"You must think I'm some kind of gay blade..."
Saturday afternoon, I went to see Superman Returns with JR. After spending far too much time at IKEA, buying a large furry orange beanbag, we desperately needed a break.
As we approached the movie theater, I slowed down to deposit a bit of trash into a receptacle and hear these words: "Fucking Faggot". I turned to see who was so perceptive. An overweight "gangbanger" type with his skinny girlfriend passed by us, he kept his eyes on me, glaring.
I asked JR if he had heard, but he was far too busy reading me a description of an upcoming film with Clive Owen and Julianne Moore. The gangbanger kept turning around to see if I would react. I just stared blankly at him, wondering how I would feel about a knife attack. Yes, it's reprehensible that I assume he was a member of a gang. Just because someone is Hispanic, wears a wifebeater, has prison tattoos and isn't afraid to call sissy boys names, does not make someone a gangbanger. I know that, but I also believe that calling someone a "Fucking Faggot," (outside a movie theater on Saturday afternoon while he's with his girlfriend), says far more about the namecaller than it does about me.
I remembered an incident where someone had written "faggot" in the dust on the back window of my car. Instead of wiping it off, I chose to make an addendum: "with a gun." I left it like that for a couple days, hoping that whoever did it would see that I was not afraid. This time it was different. It was not an anonymous comment.
His words haunted me. I couldn't forget the look he gave me, as if I were the most vile creature on earth. He wanted me to give him an excuse. He wanted to kill me. He was not afraid. His girlfriend dragged him away and we climbed the steps to the theater. I stood in line to buy our snacks, while JR went to use the restroom. I stood there, just like everyone else, but I did not feel like everyone else. We gathered our refreshments and found our seats, way up close in the second row. During the movie, we laughed especially loud at Parker Posey's character, a victim of circumstances beyond her control, with empathy. Superman explains to Lois that he constantly hears the cries of humanity calling for a "Saviour."
Unfortunately, there is no Superman. There is no Saviour. People are vicious, especially me. At the recent Pride festival, I shamefully screamed out a racial slur at someone while in the midst of a drunken emotional breakdown. There is no excuse and I have felt truly horrible about it ever since. I suppose I got what was coming to me. Karma works in mysterious ways.