N*GG*R... F*GG*T... C*NT... Part I
Warning: Due to graphic language and sensitive material that some readers may find offensive, reader discretion is advised.
Three little words ... powerful words ... painful words ...
I've been affected by these words for as long as I can remember. Each in their wholly unique way. I am a gay white male. I am not black. I am not a female. I do not project stereotypical gay mannerisms. You may ask then, "What gives me the right to discuss these topics and what qualifications do I have to do so?"
Well ... Let me begin by stating that I'm quite fed up with people that use fear, hate and stupidity to intimidate, control and stifle others. I have been duped by them many times and I have watched others get destroyed by their tactics. If I can shed any light on and be council to or help with anyone's struggles, I feel it my charge to do just that. These are my experiences, perceptions and opinions. Am I qualified? It is for you, the reader to quantify that.
So, before you grab your pitchforks and amass an indignant mob to lynch me for presenting these words in black and white, I beseech you, that you read this piece to its entirety before you unleash your unbridled judgment upon me as I attempt to explain my meaning in this three part exercise.
I begin with my most personal connection ... i.e. ... "Faggot" & "fag"
Part One, A Bundle of Sticks
I've always hated the word "faggot".
Friends often ask me; "When did you realize that you were gay?" It's an odd question, for when did you realize that you were straight?
I can say in hindsight that when I was 7-8 years old and I was looking through the Sears Catalog (you young-ins gotta do some research), I skimmed over the women's lingerie and bra section without skipping a beat but when I got to the men's underwear section ... let's just say that an English lumberjack would have been pining for my wood. There was no way I could have known or have begun to understand the consequences that were about to be befallen upon me...
The most humiliating and terrifying moment of my life was when my father asked me if I was a "homosexual-gay-faggot". I was eight or nine years old and I did not know how to answer him because I did not understand what he was asking me. I didn't know what a homosexual was. I didn't know what gay was and I certainly didn't know what a faggot was (but I kinda did. All that time trying to figure out what was different about me, as it turned out, had had a name and it was an ugly one). All I knew was that I loathed hearing him use that word and asking me if I was one. The conspicuous disgust, disdain and hatred for it was so pronounced that I could only fervidly deny.
My father accused me of walking like a "faggot" after I mimicked a character from one of Blake Edward's Pink Panther films. His "after-school" solution was for me to walk in front of him through our kitchen and hallway for three hours every day while he read his book and leered at me over his reading glasses until I walked like a man which is something I didn't understand either.
I recently figured out who I used as an inspiration to get me through that punishment ... Darth Vader. Yup, I modeled my walk after one of the best villains of all time ... and why not? I couldn't think of a more imposing march than Darth-motha-fuckin'-Vader's. I saw Star Wars 22 times in the theaters, btw.
I was 18 when I told my parents that I was bi-sexual (yeah... bi-sexual is what I said and granted, I kind of am but I was ultimately stating that I was gay). They promptly tossed my "faggot" ass out the door and proclaimed that they had no son.
The following weeks were tumultuous to say the least. I was land bound yet stormy seas were fronting my course. What was I going to do? How was I going to survive? What did it all mean? I was alone. I had no one to talk with, share, reflect or get counseled by. It was the 1980's mind you and I was an introverted "foreign-ish" weirdo. The loneliness was paralyzing but I paced steadfast.
A rogue tsunami came along in the form of a well drafted letter from my mother. A highly accomplished anesthesiologist, who upheld the tradition of truly atrocious handwriting that doctor's were known for. Most couldn't decipher her scribble but I held a prideful pleasure in that I was one of the few that could.
The letter began with my birth and how thankful to God that a boy ... a son, was bestowed upon her and my father. She went on with verses of scripture that she found relevant. Speaking to humility, gratefulness and the love of God...
...Then I saw the words that sent my first attempt at "coming out" crumble and fall:
"I pray to God that he (god) kills you before you corrupt an innocent soul."
There they were ... words from my mother, in awful blue and white. I reread them over and over. Hoping that I could have somehow misread them ... but no, my ability to decipher her handwriting had not dwindled and there they were...
"I pray to God that he (god) kills you before you corrupt an innocent soul."
"Fuck! ... FUUUUUUUUCK!"
