By The Abbot
“My god! You’re like models! Gorgeous men! So much beauty for one girl.” she said.
The flamboyance of gays I was with gave her the obligatory patronizing smiles and “Yas Queens” one is expected to give a straight, white woman who compliments you. Try it. Walk up to any fairly friendly looking group of gay men and pay them a compliment and they will return with a variation of “yas queen” or “you go girl” depending on whether they watched The Golden Girls when they first aired or on later syndication on Lifetime.
“But not you. Not so much.”
“Pardon me?” I asked.
“No. Not you.” This woman who only moments before had bestowed such gushing adoration looked at me and called me Quasimodo, except in the most unimaginably bitchy way. Frankly, I wasn’t sure whether to burst into tears, or applaud. That is some serious shade. Normally, I can take a privileged white woman’s condescension. But this was done on a crowded Boystown street the night before the Pride parade. It cut me like a dull Venus razor.
I could take some of the blame. My friends are beautiful men. So much so that I avoid being in pictures with them when I can. That sounds odd or even sad, but they really are that pretty. I could have befriended uglier people, but who needs all that attention? It’s always better for an introvert to find peacocks who happily slurp up the limelight.
But my purpose is not to feel sorry for myself because my genetic lottery only paid me $5. My point is that I remember that moment vividly. I could recognize that woman even today. Her auburn hair, her pale, freckled skin, her sneer of a mouth. Ten years has gone by since that evening and I could paint a picture of it from memory. Anytime I feel like saying something intentionally hurtful, especially to someone who I barely know or don’t know, I remember this woman. She is my personal Gospel reminding me to do unto others because when you’re cruel to someone, they don’t forget it…even with a decade of therapy and Klonopin.
Gay men are notoriously unkind to one another and to themselves. We compensate for childhoods, adolescences and young adulthoods filled with inadequacies because we were not born straight. I was not born to tug on a little girl’s pigtails, or play catch, or play any sports really. Gym glass to most gay men is triggering. We found ourselves in a world where balls were suddenly not our strong suit. Ironic isn’t it? Instead, we sought safe harbor in the drama programs, in our AP English teacher’s classrooms, in the midst of other misfits who were not as skinny as they were expected to be, or not as smart as they should have been, or not as talented in the way everyone wanted them to be. These were the musicians, the artists, the writers, the nerds. It is not a coincidence that so many gay men and women find themselves later pursuing careers in a field akin to their high school experiences.
Pride for me has always been bittersweet. Celebrating both who I am and at the same time remembering how many people wished I had been someone different and in some cases me hoping that I could be. Gay bars bring on a full panic attack for me. Not because I hate crowds (which I do) or because I dislike gay men (which I don’t). Anyone who knows me, knows that I have worn glasses since I was 12. Without them, even recognizable shapes are an impressionist painting of colors. But in gay bars, or even at brunch, I take them off. I don’t believe in the adage that “boys don’t make passes at boys who wear glasses.” Slutty glasses are making a comeback. But like a horse with blinders, what I cannot see will not harm me. I can avoid seeing the faces that so often seemed to sit in judgment of me.
This has been a life long problem. The very first time I went to a gay bar, I was terrified. “What will they think of me,” “I’m not hot enough,” “Why did I wear these pants, they make me look fat.” And I know exactly why I am like this and still no matter how much I reason with myself or remind myself that I was wrong and still am wrong, I remain so unbelievably fragile. The scar tissue festers. So when a random nobody of a Lena Dunham-like woman publicly humiliates you during Pride weekend, that wound is ripped open and the decades of insecurities pour out like a Capri Sun poked with a fork.
Pride 2025 feels like a scab picked off a barely healed knee. Our community, that has fought for 56 years for the ability to simply exist and be happy in our own way, is caught in the cross hairs of a man, who funnily enough not only wears more make up than Ru Paul, but surrounds himself with weak, insecure, scared little men who travel with their own glam squads. Maybe in the more somber notes of this Pride, we can all pause and remember a moment in our lifetimes when someone was intentionally cruel or hurtful, and then hold that feeling with us long enough so that the next time we believe we need to say something or do something about someone whose lifestyle is odd to us, or whose hairstyle is terrible to us, or whose outfit is dreadful to us, or whose looks are frightening to us, or whose means of earning a living are beneath us, we can perhaps avoid needing to express our opinions and instead leave them be.
This Pride for me is unlike any other. I feel compelled to contribute little to the hate game and instead remind myself that not only am I a child covered in the bruises and scars of a turbulent life, but so also are most of the people I will ever meet. Be kind. We’re all hurting.
