Making Noise

We had just finished making out in the park. Not actually making out, I guess, but something that closely enough resembled making out that it made people notice when they walked by. One man in particular had cast us a lingering glance that wasn’t a smirk, but an earnest smile. It was a smile that said, Oh, you kids.

We didn’t have anywhere else to go, really, so we’d escaped to the park even though it was a sticky summer day. We had a few precious moments before the rain started—steady, soaking rain, the kind that makes an umbrella useless—and we were using them well. I held Andy’s head to my chest as we sat there, feeling his coarse hair, thinking how funny it was that I, of all people, was being so intimate in public, and how funny it was that I was enjoying it. I’m the person who doesn’t hold hands at the shopping mall, the person who’s too self-conscious to kiss goodbye at the train station. When Andy looked up at me, though, his look said Aren’t we being bad? Don’t you just love it? And I forgot all of that other stuff.

“Come on,” he said, his head still in my lap, “let’s go.” We’d started walking toward the edge of the park when I heard a teenager shout, “Stop being such a fucking faggot!” He said it with laughter in his voice, making fun of his friend. I can’t write the other things he said; use your imagination.

As we continued walking up the hill, toward the edge of the park, I couldn’t help being conscious of the boys behind me. They were still loudly taunting each other. I like to think that I could hold my own in a fight. I have, after all, spent a sick amount of time at the gym. But no amount of working out changes the fact that I’ve never actually been in a fight, much less had to defend myself against teenage anti-gay hate crime-ing juvenile delinquents.

For this reason, I am extremely aware of my surroundings. And when two teenagers, both of whom outweigh me by probably 50 pounds, are throwing anti-gay slurs back and forth at each other, I take notice.

Just go ahead and walk around us, I kept thinking, forcing Andy to match my pace as I slowed down. The boys passed us without a word, but I thought to myself how lucky we were that they hadn’t walked by us five minutes earlier.

“Is it wrong,” I asked, speaking for the first time since I’d heard the boys behind us, “that when I hear people talking like that I still get freaked the hell out?”

“Nah,” he said, “but I guess I’m used to it.”

With Andy, though, it isn’t really an issue of being used to it; it’s an issue of never having to worry about it. He could pass for straight if he had to. I’m sure he does most of the time. I, on the other hand, with my fitted shirts and wild ties and tight jeans, don’t.

And so I wonder, will I ever get over this jumpiness? I do, after all, live in New York City. Gay people—in Manhattan, at least—are attacked so infrequently that people take to the streets in protest when one is. So why do I still find myself looking over my shoulder all the time? Why is it that my heart beats a little faster if I’m alone on the train with a group of teenage boys?

I could lay out plenty of reasons: that I grew up in rural Oklahoma, a place where gay people really do have to watch their backs; that I’m a pessimist, always expecting the worst from people. But I think that the reason I’m wary is very simple: gay people still get assaulted all the time. And, contrary to what the attackers’ defense lawyers might say, it’s not always because we were hitting on the wrong people. It’s often just because we were in the wrong place at the wrong time, holding hands with our boyfriends, wearing our rainbow shirts, whatever.

Our nation’s current political climate, I think, fosters this violence. We live in a country where our leaders perpetuate institutionalized bigotry (think the Defense of Marriage Act, for instance), which sends people the message that it’s OK to discriminate against us. And it’s not a great leap from discrimination to violence; once you’ve dehumanized someone it’s a lot easier to hurt them.

I’m not a political writer; I’m not the most informed or politically savvy person. But I do know what it feels like to fear for my personal safety, even in a place like New York City. And until I can do what every straight couple takes for granted—whether that means getting married or making out in Central Park without the fear of getting beaten up—I’m going to make as much noise as I can.