I don't hate gay people. One of my best friends is gay. Oh, I don't have a problem with the sinful choices people make for their own lives, like homosexuality. Of course they will burn in hell for eternity, but hey...did you know that I can see Russia from my house?
Sarah Palin....YOU CAN SUCK IT!
Showing posts with label Homophobia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Homophobia. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Faggot Bitch
Photo by Carrie Thomas
Last night I was walking down the steps to the subway platform to try and catch the train. At the bottom of the steps, the woman in front of me slowed down abruptly, causing me to step on her flip flop. Her foot slipped out and touched the floor of platform. She began to yell.
"Goddammit, Goddammit"
I stopped, acknowledged her and apologized but she kept yelling. She seemed kind of crazy. I apologized again and said that it was an accident.
She was still yelling so I started to walk away.
She yelled as I walked away
"it wouldn'a happened if you hadn' been ridin' my muthafuckin ass, you faggot bitch."
(Pause)...
"DID YOU HEAR ME?"
I kept walking as though I did not hear her until there was enough distance between us that I felt there would be no confrontation.
Though it would not normally matter, it is important to note that this woman was african american. The reason I imbue importance upon her race is that her use of the F-word in my mind seems incongruous to a people who suffered years of persecution, segregation and degradation under lashful tongues armed with the N-word.
My mind began to flip the situation. Had I been wearing flip flops, experienced the same situation from her perspective and turned to weak-minded hate speech substitute, the N-Word for the F-Word coming from a white man, there would have been a riot/murder on the subway platform.
I know that the best thing in this situation was to walk away from crazy, low-class, feeble-minded hatred, but regardless I felt violated.
The words echoed through my head. I found myself taken back to a place where I was 13 years old and scared to walk down the hallway at school because I knew that I would be called a faggot. Almost every day it happened. Many days I cried. I did not cry yesterday, but I will say this. As much as I do not have the right to use the N-word, unless you are of the homosexual persuasion, you do not have the right to use the F-word. So, nameless trashy lady, I doubt that you will read this, but I address this do you.
Don't you call me a motherfuckin' faggot. You don't have the right to use that word unless you want to give motherfuckin' faggots the right to use your word and I don't think you do, so back it off. You need to deal with your anger and your hatred. It is brewing underneath the surface and having your fucking flip flop come off does not give you the right to spew your venom on me. I forgive you for your ignorance, your prejudice and your hatred. I hope that one day, you are able to rise above it and behave like an adult. If you are unable to pursue that point of enlightenment, I suggest that you either stay home or keep it to yourself. There is no room for it in my world.
Monday, July 07, 2008
Angry Tranny Beats Innocent Cashier With Payless Pump
Earlier today I posted a blog pertaining to a homophobic note that was posted at a local Rite Aid in New York City.
I was outraged by the story I read on Queerty's blog. Since posting said blog, the story has developed further. I took down the posting so as to not encourage the proliferation of misinformation before I was able to post this.
Afterall, I would not want a sensationalistic headline like to one above to become a reality.
The note was indeed posted at Rite Aid, but it seems that it was not posted by a Rite Aid employee or sanctioned by the company.
You can read all about it here.
In related news, according to both Lucky Bitch Radio and The Minneapolis Star Tribune Rupaul actually did kick a photographer in the head with her pump while performing in Minneapolis.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
His Head on a Platter
I would not generally repost something from Perezhilton.com, but after reading/listening to this, I became angry. John Gibson, over at fox has very homophobically mocked Heath Ledger on his show.
I have just sent an email to fox letting them know that I think he should be fired and that the network should be ashamed of itself for allowing something like this to air.
Check it out here...and feel free to bombard Fox with your angry emails.
I have just sent an email to fox letting them know that I think he should be fired and that the network should be ashamed of itself for allowing something like this to air.
Check it out here...and feel free to bombard Fox with your angry emails.
Monday, August 21, 2006
The Cruelty of 13
They say that 13 is an unlucky number. For some reason, it is a number that seems to always pester me. I had to work very hard to get around there being 13 tracks on my album, because 13 is just what it wanted to be. I reached into my bag of tricks to fix that one.
I was 13 years old when I lost my virginity. I was so in love with J. He was 6'4" tall and far too developed for his age(14). I had a secret crush on him and would steal glances when I thought no one was looking. I guess he was looking more than I realized because it was he that approached me. It was he that invited me to his grandmother's house to help him with his math homework. I lost my virginity in his grandmother's laundry room up against the washing machine. I know, it sounds like some sort of slutty pulp story, but it was not.