What kind of monster was I to drive my mother to write those words? I always knew my father wasn't going to accept me because he was a Russian Orthodox priest that also happened to be "Gay" (more on that in a minute). He was a miserable git that took me out to breakfast once a month, to tell me how much he didn't like me as a person and about twice a year he would remind me that, as my father, it was his right to kill me and take away the life that "he" gave me, at any time he saw fit.
Whack ... quite!
Experiencing rejection from my mother was a different beast all together. Far more unbearable. So on February 14th, 1988, I denounced my "faggot-ness" so that I could preserve my family's integrity and get my mother's love back. The loneliness of childhood was growing into the loneliness of adulthood and I couldn't bear losing my mother's connection. I hid, I lied and I cowered from who I was.
My second attempt at coming out was in 1995, Berlin, Germany. Let's just say that I fell in love with a girl on the day I said I was "Gay!" ...so that threw everything off. The complexity of that event won't be discussed here today (told you I was bi) but may be revisited at another time.
I finally came out when I was thirty years old with the ever persisting prodding by my dear sister, whom I'm ever grateful to. I was living in Key West, Florida, earning my keep as a Schooner Captain. I was one of two openly gay charter boat captains on the island and had to deal with the stigma and phobias that existed in the maritime world (even in Key West).
One day, a crew member asked me how I felt about the word "faggot". I was surprised by her question but responded ... "I'm not too fond of it but of course, it depends on how it's said. Are they saying it a joking way or in a hurtful way?"
And there it was. It wasn't the word itself but rather the intent of those voicing it.
"Hurtful."
"Well, then they can go fuck themselves."
"How can you be so casual about it," she asked?
I spent decades hating myself and other gay men because of shame, fear and guilt. It took me thirty-some years to finally get past the point of being embarrassed for being gay but that word transported me back to such cowering memories that I had to take stock and really look at what the word meant to me, how it affected me and most importantly, why it affected me. I'm a comedian and I use words quite loosely to make people laugh, so the idea of banning a word doesn't sit quite right with me. To understand how something was said was my course.
My biggest issue with "faggot" is how it humiliates and degrades with doubt and self-loathing. Not only to those that it's directed to but also, often times, by those who are denying something of themselves. I believe that my father, after his military career, went into the seminary to become a priest because he had a gay experience while serving. He was a Serb, raised with the Orthodox religion that would rather a man rape, slaughter and steal before he got on some man2man action. It is not uncommon for someone to pull a 180' turn when confronted by a terrifying realization of oneself. Self-loathing often times propels deplorable behavior towards those that have embraced that realization rather than forsaking it. A certain hatred and jealousy is developed by those who are in denial.
As uncomfortable as the word was, I found myself overcoming the bad memory triggers. I was no longer living in denial and fear. My parents, predictably casted me off and I said good-bye and good riddance. Lonelier ...yes but quite a bit more breathable. The level of hatred that they projected upon me was finally gone. I could now differentiate with what intent the word was delivered with. There will always be haters. I prefer to expose them and their hatred versus getting bogged down with the word whilst also knowing that the word can be used in a joking way.
Of course, a bizarre twist of fate then presented itself to me. I was in a committed relationship with a man for five years. Our paths synced up quite well at the beginning, like many relationships do. As the years went by things changed and more importantly, he changed.
There is no eloquent way of saying this so, what the hell ... I turned him into a raging bottom. Which is neither here nor there but being a long time Cubs fan, I adhere to the National League's take on a designated hitter i.e. I don't believe in it. Sometimes you're on the mound and sometimes you're at the plate. Ya gotta do both.
With that covered, it wasn't that he opted for that position that threw me off. It was that he opted for a role. I don't mind power-plays in the sack (Who's kidding who? I like 'em) but I don't care for roles. They just seem kinda contrived to me but regardless, he took on the role of the submissive and I went with it until he wanted me to call him ... you guessed it ... "faggot".
God Damn it! There was that mother-fucking word again ... in my bedroom!
He didn't mean to use the word in a joking or playful way but rather, he wanted me to use it in the same degrading and humiliating way that I spent years trying to deal with the pain that it brought me.
Suffice to say, I did not stay ... in that bedroom. No judgments, just not my way.
The funny thing is that I have no problem using the word "fag" in jest but it seems as though I haven't quite gotten over the word "faggot". Maybe it's because I think of my "faggot" father too much when I hear it and the self-loathing that accompanied it.
Part Two, The "N" Word...
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