But It's Okay When You Do It

Provincetown, Massachusetts has been a popular place for gays and lesbians to settle for as long as I can remember.  In fact, I recall hearing about this about 35 years ago, from a buddy who used a derogatory term, not because he hated or even disliked gays, but because where I grew up, that was how 10 year old boys described anyone showing any sexual preference.  

“Hey guys, guess what!  Bobby likes Lori Walsh!”
“Shut up, Fag!  I do not!”
“Why did you walk home from school with her then?”
“She lives on my street!”
“See?  You live near her because you do like her!  Fag!”
“Shut up, Fag!”
“You’re a fag!”
“No, you are.”
“Fag!”
“Fag!”

There was never any hate implied or inferred.  In our minds, to be a fag was to be an outsider, someone who didn’t fit in.  

I remember learning from a friend that a faggot was actually a bundle of sticks, and later, that in England, a fag is a cigarette, and none of us could figure out why the word had such disparate meanings.  Of course, if any one of us had used the word disparate, or suggested that we look up the etymology of the word, he’d have been called a Fag, and he’d have gotten his ass kicked at recess.

The buddy who told me about P-town did so with a sort of awe, and now that I think about it, he must have heard about it from his parents.  These days, we tend to look on that sort of thing with horror, as though they were intentionally raising their child to hate.  

I’m not saying that there weren’t parents who fostered prejudice in their children in the early 70’s, but in my Catholic, predominantly Irish neighborhood, most of my friends were simply raised with the same misunderstandings their parents had.  The kids in my neighborhood were the children and grandchildren of immigrants who believed so fervently in assimilation that those in my generation grew up seeking sameness, commonality, unity.  

So I was amused this morning to read that the municipal leadership of Provincetown held a meeting so that heterosexual residents could complain about being the targets of hate speech by the town’s homosexuals.  There’s no small amount of irony there: gays and lesbians move to P-town so that they can be where they feel accepted, to assimilate, to find a place where they can live honestly and can share a sense of community.  

A place where they aren’t so different.

And then, they reject those who are different.

The one and only time I’ve ever been thrown out of a bar was in Norfolk, Virginia.  I was there on business, and went out partying with a friend and her newlywed husband, and a group of their friends.  We wanted a quiet place to have a few beers, dance a little, and shoot a little pool.  

One of the women in the group suggested a lesbian bar, and we all agreed.  Really…we were looking for a quiet place to have a couple beers.

The bartenders were polite.  We were not obnoxious, at least, not in my opinion.  We gathered around two tables, drank our beer, told stories, shot some pool, and did a lot of laughing.  The regular patrons either ignored us or fixed us with sullen gazes.

Until my friend’s husband sought to distract her from the game by sliding the butt of his pool cue up the inside of her thigh as she leaned over to make her shot.  She wiggled flirtatiously, then missed her shot.

By the time the table had settled back to stillness (I started to write by the time the balls had stopped moving, but that would be too ironic), one of the bartenders was standing at our table, arms folded and insistent that we leave.

“Why?” someone asked.  “We haven’t been too noisy.  We haven’t been rude to the other people here.  What did we do?”

I swear I am not making this up.

The bartender spoke firmly: “You’re too heterosexual, and it’s bothering the other customers.”