I have had a somewhat troubled relationship with the n-word. I'm not feeling particularly well-disposed towards it at the moment, so I have decided not to type it. I don't really know how exactly I feel about it in general, as I have in the past had no problem writing, typing, or saying it. However, I can state categorically that there is at least one instance that I will never, ever find acceptable: white people casually tossing it around and laughing. I want to be clear that I have never, ever had this word directed at me directly in person. I hope that particular state of affairs continues. But I've heard it tossed out so carelessly and so callously, as if tossing food scraps to a dog. You'd think that this sort of act is one that I'd have no trouble calling someone out for. This is one of the most obvious and blatant forms of racism we encounter today and I stand in complete opposition to it. Yet, for some reason, in this particular situation, I remained silent. As if I wasn't even there. The n-word aficionado apologized to another person of color, claiming that such a label didn't apply to them. But I got no apology. I stood by uncomfortably, saying nothing.
I've written before about how I feel about masculinity. I've also written about how, unfortunately, my own self-liberation (or so I like to call it) from gender roles makes precious little difference when others haven't gotten the memo. So you can understand that when people throw around insults such as "pussy" and "faggot" and "bitch"*, I start to wonder what they think of me. Because usually, these people don't know me too well. I wonder what they would do if they did know. I spend so much time wasting effort to maintain a mask I don't even want. A label I've renounced. I have to pretend like the real me isn't here. The real me cannot speak. The real me is hidden. I cannot exist in their world... so I don't.
*I am a heterosexual man and as such cannot claim that how I feel when confronted with such slurs is in any way comparable to people who are actually marginalized by them. Straight men are not an oppressed group, and I do not mean to imply that they are.
*I am a heterosexual man and as such cannot claim that how I feel when confronted with such slurs is in any way comparable to people who are actually marginalized by them. Straight men are not an oppressed group, and I do not mean to imply that they are.
As I sit here writing this, I am in the hospital room with my sleeping grandmother and aunt. My grandmother is going to die in a few days, so the whole family is gathering to visit and it's my turn to be with her. This is a hospice as well as a hospital, where death is a frequent visitor. There is a pamphlet in the room entitled Gone From My Sight: The Dying Experience. I read it to see if it had any wisdom to share with me. Now, if you have read this blog, you know that I am an atheist/humanist/anti-theist. I don't like religion, and I don't think it has a place in modern society. One area where I dislike the influence of religion is in thoughts about the afterlife. I find such lies to be a false and hollow comfort. At this point, I'd like to ask you how you think I felt when I read references in this pamphlet to "spiritual energy" and "passing on to the next world". I want to let you know: I didn't feel angry. I felt invisible. Apparently the people who ordered this pamphlet and placed them throughout the hospice don't think that people who don't believe in the afterlife need comforting words. Apparently we don't really count, so we don't get a pamphlet. People like me, once again... not important. Not present.
To some readers (I sincerely hope not too many), some of these things may seem petty or unimportant. And sure, there are worse things. But I want to make it clear that all of the specific instances that have driven me to write this piece are droplets in the fucking bucket. I have experiences related and/or similar to these every day of my life, and that affects me. I have been sent a clear message that what I think is unimportant. That who I am doesn't matter. That really, I should just shut up. How does it make me feel, you ask? Upset? Sometimes. Angry? Quite often, not that it matters. But more accurately, I feel powerless.
