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David Spates Can you imagine such rampant hatred? "I HATE FAGS." Wait. Did that say ... "I HATE FAGS." What am I missing here? "I HATE FAGS." I looked at it three times, at least. It's
been days since I saw it and I still can't believe it -- a little
homemade bumper sticker on some guy's pickup truck that read
"I HATE FAGS," which looked as though it had been pieced
together with those reflective letters you stick on your mailbox. To whom is his message directed? That was
my first thought. (Actually, that may have been my second thought,
if you consider shocked amazement a thought.) Heterosexuals see
it and think one of two things: The guy is an idiot or he's bravely
stating his opposition to homosexuality. Homosexuals see it and
think he's an idiot, probably a dangerous idiot at that. "I HATE FAGS." The letters were
even all capitals, no doubt for added emphasis. I'm sure he'd
hate for people to think he merely hates homosexuals. No, he
HATES them. I'm often interested in the process by which
a thought is converted into an action. It's not as though this
jerk's hatred of homosexuals magically created a sign on the
back of his truck. He put it there. There was a day when he decided
that merely hating homosexuals was not enough -- he needed us,
the traveling populace, to know that he hated them, in big capital
letters. Thought turns into action. Our hero comes
up with the notion to affix a message of disdain to his tailgate,
but where, oh where, is he going to find a bumper sticker like
that? It's not something you pick up at a roadside Stuckey's.
Perhaps the sign would have died there, but maybe one day he
finds himself at Home Depot, and down one aisle are reflective
numbers and letters used to mark addresses and surnames to mailboxes.
A homophobic epiphany strikes! Buy the right combination of letters
and you've got yourself a home-brewed message of hate! I can just see him there, standing in Home
Depot or wherever trying to figure out which letters to buy.
I'm thinking this clown's not a Mensa charter member. After self-correcting
two or three spelling errors, he finally heads for the cashier
with his letters. At this point, I envision him placing the letters
one by one on the counter, maybe even asking the cashier if he's
spelled "hate" correctly. Rolling his eyes, the cashier
takes the money and wonders, as our hero shuffles through the
automatic doors, just where a message like that will be posted. Beaming with pride and anticipation, this
chump can't wait to get home - in the parking lot he kneels down
to his tailgate and pieces together his bulletin. "I HATE FAGS." Perfecto! I'm sure this fellow Tennessean has had a
strong dislike for homosexuals for years. He probably picked
it up from his parents. I suspect our message-maker's mom and
dad also hated blacks, Latinos, Jews, Indians, Chinese and anyone
else who looked a little different than they. (I doubt they used
those terms around the house, however. Maybe pop had a homemade
bumper sticker that read "I hate niggers, spics, kikes,
dot-heads and gooks." It's good to have role models, don't
you think?) "Hate" is a powerful word. Like
"love," it gets tossed around too frequently, but when
one of these words is directed toward a person, an actual human
being, it takes on special significance. I hate celery, sore throats and getting stuck
in the Atlanta airport for 27 hours. I don't hate homosexuals.
I'm as indifferent to homosexuals as I am to anyone else. I have
known and do know a few homosexuals. Like any other arbitrarily
defined group of people, some of them are nice and some of them
are jerks. The same goes for the people I know who have brown
hair -- some are nice and some are jerks. For me, homosexuality is like modern country
music. I don't see what the attraction is, but if that's what
you like then, hey, what's it to me? (I actually like some of
the classic country performers, like Johnny Cash and Patsy Cline.
At least they had character, unlike these formulated, prepackaged
twangers of today, but that's another column for another day.) "I HATE FAGS." So where does that leave our tailgate author?
It leaves me thinking of the famous Hamlet line: "The
lady protests too much, methinks," or in this case, the
insecure homophobe protests too much. Makes you wonder what he's
insecure about, doesn't it? It's a cheap shot, I know, but guys like that are asking for it. · · · |