[Ed's Note: This article contains content that some may find offensive.]
Whle I admittedly missed some of my straights, this year, I happily spent my Super Bowl with a buncha homos right here in Long Beach—and it was the best, most welcoming stark contrast to last year's so-called festivities than I could possibly imagine.
I have never been the victim of what many describe as the "straight-person-accidental-discrimination phenomena," wherein a straight person—though s/he is clearly supportive of LGBTQers and their attached issues—inadvertently becomes discriminatory due to their overt obsessiveness with the fact that one is gay. It's much like the white person consistently referring to someone of color as black—"You're black so that makes sense"—or attaching their color to some inherent spectrum running through space where all people of color are the same—"Do you know him? He's black too."
I love my straights: they have supported me, enlightened me, made me (yup, every gay was made by a straight couple—go figure), and even fought for me. And it is here where perhaps that, like much of the blessings in my life, I was spoiled. And when I walked into the home of one of my closest friend's parents last year, I wasn't expecting anything different: I had been here countless times, each time with two open arms to greet me, a sense of sarcasm and humor that ran amuck and paralleled my own.
Frustrated, bitter, and increasingly intolerant, I walk to the bar where one of my friends was serving as bartender for the evening. "I now know why you don't hang out with women," I told her—clearly my vitriol was closing in on my thought to become generalizing at its finest but I couldn't help myself. Her response was affirming: "Yeah, 'cause they're all putas."
Round three (there needs to be an unwritten law: don't bother a dude who is drinking whiskey on the rocks—he'll approach you): some blonde, white twat who couldn't kill a stereotype if she was a black Jewish lesbian saunters over with her vodka-whatever. Pausing dramatically, she drops the side of her head onto her right shoulder, her lips puckered like a bottom, and her eyebrows furrowed with a sense of empathy and sympathy that was as plastic and artificial as her tacky goo-goo-ga-ga voice, "Do you feel left out?"
I cannot reiterate my utter confusion—but this one I'm a little more used to. See, I can sit or stand anywhere, not speak a word, and be perfectly comfortable. Those annoying people, the ones who need to consistently hear the hyena-like projection of their own voices, often confuse this as discomfort and pose similar questions or believe that the book I am reading is a prop or that I really don't wish to be alone or [insert extrovert-propaganda/pick-up-fails here]. This is where I thought she was going: I was standing quietly, drinking my whiskey, quite focused on the game (let's be honest: that catch last year by Manningham was captivating).
"What do you mean?"
In a complete reversal of fortune, she mentions nothing of being a loner or introvert or what have you. Much in the same way the Amazonian waved her finger over towards my best friend and his boyfriend in pedophilic disgust, she points towards them with a lover's sadness.
"Them." She clasps her hands together, emphasizing that they're in love, they have it all, The Notebook is real, marriage is the best thing on the planet, I can only exist with someone else. "Do you feel left out?"
I laughed not only at the basis of the question but also at the fact that she was even more unintelligent than I took her for considering I was expecting the usual. Smiling, I state, "No, I'm perfectly fine being single—"
More bafflement: "He really likes manly guys so you'll totally like him." Huh?
More: "See? He's totally male." I would hope so. "He's—no joke—the number one handsbag salesperson in the country." Wow, did that bitch really just say that?
More: A picture passes by, her brother perched on a rock at some beach a la Ariel in The Little Mermaid.
I awkwardly ask, "Was, um, was that him doing The Little Mermaid pose?" She beams with pride (rather cute, not gonna lie, but nonetheless: she's trying to hook her brother up, not make him sound like he's auditioning for Drag Race), "Totally. We love The Little Mermaid. You can be his Eric!"
And the icing: "Ugh, I can't believe no one told me gays would be here—I would have totally brought him so you guys could have people to hang out with."
The audacity of the layers of egregiousness, battiness, and incongruity are painfully obvious. Everything from errors of essentialist thinking—"You gays are all the same"—to downright displacement—"My brother likes you so you'll like him and his handbag sales!"—made the conversation one of those pinnacle moments where one has to take a step back and realize that while an argument may seem self-explanatory in your head, one cannot put that argument on the backburner. Just because I know that my sexuality is not the epicenter of my identity and character (though it sadly is for some: case in point the ladies aforementioned), I cannot just assume that everyone knows that.
In the words of my Dad, "Common sense ain't all that common."