You Fuckers Owe Me . . .

. . . nothing at all.

I was a queerling back in the early 90s in the progressivism and tolerance of North Carolina.  I am no doubt then, therefore, speaking from a position of immense privilege because I’m white and male. I have learned this past week that my being gay doesn’t actually count toward my understanding what it could possibly feel like to suffer the whims of an oppressive majority.  Or even an oppressive minority.

So, here’s the story of my privilege - coming from a family of means protected me against so much that I’m sure the rest of you will just hate me.

What were you doing January 30, 1993? Hell, what were you doing at all in the whole of 1993?
Remember that whole don’t ask, don’t tell business?  I was excited about it. No, it wasn’t enough, but it was something that showed to me that my culture, my society was making progress.  And I understood that social progress and cultural elevation don’t ordinarily happen too quickly.  So, I thought it was just about the way it probably had to go, though I wished for more right out of the gate.

North Carolina being what it is, I knew full well that I had several choices available to me with respect to being gay.  In standard practice for me, I chose to live my life the way I wanted to, and if someone had a problem with it to such a degree that they wanted to beat the shit out of me, well, I’d just handle that when/if it happened.  How did I know those people existed?

January 30, 1993.  One of my number was beaten by three United States Marines for the great crime of being a fag and hanging out with other fags.  These three brave Marines ventured into a Wilmington, NC nightclub called Mickey Ratz (now defunct one notes).  Say what you want about Marines being a fairly uneducated lot and you won’t get much opposition from the Army, Navy, Air Force or Coastguard. But these three trained killers eventually figured out it was a gay bar. They’d been duped, you see, by selecting a door to a nightclub and walking into it without a warning sign reading “FAGS INSIDE: BREEDERS BEWARE!” In other words, they had to figure it out all on their own.

They could have simply left and found another bar, Wilmington is a college town after all.  So leave they did and find poor old Crae Pridgin whom most people won’t remember was dragged out of the bar by  them and beaten to a bloody pulp. It’s unfortunate that some people are assholes, but take heart - we live in a system of laws. These Marines were subject to the horrible penalty of up to a month in jail, or a $50.00 fine. But they didn’t have to worry about that. Why? They’d beaten a fag, and subsequently were found not guilty of it despite witnesses and admissions of it all. Nope. No justice in North Carolina that day.

We were outraged. And scared. All of our drag queens traveled together. None of us failed to have a keychain pepper spray doodad.  So, we had a sporting game, of a kind, that unfolded Sundays when I went there.  You didn’t leave or enter alone. If you were getting some ass, chances are three or four other people were in on the romance by escorting the couple-to-be to their cars. At closing time, those who’d not elected to get some ass, or just struck out, would wait. We would help sweep the floors and put away the chairs. We’d wait for the workers to do their afterhours shots and close the till.

It didn’t take long with half a dozen extra hands helping to tidy up. Then we’d leave. Usually, it was fairly innocuous. But not always. I was new on the gay scene back then and I remember walking out one night after closing to see a group of half dozen or so men standing on the sidewalk across the way. I noted immediately they all had high and tights.  I was unsettled. Looking to my left and my right, I wasn’t the only one.

These could have been our beaters!  These could have been our abusers. Or they could just some Marines really into gay sex.  Or tourists. Or students, Wilmington is a college town after all.  Or who knows what!  So, we stared them down; they stared us down. I don’t know what they were thinking, but our lead drag queen was a ginormous man named John Blalock.  And he said something like let’s go ladies.  So, we started to go all agreeing on the walk to the adjacent parking lot to head to John’s apartment for the night to stick together.  The gentleman followed us to the parking lot.

This wasn’t good. So we turned around and confronted them. As the shouting mounted and these gentlemen got closer I had a memory of a particularly good luncheon at a local Thai restaurant.  That’s the memory I get, as it happens, every time a mist of pepper spray wafts across my face. It is not fun being sprayed with that shit, then or now. 

There are other times when we’d have run-ins with men, of whom we were aware and cautious. But I don’t tell those stories because they turned out not to be gay bashers.  And then I started to notice that almost everyone I met wasn’t a gay bashing savage.  In fact, almost no one is. So, at the ripe old age of 17 I started to do the math – it’s extremely, extremely unlikely that I’ll ever be gay bashed. But it could happen.

How then do I conduct my life? The same way I conduct it no matter where I am. I accept the possibility of a tragedy being had at the expense of my name gracing the cover of some newspaper or other. And I choose not to be worried that everyone I pass could be my gay basher.  It’s for the same reason and in the same way that every car I pass on the road could be the one that’s going to kill me.  It’s the same way all of us take in our stride the risks of living in a world over which we don’t have dominion. We accept the risk, factor it in and lead our lives to the full anyway.

Well, not all of us.  There are some people who are legitimate victims. Most recover and get on with their lives. But then there are some of those who never recover from the trauma – it haunts them until their dying day. And then there are the Rebecca Twatsons of the world.  These are the vicarious victims; these are the imaginary victims. And they have a legitimate complaint: they are being victimized day in and out . . . by themselves. But they have an illegitimate source; it’s always some group of those “they” people who are to blame.  It’s never their fault, and anyone who doesn’t understand why it’s not their fault is the enemy: enter Richard Dawkins.

And they have the gall to tell me that I don’t understand what it means to be in their shoes. Yes, I suppose I don’t in a way – I’m not a victim of my own fears. I face them head-on every day and treat no one the worse because of my own internal irrationality.  I do not expect that anyone who makes me uncomfortable for any reason is somehow required to alter his/her life on that basis.

Or to tell Richard Dawkins (thanks to Abbie for bringing this to my attention) that he doesn’t understand, or even that he can’t.  Now, it’s immaterial whether someone is actually abused. We are all capable of understanding that it’s unpleasant, and damaging – potentially cripplingly so.  I don’t need to be shot to understand that being shot is undesirable.  But as it happens, Richard Dawkins was molested. But still, it’s not good enough because he's old, rich, white, British (no idea on that one either), educated, and apparently lives in a tower made of elephant tusks.  Still, he can’t understand why being asked to coffee in an elevator is an OUTRAGE!

Many of us do understand, firsthand as it happens, what it means to be abused. We simply disagree that wearing the status of victim at every occasion is praiseworthy. There's a reason we have distinct concepts between victims and survivors.  Victims aren't people who are just abused; they're people who are abused for all time. They're also people who aren't being actually abused, but insist they potentially are. And then there are survivors. These are people who are abused, deal with it, and get on with the business of leading their lives.

Neither do I understand making myself a victim.  I can understand due concern and precaution should the unfortunate arrive.  Treating every creature who approaches you with reservation is understandable.  Expecting 3.5 billion people to change their lives to prevent your having to take up the onerous task of reacting appropriately? Not so much.

I don't much like be to touched; I am uncomfortable with shaking people's hands. It therefore follows that I can expect nearly 7 billion other people to stop shaking hands because of my irrational discomfort of handshaking.  No, the problem is mine, and I am not going to decry oppression when a fairly innocuous handshaking proposition comes my way.

But what do I know? I'm privileged.

Fuck you, Rebecca Twatson, and your campaign. 

Rebecca Twatson delenda est!

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For a woman's perspective, please visit the inimitable scentednectar!