TW: This post talks about hatred and violence against queer folks.
Words, man. Right? What do they even mean?
(She wrote on her blog, full of words.)
Like in my last post, when I tell the story of finally saying out loud that the job description of "woman" has never felt comfortable to me. I wear that moniker like I have always worn so many other aspects of female-ness, obligingly, but without wanting them, and eventually shedding them.
I always hoped that it would be good enough to act in accordance with my nature, and let the results speak for themselves. Why should I have to tell people who I am? Won't they know me by what I do?
Want another story?
In high school, I knew two guys who were friends. Let's call them Bobby and Steve.
Bobby was shy. A big sweet mop-topped boy, who always had a smile. Steve was sharp. Lean, shaved head, outspoken, who also always had a smile.
One day Steve came to school in a skirt.
In Oklahoma. In the early nineties.
It was a long rayon skirt that dusted the top of his Dr. Marten boots, paired with a t-shirt that read, I'M NOT GAY BUT MY BOYFRIEND IS. By midday, the look was complete, with bright fuschia lipstick.
In Oklahoma. In the early nineties.
Later that day, there was a pep assembly. We all filed in and took our place on the bleachers, so that we could do the orchestrated shouting and clapping. Sessions of collectively losing it and yelling WOOOOO! were punctuated by sitting and staring at cheerleaders and coaches, who convinced us, through coordinated dance moves and inspirational speeches, that we really were #1.
As the hollerfest started to wind down and people left the gym, I got a clear view of all the golden boys: our team, which would destroy the other team and confirm our faith in the greatness of ourselves. They were seated together, and very focused on Bobby and Steve, who were on the bleachers next to the them.
Smack dab in the middle of Bobby's forehead, was a big fuschia kiss mark.
The athletes were riled, ready to take on any challenge, destroy any competition. But it wasn't the analogous set of high school athletes two towns over that had them so mad.
The spittle rained from their lips as they fired obscenities and slurs at Bobby and Steve. You already know the words, right? I don't have to tell you.
They were a small mob, faces contorted by rage, barely able to stay in their seats as they hissed the most hateful threats and insults they could summon up, for a boy who proudly kissed another boy.
In response, Steve stood up, waving two middle fingers in the air at them, looking delighted. Bobby, besmooched, sat beside him, smiling nervously.
According to the values instilled during my upbringing, gay was about the worst word that you could be. I learned it, believed it, and professed it. But I could feel that assumption undoing itself, as I watched the best of the best, acting so much worse.
Also, I had no idea. Nobody did. That in that smiley pair of boy friends, only one of them was gay, and it wasn't Steve.
Dedicated to the memory of Nex Benedict, a non-binary student who was brutally attacked in the bathroom of that very high school.
In Oklahoma. This year.
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