Tag Archives: Bullying

January 27, 2017 · 4:44 pm

What If He Is?

When I was in high school, my friend stopped an incident of bullying with one quiet question.

“Pam” (not her real name) and I were at the beach, standing at the water’s edge, 16 years old. A group of three guys stood to our right. Another adolescent, male, swam alone in the surf. At the same moment, Pam and I realized the group next to us was angling for our approval.

“Look at him!”

Pam and I exchanged a confused glance.

“Can’t even swim.”

They pointed to the water, where the swimmer navigated the ocean like a dolphin.

“He looks like a total jerk.”

The boy — maybe 17 — caught a wave and rode it to shore. He rose to his feet and headed back out, diving through the breakers. His timing was perfect, a strong swimmer, at home in the crashing surf of the California coast. His skill was clearly a threat to the three fine gentlemen to our right.

“He’s a f – -!”

“Total f – -!”

“Definitely a f – -!” They gave each other high fives.

I said quietly, “Let’s go,” but Pam shook her head. Instead, she faced the three boys and spoke softly.

“What if he is?”

They stared at her. Then one pointed to the water. “F – -!”

She shrugged disarmingly and repeated, “What if he is?”

They looked at each other, then back at her. “Well, nothing, I guess.”

She held her ground for a long moment, then turned to me. “Let’s swim.”

For the next hour, we bodysurfed with the swimmer. We left the ocean together, streaming water, warm in the salty sun. He invited us to join his friends, and we feasted on iced tea, veggies, hummus, chips, guacamole. The pack of three glanced at us periodically, but didn’t approach. We never asked if the swimmer and his two friends were gay for the same reason they didn’t ask us: it didn’t matter.

What. If. He. Is.

Four simple words. Mightier than the sword.

Speak Gay With Pride

“It’s so gay.”

Proper delivery mandates an exaggerated disdain, smirking recommended, condescension required.

The speaker is cool; the it is not; the gay most certainly is not.

As a mother of three – one middle teen, one older teen and one young adult – I’ve heard that expression more times than I care to count. Not from my kids, but from their friends, all during high school. These otherwise domesticated boys (I have never heard a girl speak those words) were invariably taken aback when I told them that phrase was banned from my home.

Reactions ran the gamut.

One young man was puzzled: “You mean you don’t allow the word gay?”

Another stared as my son explained that curse words didn’t bother his mother. “You can say sh—“ he offered helpfully, “but not that phrase.” “Why?” his friend was incredulous. “Because it equates the word gay with a put-down.” The boy looked genuinely confused. “Really? Are you sure?”

A third boy gaped as my son spelled out his mom’s language requirements. His friend swallowed hard, and asked if he could stay while I helped my son with a project. This boy sat still for the next two hours, staring at me, and looking quickly away whenever I met his eyes. He accepted a glass of water, and thanked me so effusively that his gratitude clearly had nothing to do with his drink.

Another boy used that expression to mock a classmate. When I stopped him, he told me he had never respected a parent more. He refused all future invitations to visit, and I never saw him again.

A friend of my daughter’s was well aware of the house rules. He periodically made a self-conscious show of using the forbidden phrase, and then apologizing profusely. When I told him I’d had enough, he thanked me.

But I first heard the most prevalent response from two tenth-graders. One bravely challenged me, “Why do you care? You’re not even gay.” The other shot him a like-duh look, and turned to me, blushing deeply; “I’m really sorry; I didn’t know you were gay.”

In the 1940s, in the wake of World War II, terms of contempt targeted the Japanese — in the ‘50s, in the Hollywood radical crowd, It’s so bourgeois — in the ’60s, It’s so square — in the ‘70s, It’s so retarded — in the ‘80s, It’s so lame. And in the ‘90s, He’s/She’s such a girl.

I wonder what’s next, the up-and-coming insult that will sweep the nation.

“It’s so gay.”

Those words pepper the speech of adolescents. Some have no idea what they’re saying. Some hope to be stopped and redirected. Some are experimenting with the feel of the words. Some are deliberately cruel. Some are testing the “it’s not my problem” approach to issues beyond their limited parameters.