I was in love with him. I just wanted to hold his hand, kiss him, and have his adopted chinese babies. He was determined that he was straight. He would go on a date with a girl and tell me that things were over between us, that I should never contact him. I was crushed repeatedly by J. Yet I was always there when he came back around. Mind you, this was in a town of 1,000 people in Kansas. We were a dirty little secret.
13 was such a hard age. I was very very skinny and scrawny. I was always reading or singing or listening to classical music. I was overly sensetive and could cry at the drop of a hat. The brutality of 13 year old boys is the fiercest you may ever encounter. They look for any sign of weekness and they feed on it.
There was not a single day that I did not walk down the hallway to hear the word fagggot thrown at me, spat on me, or kicked against my shins.
I hit rock bottom at 13 when I contemplated murder. The torture had grown to such an extent that I was torn between two choices, murder of self(suicide) and murder of M.
M. led the verbal and physical assaults against me. I began contemplating killing him. I know. It sounds horrifying. You couldn't possibly be as horrified as I was at the time. I decided that first I would speak to M and try to reason with him. I had to try every alternative before doing something so unforiveable.
I approached him one day.
I asked him to please just leave me alone. I stressed that I didn't do anything to deserve the way he was treating me. I asked him why.
His response was that I was a faggot. That was the why.
As reasoning did not work, my next step was to speak with the principal. I told him how unbearable the torture had become. I told him that I dreaded going to school every day. He told me that doing anything about it would only make it worse and that I was a little old to be a tattle tale.
My final resort was to talk to my parents, but I was too embarassed to even tell them what people were saying. I couldn't talk to them.
My mother was going to nursing school nights in a town about an hour away. My father had feared for her safety so had purchased a hand gun for her protection.
There was a cabinet over the kitchen sink, the highest cabinet in the room. In it was the scotch my father would occasionally drink when my sister and I were in bed and the gun my father had purchased for my mother.
I was in the house alone one afternoon. I climbed up on top of the sink and reached into the cabinet pulling out the gun. I just stared at it for minutes. I thought about what would happen if I shot M. I thought about the fact that I was 13. Would they try me as an adult? For a few moments I was sitting on the witness stand explaining that it was self defense, that I was being tortured and slowly killed from the inside. I had no choice. Then I saw M's Mother, crying, staring at me with such anger and loss. I knew at that moment that I couldn't murder another human being. I didn't have it in me.
I put the gun in my mouth and held the trigger. I saw my mother, walking in to the house, finding my body in the kitchen floor. I saw grief like I had never imagined. I pulled the gun out of my mouth and put it back in the cabinet.
From that point forward I decided that I would let them hurt me. I would take their anger and their insecurity into me. I would feel it surge through my body. I would let the tears flow down my face. I would let them tease me for crying. I would just let it happen. There was no choice. I never stopped crying. I never became numb. I spent the next three years taking in their rage and letting it out in the form of tears and poems. The poems slowly turned to songs.
At age 16 I petitioned the board of education to let me graduate from high school early. I had been taking classes through correspondence to fulfill the credits I needed to graduate. I had been planning my escape. When my request was granted, I felt an overwhelming sense of relief and a lifting of so much weight. Yes, 13 is a cruel number indeed.
Just a note: I feel that the work of organizations that provide a supportive environment for GLBT youth is so important. I didn't have that support when I was growing up, and I know that it would have helped me so much if I had.
I was 13 years old when I lost my virginity. I was so in love with J. He was 6'4" tall and far too developed for his age(14). I had a secret crush on him and would steal glances when I thought no one was looking. I guess he was looking more than I realized because it was he that approached me. It was he that invited me to his grandmother's house to help him with his math homework. I lost my virginity in his grandmother's laundry room up against the washing machine. I know, it sounds like some sort of slutty pulp story, but it was not.
I was in love with him. I just wanted to hold his hand, kiss him, and have his adopted chinese babies. He was determined that he was straight. He would go on a date with a girl and tell me that things were over between us, that I should never contact him. I was crushed repeatedly by J. Yet I was always there when he came back around. Mind you, this was in a town of 1,000 people in Kansas. We were a dirty little secret.
13 was such a hard age. I was very very skinny and scrawny. I was always reading or singing or listening to classical music. I was overly sensetive and could cry at the drop of a hat. The brutality of 13 year old boys is the fiercest you may ever encounter. They look for any sign of weekness and they feed on it.
There was not a single day that I did not walk down the hallway to hear the word fagggot thrown at me, spat on me, or kicked against my shins.
I hit rock bottom at 13 when I contemplated murder. The torture had grown to such an extent that I was torn between two choices, murder of self(suicide) and murder of M.
M. led the verbal and physical assaults against me. I began contemplating killing him. I know. It sounds horrifying. You couldn't possibly be as horrified as I was at the time. I decided that first I would speak to M and try to reason with him. I had to try every alternative before doing something so unforiveable.
