Cary the Fairy
My most memorable targeted bullying incident occurred late one night back in 2006. It was February. Midtown Memphis. And just so we're clear, I wasn't the bully. No, that distinguished honor belongs to a carful of grannies.
Standing under a streetlight with a few other 30-something friends outside of a popular, gay watering hole, we waited for a laggard from the group to find a parking spot. Despite the freezing temperature, the suggested plan was to “go in together.” I hadn't been out for long, so I assumed this was yet another "gay thing" with which I was unfamiliar as gay culture can be confusing at times. Because of this, I did not question it and kept my complaints to myself; though, I assure you the words I thought when a gust of wind threatened to seal my pooter shut were very ungentlemanly.
The quiet squeak of brakes catches my attention. Some of us turned to watch a purple PT cruiser slowly stop at a red light no more than 3 yards behind us. As I re-focused my attention back towards the parking lot across the street where I stray friend last disappeared into (while mentally projecting more ungentlemanly phrases), the car stole my attention again when the front-passenger window slowly lowered.
A crinkly, moon-shaped face emerged from the dark interior. With a raspy voice she barked, “Hey.”
By then, I had only lived in Memphis for about five years, and here is what I had learned in that relatively short time:
- Unless you want an unadvised thrill, never drive in the far-right lane of Poplar Avenue,
- To keep new residents confused, the same street name can be used on two separate stretches of road,
- A crime-riddled neighborhood can very well be just beyond the backyard of any mansion, and
- Never answer the call of a "Hey" because 90% of the time, it's just a crackhead with a story about needing gas or a bus ticket back home.
“Y’all ‘bout to go in there,” she asked while giving a nod of her deflated-looking face towards the bar's entrance.
“Yeah,” my friend responded cautiously.
Standing close behind my friend, nodding to affirm his answer (and to block some of the wind), I wondered why this elderly lady wanted to know. Did she need us to find someone inside for her? Were her and her friends hungry and curious about what type of food they served? No. She just wanted to kill time at a red light by telling a small group of well-dressed men minding their own business, “Well, y’all a bunch of faggots!”
A chorus of cackling, raspy laughter erupted from car's unseen driver and passengers.
What surprised me more than being called a faggot by someone's grandmother (maybe even great grandmother) was my reaction that quickly followed.
Growing up, I feared that word more than dentists, snakes, or that clown doll from the Poltergeist movie. It was this fear that kept me “in the closet” until my mid-twenties. The culture in which I was raised believed that when a man or boy was on the receiving-end of this word, they were branded as inferior, unfortunate, and brought shame to himself and his family. I know this because growing up, I was addressed by this word on more occasions than I wish to admit or remember.
Every time I was called "faggot," or "queer," “or sissy,” or "Cary the Fairy," I lost a little bit of myself. I became more and more desperate to withdraw into myself and away from the cruel world I was forced to live. Word by painful word, my confidence was chipped away until I found myself loathing who I was, uncomfortable in my own skin, begging God in every single nightly prayer to make me straight.
Being someone who feared disputes, I avoided confrontation with my bullies by simply ignoring them. This kept me out of fights but caused the emotional pain festered. I didn't fight back by lashing out. I fought back by dating girls. I even married one, eventually. However, I never realized the emotional burden and negative energy required to hide your true identity. The burden was heavy, and the weight only compounded year-over-year. By my 26th year, I became emotionally exhausted. I completely withdrew, shut down. The only way I knew how to get through this mental breakdown was to admit defeat to myself, allow my bullies win, and wake my wife a little after 2 am on a weeknight to confess, “I think I’m gay.” So that is what I did.
Rebirth was not easy, but I eventually learned to walk again. I did this by removing myself from the environment that suppressed me (it is how I ended up in Memphis), letting go of the people in my life that didn't support me (this was most of them), and telling my ex-wife that none of this was her fault (though she did admit that me "coming out" explained a lot). I found a place where people accepted the one aspect of my vast personality that shunned many of the people I once called "friend." These new people taught me how to accept myself and in turn, rebuild my confidence.
And thirteen years after I started living my truth, my confidence was tested by someone who clearly wore dentures and a wig.
It took a moment of awkward silence before my brain registered what she had said. Her words bounced around in my head, taunting me to react. Something inside me said that I was too old to just walk away a victim like I used to. I had paid my dues. I had let bullies get away with their abuse for too many years. It was time to tell this woman what I felt. So, I laughed and said, "I know, right?" My friend just shrugged and looked at me, his expression saying, "Is this woman really trying to insult us?" The car of seniors drove away. My friends and I went on with our night, unphased by their drive-by gay bashing.
Thirteen year later, and I still recall this memory with clarity. How could I forget it? It was the night I learned that with the right formula of people in your life, you can learn to accept yourself despite the vitriolic world in which we live. If you feel like you are somewhere you don't belong, keep looking. They're out there. It takes patience, but after all these years, I am not ashamed, anymore.
I'm gay.
I'm a faggot.
I'm Cary the Fairy.
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