Whoever these young men may be, whatever motivates them, we parents have a responsibility. We correct our children when they forget to say “please” and “thank you.” As they grow older, we correct them when they say “who” instead of “whom.” We need to step up and step in. Gay is an adjective, not an insult.

And what about empathy? According to the unwritten rules, if I stand up for a targeted group, I must be a member. If homophobia disturbs me, I must be gay. And if I were, my stance would become more understandable, and more easily dismissed.

I am deeply gratified that my sons and daughter are comfortable bringing their friends to our home. I enjoy talking to these vibrant young people, with ideas and perspectives that broaden my own. I appreciate that they speak freely, while offering warmth and respect. However, we all know my place in their community: I’m the “Odd Mom.” “Odd” is the parent who is comfortable with random curse words, but who will not allow put-downs regarding race, religion, gender, physical attributes, mental capacity, or sexuality. An odd definition of odd.

I’ve accepted that I’m viewed as strange. If my brand of odd turns out to be the new up-and-coming insult, I’ll speak odd with pride.

Until then, let’s speak gay with pride.

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December 14, 2013 · 7:43 pm

Everyone Can Be An Ally

I was born in 1958, to heterosexual parents. I grew up in a home where gay and straight folks sat side by side at dinner parties. Friendships formed around personal and intellectual connections.

I never gave it a thought, until third grade.

In a kickball game, a girl I’ll call “Susannah” crushed the ball and drove in three runs. “Cory,” admired even by the fifth graders for his spectacular use of profanity, shouted a new insult. I asked my mother what it meant; “It’s a rude, ignorant word for a gay man.” I looked up, puzzled; “What’s gay?” My parents never categorized people by sexuality, but that day, my vocabulary expanded to include “gay,” “straight,” “lesbian,” “homosexual” and “heterosexual.”

High school was an eye-opener. The atmosphere radiated an edgy tension, with gang violence always ready to erupt. The gay students were targeted continuously. One day, a girl nudged me as a tall, thin boy walked by, frothy blond hair down his back. “The jocks beat him up last week,” she whispered. “He was in the hospital for three days.” She skipped off to class. A month later, she again took my elbow. “Remember the blond guy? I heard he died. Beaten to death. The jocks.” She smiled sweetly, and shrugged. “Who cares, one less—“ and she used the word I learned in third grade.

I cried that night. I had no words to explain my tears for a boy I never knew, the possible victim of a piece of gossip that might not be true. I promised myself that some day, I would write a book about that boy. I would not allow my readers to be indifferent. I would name the book after my high school, and its motto.

Years later, my husband and I were raising our children in Mill Valley, California, across the Golden Gate Bridge from San Francisco, and I began to write. I created gay and lesbian characters. I surrounded them with supporters who rallied for them, shoulder to shoulder, triumphing over a judgmental world.

I completed the final edits in 2008, and prepared to publish.

A few months later, I voted on the losing side of Prop 8, which banned same-sex marriage. My reaction to the election was odd: I stopped publication of my book. Something was wrong, and I was still figuring it out when my family moved to Chapel Hill, North Carolina. I was pleased to live in a beautiful area, with such respect for education. Then with a nauseating sense of déjà vu, I found myself voting on the losing side of Amendment 1, which prohibited gay marriages and civil unions.

The next morning, I knew how to fix my novel. I had portrayed the road to full acceptance for the LGBTQ+ characters as much too smooth. I rewrote the story, rebuilt the road, offered avenues for people of differing mindsets to become Allies. As I promised myself back in 1973, I wrote about that blond boy, whose name I never knew. I called my novel, Hollywood High: Achieve The Honorable.

I hope my book will be read by people who feel ready to question their own beliefs, who want to become more accepting but don’t know how. There’s a path for everyone to become an ally. All you have to do is take the first step.

You’ll find me waiting for you.

“Everyone Can Be An Ally” was first published in September, 2013, by the Chapel Hill News.

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