restorative Practices. One of them stayed quiet. When I checked my email later that evening, I got to read a validating and supportive message from her. It helped me a lot. Everyone has different ways of reaching out. Then there was the woman who’s house we were sitting in. An old German lady who’s life’s story could fill a whole, wonderful library. She always speaks softly, and carefully. Not in a hesitant way, but in a way that tells you that she has thought about what she wants to say. She stayed cool and collected, saying all of the right things. She said that we all make mistakes. She admitted she can say racist things sometimes without realizing it is so. It was the way she was raised. She said that when someone (especially someone of color) calls her out on it, instead of arguing the fact or getting defensive: she takes their word for it. She’s was like, “If they say my words were hurtful, I believe them.” It doesn’t matter that the ranter was hearing none of it. I took every her word and held it close to my heart. She hugged me when I left and it meant so much. The old man in our group held a flashlight over my path to the car. He knew I was thinking of not coming back- obviously- and said he would miss me. He said he loved me. My dear grandfather, Papa John, passed away recently. It’s been hard and I miss him a lot. Today, I called my grandmother. “One of the people who comes is this sweet, old man. He’s quiet and when he talks, it’s always meaningful,” I said, “Just like Papa John. And his laugh? He laughed like Papa John.” The difference between the countless hatred I have tolerated alone in the past and this was who I was surrounded by. I was in a room with one hurtful person and four more people who wanted to protect me and heal my wounds. They made all the difference.
3 Comments
Suzy
1/20/2020 08:22:26 am
What an incredible story! What an experience in so many different ways. So much to absorb and deal with! One of the things I remember Linda saying after John died was that someone told her to "watch for signs." I believe those are signs that John is in touch. And I believe you received one of those signs - and maybe many more signs than just that precious man's actions.
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Elaine
1/21/2020 03:28:06 am
Whit, this is so beautifully written. Thank you for taking the time to write it. I’m so sorry about the rant (and all of them before this), and so, so glad this time was different and you got all this beautiful support from those four folks. And I’m so sorry about your Papa John. Sending love💓. And Light✨.
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leigh
1/21/2020 06:01:43 am
I'm so sorry that there are hurtful people out there, but I'm so happy that there are beautiful people out there who are supportive and help you! I'm so sorry about your Papa John. Love ya!
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Who Am I?Hi there! I'm Whit, my pronouns are they/them, and I write a lot.
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Painting by Whit Acrylics on masonite April 20th, 2019 Words are a Quaker saying. George Fox? |