Over-reacting

I'm faced with a predicament. Or maybe it's more of a stew. A pickle, perhaps.

I was talking to a colleague in the hospital this morning and, as is sometimes wont to happen even though I usually try to bar it from doing so, my personal life came up. With someone who evidently didn't know I was gay. Or, if she did suspect or know, it hadn't been put on the table. And as soon as My Sexual Identity was on the table, I witnessed an immediate and predictable shift in her whole demeanor. She changed. She cocked her hips. Twiddled her fingers. Put on her best (but sub-par) Jim Jay Bullock voice. Started substituting fabulous for every fifth word in her lexicon.

And I thought to myself, Well color me crooked, bitch is trying to speak Gay!

It's certainly not the first time, and I'm sure it won't be the last.

It gives me pause for thought because, on the one hand, it feels a bit patronizing and/or offensive and/or oogy, but on the other hand, it's nice to know people Like the Gays and want to Accept Us and Speak Our Language.

And watch our TV shows (as long as we don't kiss).

And have us redecorate their homes (as long as we don't move in next door).

And get our advice on their relationships (as long as we don't ask for legal validation of our own).


It suddenly occurs to me: Gay is the New Black.

Just like George Jefferson and Richard Pryor and all of the minstrels and the rappers and the comedians and soul sisters that came before us, we Gays are funny, fashionable, daring, pretty, rhythmic, exotic.

Everyone wants to be our friend, add us to their nightly line-up, invite us to their party (as long as we provide the entertainment).

Which feels great, until one develops the distinct feeling that what they really want is to suck our lifeblood, to tap into our brains and siphon out all the humor and style and sparkle and glitter until all that remains is the subtle, rattling slurp of our empty, well-groomed skulls.

I'm being dramatic. So she flared her eyes at me, added a couple extra s's, tossed out a few fabulous's. No harm, no foul. Better that than a withering look of disapproval, a turned back, a brick through the bedroom window or, better yet, a brick to the head. Besides, think of all the people I know who aren't like that, who accept me and treat me as the mentally ill, neurotic, compulsive just-happens-to-be-gay man that I am.

It's not that bad. Right?

I suppose it just feels, occasionally, like it's all part of a bigger problem, part of the double-edged sword of Acceptance, Normalization. To be accepted and to feel normal are nice things, but to do so On Our Own Terms, without needing to wonder how our Blackface make-up looks, would be even nicer.

Someone had better distract me with a chicken pot photo before this soapbox caves in.