This weekend, we have a march on Washington for gay rights. What are we doing on the Daily Kos? Well, some of us are having a pissing contest about language, and how very hurtful it can be. We're having a sometimes unhinged debate over whether or not it is appropriate to the GLBTQ community to reclaim hurtful speech.
Well, there are a couple of diaries where these conversations can be had. This is not one of them. This diary is about real violence. It's also a "coming out" diary. I have never spoken this publically about my experiences with violence before. I think this is as good a time as any to do it.
Follow me over the fold for more.
I don't have an exciting, dramatic "coming out" story. I grew up with a supportive extended family who loved me. I had my share of being taunted as a school-child--for being smart, for being different, and yes, for being gay. I attended a specialized magnet High School for the performing and visual arts, where faculty and students alike were openly gay, openly straight, openly female, openly black, openly Asian, openly Latino/a; openly who they were and accepted by all. Hell, I even used to carry my boyfriend's books down the hall. No one batted an eye. When I officially "came out" to my mother it was perhaps the greatest anti-climactic moment I've ever experienced: her response? "Tell me something I don't already know. Do you want your eggs scrambled or poached?".
With that background, it never occurred to me that later in life I would be the victim of both domestic violence and a brutal and nearly career-ending gay bashing (which required two surgeries over several months)which ocurred in one of the most liberal cities in America on the eve of Pride.
When I was 30, I met a young medical student, 7 years my junior. We'd had friends in common but never met. Well, one thing led to another and before very long (in fact very quickly) we were dating. He graduated from medical school and having taken his residency interviews, it came time for the "great computer in the sky" to match him with the surgical residency program and determine where we would move for his five-year residency. We were even interviewed for the local news on what's called "Match Day". We were moving to Boston, which for me meant that I was going home. I was overjoyed.
But all was not fine. I had a secret. That secret was that my partner beat me. And I allowed it.
Now, my partner had been horribly abused by his father. He was once put through a plate-glass window. I really believe that the children of abusive parents are likely to repeat the cycle. I'm not excusing what he did to me and what I put up with. We're both responsible for staying in that situation as long as we did, which was nearly a decade which included physical abuse. However, I now realize that my biggest mistake was keeping the secret. Except, of course, when I had a black eye and couldn't hide the facts. Everyone who knows me can't believe that I would put up with that kind of abuse. I'm here to tell you that it can happen to anyone.
Let's fast-forward a few years. I'm in Boston, on my way home from a party after Pride. To make a long story short, I was bashed by a bunch of young men after getting out of a cab just blocks from my ex's apartment. It put me in the hospital. I was brutally beaten, and a finger was broken. As a professional musician, it was necessary for me to undergo two painful surgeries and nearly put me out of work for two months. I was devistated. It was all the violence I could stand.
It would be fair to assume that I was angry, but I wasn't. In fact, I was proud. Proud of who I am, proud of having removed myself from an abusive relationship, proud of surviving violence. Proud and lucky, too. I could have been killed.
When I hear reasoned debate over the harm words can do, I do sympathize. We've all been hurt by words. However, these words are far less dangerous than the violent urges that sometimes accompany them. Sometimes, that violence is perpetrated not by homophobic bigots but by the people we love.
I would implore this community to focus on stopping the violence. Let's debate and even agree to disagree on the use of language that some of us find hurtful. Take it from a survivor: there is nothing anyone could say to me that could harm me half as much as physical violence has. Let's break the cycle.
Well, I've told my story, Kossacks. Now it's time for you to tell yours. Peace.
NOTE: please excuse any typographical or spelling errors. It's been a long day.