“Certain groups of people - Muslim fundamentalists, Christian fundamentalists, Jewish fundamentalists and just plain guys from Montana - are going to continue to make life in this country very interesting for a long, long time. Angry men in combat fatigues talking to God on a two way radio and muttering incoherent slogans about “freedom” are eventually going to provide a great deal of entertainment. Especially after your stupid fucking economy collapses.”—George Carlin waxing prophetic in 1999. Teabaggers, anyone? (via sixtyforty)
Fag This is what I heard someone call my little boy today. I didn’t ignore it. I asked. I glared. What did you say? The kid muttered under his breath. Nothing. We walked to the car and he was quiet. He’s a boy who takes everything into himself. When he shares, it’s a gift. It has a meaning beyond what it is.
I looked at him, my beautiful nine-year-old boy who grew in my belly as I spent endless hours working with men and women dying of AIDS in Los Angeles. The baby that I jostled and jiggled when I was nine months pregnant, shaking my fat little ass at the Dance-a-thon. All the beautiful queens circled around me under the disco ball and rubbed my belly just like the old Russian women at the K-Mart by the Farmer’s Market. I remember looking at them, these glittering beautiful people smiling and wishing me luck. They are celebrating you, I said to my unborn child.They are celebrating life. It was one of the few nights that I didn’t have to face the practical realities of the other side of the coin, the side where I watched my friends wasting away to nothing.
When I had my baby shower, I was living with a friend who everyone thought was my gay lover. I never cared what anyone thought. We were like sisters. She was a nurse who worked with HIV/AIDS patients. I was a lawyer who didn’t like seeing decent people being bullied and treated like shit. We were comrades in arms. People were suffering so much, being locked out of their apartments, being fired from jobs, being dropped from their insurance, being ignored by their own families. So very few people really cared. It still makes me want to howl with the pain of it all when I remember how horrible it was, how tremendously unfair, how incredibly fucking cruel people could be. My shower was attended by four beautiful fat dykes, nine fabulously gay men, a Liberian woman whose asylum case I’d won that year, and a straight couple that I’d kept in touch with after law school. That next week, my mom came and marched at Pride. We laughed about whether I was going to deliver my baby on the parade route. It was a golden day. It shook me more than usual to hear a nondescript man hiss “faggots” as we walked back to the car with a couple of friends.
When he was a little boy, he would tell me he was going to be a girl. I told him he could be whatever he wanted. I didn’t think anything about it. Kids don’t have much of a concept of gender at two. It’s like my friend’s daughter who told him she was going to grow “big hairy breasts just like Daddy.” A few years later, he was playing the game of Life with his brother and declared that he was going to marry a boy. He was six. His four-year-old brother insisted that he couldn’t marry a boy. He has to marry a girl, doesn’t he, Mom? I told them that each of them could marry a boy or a girl. It doesn’t matter as long as you are happy and a good person. He happily zoomed along in his car with two little plastic blue guys in the front seat. That was the same year that he liked to wear my lip gloss. I didn’t care. I’d hand it over any time he asked for it. There were other small but similar things every once in a while, all noted but not given much weight or concern.
So here was my golden boy, born at a time in my life when I was acutely aware of the powers of both love and hatred, chewing his nails in the backseat, trying not to cry. He looked up at me with his giant green eyes. I could tell he was phrasing his question very carefully, as he is such a precise little boy. “I’m not a fag if I don’t want to have a girlfriend, am I?” He was so quiet and serious. I pulled over and turned around to face him.
I wanted to tell him about the time into which he was born, how so many people loved him, how so many people saw him as the sign of a good and hopeful future they might not live to see. I wanted to tell him how the woman who came into my office after he was born wept with him in her arms and kissed him all over. I didn’t take him from her until he was sleeping and her tears had been replaced with a soft smile. “No one has ever let me touch a baby since I was diagnosed,” she told me in Spanish, “He’s so beautiful. Thank you.”
There are so many stories I will have for him, when he is ready to hear them. I looked at him and said, “You are not a fag, period. It doesn’t matter if you like girls, or if you like boys. It doesn’t matter at all. And you are not a fag no matter what. It’s a hateful word that stupid people use to hurt each other.”
That’s all I could say today. I didn’t know what else to say. Is my son gay? I don’t know. I don’t care. He’ll figure it out. Either way, when he’s old enough to understand, he’ll hear the stories of the year he was born. He’ll know he’s special, and he’ll understand why the word “fag” will never touch him again.
To all the people in Texas taking family photos in the bluebonnet patches growing alongside the highways: I hope you all get crushed by out of control 18 wheelers carrying extremely flammable payloads.
my name is Atlas. i am 26 years old and i am queer as fuck. and, just like the rest of the world knows, being a queer automatically means that i want to fuck children. god damn. just saying “children” gives me a boner. its all i fucking think about, well, because i am gay. thank you for reminding everyone for me!
i tried so hard to pray to Jesus to cure me, but all i can think about when i do that is what that hot little fucker looked like as soon as he popped out of Mary’s juicy desert vagina. damn. fucking baby Jesus is like the epitome of what it means to be gay. fucking small helpless children is my mission in life. who cares about the rest of the world when there are so many perfectly good vulnerable children to fuck. all my friends do it. its just the cool thing to do. being gay = fucking children. straight up. er, i mean “gay up”.
anyway. thanks again for proving time after time that us gay people are seriously fucked up baby fuckers who do nothing but think about fucking babies, and stroking little boy cock. i get nothing but pleasure out of ruining helpless little souls. that’s what we do. that is what we are here for. that is what we are known for. ask anyone who is gay. they will tell you all about all the children theyve fucked. its like a sport!
but i gotta admit, you Catholic queer baby fuckers, youre story is extra twisted/HOT. not only do you do what we do (fuck babies - in case you havent heard) but you also dump all that religious bullshit on them as well. i didnt know i could go the extra mile by not only fucking up their lives by raping them so early on, but now that i know i can teach them the ways of Catholicism as a way of keeping them quiet…WOW! you guys one upped us stupid regular baby fucking queers.
you must do it your way to keep them from crying, cause God knows - a little boy crying while i rape him is such a huge turn off.