I suppose I just got verbally gay bashed. It wasn’t right, but I’m okay. Better than that even. It affirmed a sense a pride in the years I spent working through a critical part of my identity.
Since COVID, I’ve had to be more creative in how I exercise. Three-hour gym workouts are not possible. (Only an hour when gyms facilities have been open at all.) I do lots of running, cycling and hiking (I miss swimming laps), but I have added long walks to my schedule as well. I’ve seen Vancouver neighborhoods in different ways, always ready to snap a photo of something I never noticed or took for granted.
I was walking through a historic section known as Gastown when the incident occurred. It was early morning, when it’s light, but most of the city is still asleep. It’s always me and a few avid runners, some dog walkers yawning as they stare at their phones and people who spend most of their time on the street, some homeless, others staying in SROs (single room occupancy housing).
I spent five years living in a condominium that was a couple of blocks from Gastown and Chinatown, both areas that can be very sketchy with people addicted to drugs (used needles dot the sidewalks), people experiencing mostly untreated mental health disorders and people who for whatever reason are considered “down and out.” It was this way when I first visited Vancouver in 1992 and, if anything, it’s gotten worse. Long-term solutions require complex strategies and supports that I don’t think the city has the will or the allotted, focused resources to carry through. I could go on at length about this, but not now. (You can read related posts here and here.) I’ll just add that, while the area shocked my sheltered self in 1992, I don’t feel the least bit threatened there now.
As you might have guessed, it was a gentleman who appeared to be spending a lot of time out of any kind of shelter who took exception to my presence. We were walking in different directions on the same side of the street. No big deal. I was checking to see if a café was open yet because it had been a long time since I’d bought a loaf of their amazing sourdough bread. (No, I’m not one of those people who learned how to bake it on my own during the pandemic. That would be dangerous skill for me to acquire!) The place was closed so I turned back to take a photo of a vintage hotel sign. The man had, for whatever reason, turned back from wherever he was going, too.
Another crossing of paths. This triggered him. He began yelling, “Stop following me, faggot! Get away from me, faggot! Fucking faggot! Don’t look at me, faggot!” Basically, it was a stream of thoughts, each punctuated by the same epithet.
An appropriate response might have been no response or some sage words to deescalate the situation, but I said, “Oh, shut up.” There’s a reflex to defend oneself, to not be a pushover. My comment didn’t worsen things. I sensed it wouldn’t. People often express hateful rants at high volume in this area, but that’s it in terms of outward agitation. Most often, a diatribe is directed at no one that is physically present (an example of which I’d observed minutes earlier, crossing paths with a woman who paused her tirade as we passed, only to start up again).
I turned my back to take my picture, he moved on—a few more parting remarks—and I continued with my walk. Was I bothered? Honestly, a little. It was mostly my response that I reflected on. That was, after all, the part within my control. Was it a show of self-respect to say something as a mild form of defense? What could I have said that would have been more respectful? Why wasn’t I more offended? More shaken? I didn’t like that there was a consider the source message that popped in my head to minimize this man’s attack. When I was in an abusive relationship, I learned to tell myself, This is not my problem. This is his problem. It took time for me to get to that point instead of questioning what I’d done wrong and internalizing all the putdowns. Once I got there, however, I realized how well it worked. No more piling on my partner’s scorn to my own self-hate. I suppose I’d forgotten it or, more accurately, I’d let it go when I finally freed myself from that relationship.
If I’d had the wherewithal in the moment on the street in Gastown, that’s how I would have processed it instead of disrespecting his status as a human being. This is his problem would be in terms of any homophobia he had rather than in terms of his present circumstances. In general, I have seen the humanity in people who are struggling. I admire their social connections. I see a vibrancy in this community even while wanting so much for there to be real change. When accosted, I wasn’t my best self. Life remains a work in progress. (That’s the beauty of it.)
I considered his choice word as I continued my walk. Not long ago, I would have mortified, worried about how I came across in public. Do people see me as gay?! I would have been embarrassed that the three or four people who could see and hear the encounter would think of me as gay out cruising this other guy. (I did not need them to come to my defense, which none of them did.) So many of us have spent so much time trying to pass as straight. We kept our social circles to other gay men, a few lesbians and other women. Safety. Comfort to be who we truly are. I could be OUT & PROUD where there was little to no threat. That was all good in helping me grow into accepting myself. Don’t we all want to immerse ourselves in supportive environments?
There is a world beyond, of course. Partly due to age, partly due to increased LGBTQ visibility and acceptance and, yes, partly due to my own work on self-acceptance, I care so much less about what other people think, my sexuality included.
I am who I am.
Not even a block away from the incident, I had another reaction. I was happy. I felt free. It’s shallow, but I liked how looked as I’d headed out for my walk—fresh haircut the day before to tame what had become my ode to Einstein, a hoodie that perfectly matched my shoes and complemented my jeans. Lots of people on the street might have looked at me and formed as a first impression, “That’s so gay.” Not as a putdown, but more of a comment on how people might stereotype a put-together men’s look. My basher may have had an in-tune gaydar.
Okay, then. I’m a faggot. I prefer gay. I prefer whatever the term not to be expressed with contempt. Still, for me to go so quickly in proudly thinking of that cover headline from when Ellen DeGeneres came out in Time magazine—Yep, I’m Gay—kinda sorta made my day. Someone else’s hate will not bring me down.