I approached him one day.
I asked him to please just leave me alone. I stressed that I didn't do anything to deserve the way he was treating me. I asked him why.
His response was that I was a faggot. That was the why.
As reasoning did not work, my next step was to speak with the principal. I told him how unbearable the torture had become. I told him that I dreaded going to school every day. He told me that doing anything about it would only make it worse and that I was a little old to be a tattle tale.
My final resort was to talk to my parents, but I was too embarassed to even tell them what people were saying. I couldn't talk to them.
My mother was going to nursing school nights in a town about an hour away. My father had feared for her safety so had purchased a hand gun for her protection.
There was a cabinet over the kitchen sink, the highest cabinet in the room. In it was the scotch my father would occasionally drink when my sister and I were in bed and the gun my father had purchased for my mother.
I was in the house alone one afternoon. I climbed up on top of the sink and reached into the cabinet pulling out the gun. I just stared at it for minutes. I thought about what would happen if I shot M. I thought about the fact that I was 13. Would they try me as an adult? For a few moments I was sitting on the witness stand explaining that it was self defense, that I was being tortured and slowly killed from the inside. I had no choice. Then I saw M's Mother, crying, staring at me with such anger and loss. I knew at that moment that I couldn't murder another human being. I didn't have it in me.
I put the gun in my mouth and held the trigger. I saw my mother, walking in to the house, finding my body in the kitchen floor. I saw grief like I had never imagined. I pulled the gun out of my mouth and put it back in the cabinet.
From that point forward I decided that I would let them hurt me. I would take their anger and their insecurity into me. I would feel it surge through my body. I would let the tears flow down my face. I would let them tease me for crying. I would just let it happen. There was no choice. I never stopped crying. I never became numb. I spent the next three years taking in their rage and letting it out in the form of tears and poems. The poems slowly turned to songs.
At age 16 I petitioned the board of education to let me graduate from high school early. I had been taking classes through correspondence to fulfill the credits I needed to graduate. I had been planning my escape. When my request was granted, I felt an overwhelming sense of relief and a lifting of so much weight. Yes, 13 is a cruel number indeed.
Just a note: I feel that the work of organizations that provide a supportive environment for GLBT youth is so important. I didn't have that support when I was growing up, and I know that it would have helped me so much if I had.
Here is a list of organizations that provide that much needed support.
Saturday, April 29, 2006
The most popular coaster in all the world
I fear rejection. I can't help it. I was teased horribly growing up and I am a sensitive person. I was the kid that nobody would sit with in the cafeteria. I spared myself from feeling rejection by just not eating lunch. I was a long distance runner, so I would do laps around the track after classes and then scurry off to my voice lessons. After that, I would rush home and eat an entire box of cereal in one sitting. God bless my mother who had to do the grocery shopping. I was this extremely skinny boy with twig arms and when I graduated from high school I weighed 134 lbs. I am the same height now and weight 160lbs if that gives you any idea of how tragically twiggy I was.
I was called a faggot on a daily basis in high school and unlike some people who can develop this tough skin or retort with some witty comment, I would cry. Once the tears started to flow from my eyes, I would cry for hours and I would be called a faggot once again for crying so, I would just cry that much harder. Slowly I would drift further and further into myself where everyone and everything around me was nothing more than distant echoes.
Something happened when I turned 13. The girls began to bleed. The boys began to grow stubble and somehow when the hormone button was switched on, it just all went wrong.
Rejection and fear of it... I carry them with me even today as I am in the final stages of completing my first album. I think of disappointing albums I've purchased where I ended up finding some alternate use for these cd's. I once scraped ice and snow off of my car window with a cd. I won't say whose album it was so I don't ruffle any feathers. I just hope that my cd when completed doesn't end up being the most popular coaster in the world.
I was called a faggot on a daily basis in high school and unlike some people who can develop this tough skin or retort with some witty comment, I would cry. Once the tears started to flow from my eyes, I would cry for hours and I would be called a faggot once again for crying so, I would just cry that much harder. Slowly I would drift further and further into myself where everyone and everything around me was nothing more than distant echoes.
Something happened when I turned 13. The girls began to bleed. The boys began to grow stubble and somehow when the hormone button was switched on, it just all went wrong.
Rejection and fear of it... I carry them with me even today as I am in the final stages of completing my first album. I think of disappointing albums I've purchased where I ended up finding some alternate use for these cd's. I once scraped ice and snow off of my car window with a cd. I won't say whose album it was so I don't ruffle any feathers. I just hope that my cd when completed doesn't end up being the most popular coaster in the world.
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