I hate people who hate fags.
You'd think that a six-word principle would be easy to
live by. Think again.
As one with no marked physical characteristics, I pass
by on the street like Hollow Man. I'm not black. I don't
have tattoos. And I rarely swish. It's a cinch to pass under
the radar of hate and pretend that I'm like everybody else
in this hetero-geneous community.
That is, until someone calls me a big ol' homo.
My most recent shout-out was in front of a department store.
Along with a fellow WWer, I was snapping pics when
all of sudden a street musician stopped playing his instrument
and approached me in a huff.
"I don't want to be in any of your fuckin' pictures," he
said.
I replied: "No problem, bud--I don't want you in
any of my pictures."
And then the silver-haired gent directed his silvery flute
my way to make sure his point hit home: "Yeah. You better
make sure," he said, "'cause I don't want to be in your
homo paper either."
What was he talking about? I did a quick self-inventory.
Was he talking about me? Was he talking about our recent
"Best of Portland" issue? Or was it just that he considers
WW a fag rag? I often run such a test in my head
whenever there's homo name calling.
But it's not like I haven't had my run-ins with street
musicians before. During the OCA's last attempt to make
its asinine agenda state law, one prominent local player
made sure to show his support by posting pro-OCA posters
on his keyboard.
It was more than I could handle. On many an afternoon I
found myself shouting at this guy as he tried his best to
play "The Entertainer."
These street scenes lead me to wonder whether these two
musicians reflect the part of our community that supports
the OCA. If so, then these sidewalk fixtures are hate's
everyday public voice. And though my pulpit in this gay-friendly
paper invites me to be a voice of tolerance, there's a problem:
I can't stand these two guys.
I know I will never change them. I should just alter my
path and stop walking on Yamhill Street or 6th Avenue. But
I like street music.
And how can I hate someone who brings art to our city?
And can I hate an artist--or anyone--just because he hates
me?
I don't know. We're trapped, the curbside homophobe and
I, in a bewildering pattern of mutual assured detestation.
But I know two things for sure. I don't have to put money
in his bucket. And I don't have to walk on by.
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