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The Golden Rule
When I first came out to meet my mother, she repeatedly expressed concern for my safety, as if villagers were waiting outside my door with torches and pitchforks.
“A lot of people don’t like gays, you know,” she said, referring to “gays” being their own species. “Why would you put yourself in such danger?”
Like any experienced Jewish son, I was quick to dismiss my mother’s concerns as paranoia. This is a woman who lives in a convent and will triple lock her bedroom door (probably to keep out any lesbian nuns). When I became a lawyer, she advised me to change my surname and pretend to be Gentile because “law firms might not like Jews”. I told her about the fact that many of the most prominent law firms had Jewish names, but my mother chalked it up to “trying to be politically correct.” In her opinion, those Jews were probably just puppets. Clearly, the Pope is the real mastermind behind the American legal system.
But despite the high number of upvotes and a few bad apples, I don’t think most people really care where I put my penis (although maybe I should care more). Of course, there are still some intolerant people, but people will always find a reason not to like you if they like it. If it’s not my sexuality, it’s probably my love of tomato sauce on pasta. Personally, I can’t stand people who use proper punctuation in their emails. They make the rest of us look lazy.
By the time I came out to my mother, I had been out for ten years, and in that time I had never felt physically threatened because of my sexuality. Well, at one point, a group of frat boys did yell “fag” at me from a passing car, but that epitaph seemed to be more of a general desire to insult someone than a direct reference to me sexual orientation. While I’m not the most manly guy in the world, most straight people have a terrible gay radar and can’t accurately determine another person’s sexual orientation, especially from two hundred feet away. Despite their tendency to call each other “fag” and “homo,” straight men generally don’t like to think that anyone is actually gay, probably because that means they probably are, too. I had a college roommate who, after I came out to him, insisted that I “prove” to him that I was gay, even though the VCR was always set to record The Golden Girls and my CD collection covered Liza’s Rise to Breakdown career. I offered him oral sex as evidence; he politely declined, but I was sincere enough to convince him I was telling the truth.
Although my mother’s concern for me was wrong, it was not completely unreasonable. This is not the hostile heterosexuality she should have warned me against, they are so easy to dismiss and avoid. No, if my mom knew better, she would have warned me about hostile gay people running gay social networks with latex fists.
The act of withdrawing from the closet is more than just acknowledging your sexuality. It also involves re-entering a world of behavior that was previously discarded at the playground gate. For a certain type of gay man, coming out is license to be teased, mocked and tortured with impunity. It’s not just the fat, bald, and/or elderly who are affected by this mass degeneration. So small that a season of men’s clogs can ruin an evening. The gay gene exists alongside the teenage gene.
Of course, gays don’t have a monopoly on superficiality. There certainly isn’t America’s next top electrical engineer, or make me a super nerd, and there are more and more Botox, retoxin, and detoxified women who may no longer be biodegradable. But it is homosexuals who turn character flaws into pathologies.
I knew I was entering unfriendly territory the first time I went to a gay bar. Naively, I decided to go alone, hoping that people would welcome me with open arms in kindness. Kind of like a happy toast without the bad lighting and all the mahogany.
“Oh hi everyone, I’m Jonah! He just came out! Let’s applaud him!” At this point they’ll put me on their shoulders and maybe do a hora, depending on what jews are with Proportion of Gentiles.
The reality is slightly different. No one cheered when I went in, there was no Horace in sight, and everyone neither knew my name nor cared. Instead, I found a group of men standing unconsciously around the dance floor, looking at each other with equal suspicion, mockery and sexiness. Every time someone catches another person’s gaze, the first person quickly looks away – no no, I’m not interested in you, I’m actually looking at your friend, you know, sexier that. It’s a junior high dance, except everyone has drinks, cigarettes, and penises.
I drank my first cranberry vodka in no time. It tastes a lot like Robitussin and I wonder if this bar has the same vodka supplier as CVS. I ordered another and drank that too. I’m not trying to get drunk – having a drink in my face just gives me something to look at, because whenever I look up, I inevitably see someone better dressed, with better hair or looks better people. Have my ears always been this pointy? Is my right eye bigger than my left eye? Is that the third nipple? How did I bring myself to this point? I felt a new psychosis attacking me; a morbid sense of self. Coming out should have reduced my treatment costs, not the other way around.
The second shot of vodka cranberry hit me quickly—I have a munchkin bladder—and I ditched the safety of the corner stool and ventured to the bathroom.
A couple of guys stood in front of the bathroom, watching everyone coming in and out. They remind me of old Muppets who sit on balconies and make fun of various things going on below them, except they’re wearing diesel jeans and two hundred dollar t-shirts. They are also notably less refined than their sentient counterparts.
“Hey, did you see the ass on him? Do you think he needs a living jaw to get him out of the car?”
“My dog has better fur.”
