This Is Not About My Mother

When I was in 3rd grade, my mother came out as lesbian. I had known about homosexuality and bisexuality before this point, and by proxy was aware of the concept of homophobia, but it was not until then that I began to take note of it in the world around me. I remember the first time I noticed a classmate referring to their friend as a "faggot." I experienced a curious sense of disassociation, recognizing at once the indignation I felt on behalf of my mother and also the realization that I had never felt it before. It had taken someone dear to me, my own mother, coming out, for me to start caring enough to notice.

*   *

In eighth grade Spanish class I had a classmate who would always refer to things that displeased her as "gay." She was usually talking about the coursework.One day, I told her that it sort of bothered me (these were likely the exact words I used as well, I was not particularly brave at this point in my life).

"Why does it bother you?" she asked.

"Because I live with my mom and her girlfriend and there's nothing about that that should be an insult," I answered.

"Oh, that's okay then," she said. "As long as you have a personal reason for it. I hate it when people get upset about that and don't have any connection to it."

"Uh huh," I said, not quite sure how to respond. She wasn't mad at me though, so I decided to leave it alone. I didn't want to make anyone upset, and this sort of seemed like a compromise.

*   *

I didn't say much in high school. The friends I made were not the sort to use derogatory slurs in their colloquial communication, and I was too shy to speak out against anyone else. I justified it, asking myself what good it would really do when I knew they would just ignore me. It made me uncomfortable but it wasn't bad enough that I was willing to acknowledge it.

*   *

I grew up in Seattle, Washington, one of the most liberal cities in America (at least according to personal experience and a quick google search on the matter). When I was little my parents got divorced, and until college I split my time between their houses equally. My mother currently lives with her girlfriend and my adorable, adopted little brother, while my dad has a long distance girlfriend in Canada. When I left for college I moved but an hour and a half North to the lovely, quaint town of Bellingham, which felt largely as though someone had taken Seattle, shrunk it by a factor of 20, and put it back through a time machine 50 or so years. What I am getting at here is that I was spoiled rotten by liberal attitudes.

I had not realized what a bubble I was in until I left it.

Its not like the people I associate with here are all that much different. They don't hate people, they don't want to burn all of one sort of person or persecute the other. But they use words like "gay," and "fag," and "queer" and "retard" as insults as naturally as I use "silly," and "ridiculous," and I don't know how to feel about it. I've grown since high school. I do not stand idly by. I have mentioned, on several occasions, that it bothers me (well, my methods may not have changed, but I do employ them more often and with greater force of will). In response I've gotten a few blank looks, several instances of casual dismissal, and a rather interesting conversation.

"You know how you describe things as gay sometimes? That makes me rather uncomfortable."

"Hm. Why?"

"Because you're taking a term for a group of people and using it to describe something you dislike."

"Okay, that makes sense. I used to get that, but I think it changed because I had a gay friend once who would always describe things as being 'gay,' so then I didn't see it as a problem."

I did not know how to respond to this. Yes, they are all terms which are currently undergoing the process of reclamation by the target group, and therefore it is hotly debated what it is okay to use them for. I had someone correct me once on using the term "queer" to describe people of non-heterosexual persuasion and was utterly confused, until they explained that where they were from (the other side of the state) it was still a distinctly negative term used only as an insult. I grew up hearing my mother use it to describe herself and her friends, seeing it as an umbrella term in texts, and thinking it a generally benign piece of lexicon. Western Washington even has a Queer Studies department. Clearly there are some discrepancies afoot.

I didn't press my friend here any further, because I didn't know what to say. His point was somewhat valid, and yet it still offended me when he used the words the way he did. Did I have the right to be offended? Who does? Why was I at all, in the first place?

I thought about it further, and came to a conclusion, of sorts. Yes, I was offended. Not on behalf of my mother, although I would like for my baby brother to grow up without hearing his parents' sexuality used as an insult, whether it be against them or a piece of homework.

Not on my own behalf either, although one could argue that I would have the right to be, considering my somewhat present interest in girls and the relationship I had with one for six months in high school. But I would not want to use her like that.

And not even for all the many friends and acquaintances and coworkers I've had and known, who came out to me either directly or by nature of being open about their preferences. They can make their own decisions about what offends them.

I was offended for people. For humans. Not for a direct connection, I don't need to justify my displeasure by using my friends and family, my own sexuality, as a shield. I can be offended on behalf of human decency, and anyone could be, whether or not they like the same gender, whether or not they have ever met anyone who does. That's not the part that matters. What matters is how icky I feel when I hear them talk like that, and how wrong and out of place everything gets in my head. What matters is that this is my experience, not anyone else's. This is how I felt it. And that is not something I can or want to change.

I'm still not sure if I can say what he's doing is wrong. I don't know if I can tell him off, if I can explain it to him, if I should even try. But I know that it made me unhappy. And I am not going to shrug and compromise, not with my feelings, not this time. I was offended. And I will hold onto that feeling until something changes, because it is not the sort of thing I want to wipe away. Maybe its okay for someone else not to care, maybe its not, all I know is that I, personally, do.