“I’ve seen smaller love handles on Dom DeLuise.”
Ten years ago, these people were stuffed into lockers and hung from flagpoles. Watching them belittle everyone who crosses their path, part of me wishes their high school tormentors would turn around and put on a commanding show.
Luckily, I entered the bathroom behind a group of hunk men (huge by gay standards, average by straight standards) who got their attention and the evil muppets didn’t notice me. Only then did I realize that using these facilities might be more complicated than I thought. The men’s restroom consists of a long strip with a mirror that slopes downwards, presumably to give users the opportunity to urinate and shop. Luckily, I was too drunk by then to notice a group of men staring at me, or more accurately, staring at them. But I’m not drunk enough to linger any longer.
Unfortunately, while I escaped unscathed entering the bathroom, I wasn’t so lucky on the way out.
“What do we think of this hat?” referring to the wool ski hat I wore that night to keep my ears warm on a cold Boston night. I didn’t know that a five dollar hat could also be a fashion statement.
“It could work, if his face wasn’t so chunky.” No one had called me “chunky” since ninth grade, when I was slightly overweight due to excess quarter-pound weight and a lack of physical activity. Gym class didn’t make me lose weight, probably because I haven’t actually taken a gym class since I learned to successfully forge my mom’s autograph. Luckily my PE teacher is not too bright.
“You got bitten by a polar bear?” the coach asked when I handed him a particularly creative note. “Don’t polar bears live in the North Pole?”
“Oh no. There’s been a spate of polar bear attacks on Long Island lately. Damn global warming!”
Unfortunately, in junior year, my not-so-bright straight male gym teacher was replaced by a smarter lesbian version who wasn’t kind to my increasingly deplorable excuses and kept coming up on notes growing suspicious.
“You know, I think I’m going to call your mom and see some of your notes,” she told me.
“Oh, well, yeah, go ahead,” I said, calling her bluff. “But don’t call after 1pm. At that time she had – what is it called – chemotherapy? Afterwards she usually vomits most of the time, but if I hold the phone to her ear, she may be talking up and down between.”
Aside from my mother’s imaginary cancer, I’ve decided to take it up a notch and ditch the weird accident route and instead suffer from a physical illness that basically prevents me from participating in all but the most innocuous of physical activities activities, most of which involve prolonged periods of sitting. Luckily, I had a very sympathetic pediatrician on my side, probably because he knew my parents were crazy and were always two steps away from calling child protective services.
In retrospect, I should have taken more gym classes. I would probably have grown thicker skin if I had.
“Yeah, he’s really fat,” Muppet #2 replied. Again, no one has called me “chubby” since high school, when John Le Clerque told me I had “chubby hair.” I’m still not sure what that means.
“His head is actually much larger than the rest of his body,” he continued, taking a sip of his clear drink. “I’m surprised he didn’t tip over in the strong wind.”
“Have you checked your shoes? Can we say no pay, more pain?”
Yes, it is like that. I may just be out, but I know insulting a shoe is slap in the face of a bitch, and I need a reply. I stopped dead in front of them.
“You know I can hear you, right?” I said to Muppet #1. I chose to call him that because he was smaller than me and I thought I could carry him in a fight. Although at that point in my life, I was out of shape to the point that a Punky Brewster would probably beat me to it. But there’s no shame in that. She’s an aggressive lesbian.
It didn’t fight. It doesn’t even say it, really. They all stared at me for a while, then Muppet #2 said:
That’s it. I stood there for a while longer, considering whether to escalate the situation, and decided not to. There are already enough actors under this roof, and one more will probably exceed the capacity of this building.
But there’s another reason to give it up – it’s not worth it. Standing in front of them, what I feel is not anger, but pity. Wearing $200 T-shirts and jeans a size three small, these guys have become caricatures of themselves. They see themselves dead with odd eyes, and in the process forget the requirements of ordinary human decorum. For that, I feel sorry for them. Maybe feeling sorry for them is actually the greatest revenge.
A few minutes later, I looked up from my third shot of cranberry vodka – it was getting better and better, a miracle of alcohol – and saw that they were still standing there, except for now Muppet #2 , taller and better looking, one of them has made a new friend and Muppet #1 is now left to fend for herself. Something tells me this is nothing new for him. The Muppet #1 is still looking for victims in the room, but now he has no one to share his unbelievable pain with. All these insults were wasted in his mind.
That’s when I made up my mind that I would never become a caricature of myself. That night I promised to be kind to everyone, regardless of race, ethnicity, age, weight—I even promised to be kind to people no one else would touch with a ten-foot pole, like a leper or a Republican. Not out of sympathy, but out of solidarity. Together we can take back the night from the evil Muppets and their ilk. I vowed to be a saint in every gay bar I went to for the rest of my life. I will treat everyone with the dignity and respect that I would like myself to be treated.
But only if they are not bald. Even saints have limits.
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