I Hate Ann Coulter

by Ian Carlos Crawford

“She seems like a real tough broad,” my dad, David said.

“You can’t sit with us if you’re going to come, David. I’m going because I hate Ann Coulter, and Election Day is tomorrow — and, well, I wanna to see what the enemy has to say,” I said.

“Ok, but I’ll drive, so in case you get too mad, you can’t leave me there.”

“Fine, but we really can’t sit together. I wouldn’t be caught dead sitting with one of the many people in the room who will be voting for Bush and hating homos.”

“Ian! Your father is very supportive of gay rights. Don’t be stupid,” My mother, Alicia, said while throwing her arms up in the air. Our pug barked and she threw him part of the bagel she was eating.

“I am, Ian. Just calm down. Just because I vote Republican doesn’t mean I am against gay people,” my dad said.

“Fine, but I’m not kidding — you can’t sit with me and Lauren.”

“Okay.”

My best friend, Lauren, and I found out earlier that day on campus that the blonde devil herself, Ann Coulter, would be speaking in the student center of our school, Rutgers University in Camden. Michael Moore had spoken only a few weeks prior through our school, and the group on campus that called itself the Young Republicans retaliated by petitioning to have a Republican speaker at our school. They won, clearly. Now, honestly, I thought it was only fair to have people speak from both sides speak — I just wished they’d have picked someone less…awful.

I hated Ann Coulter since my first unofficial introduction to her, in August of 2003, when I started working at Barnes & Noble. I was working at the registers when I noticed her book Treason sitting on display. There were four shelves packed with copies of her book. My co-worker Jessie caught me looking at the books.

“She’s a real awful woman. I hate her,” she said.

“I’ve never even heard of her,” I replied.

“You’re lucky. Just open the book and start reading — she’s such a bitch and so misinformed it’s ridiculous.” And with that, Jessie grabbed a copy of Ann Coulter’s book and handed it to me. The cover was your typical cover to any conservative book that came out at that time — a pure white background, with the title written in red letters and the book’s heroine positioned atop the title.

“I’m going on break, tell me what you think when I get back.” Jessie threw her nametag on the counter and walked away. I was alone with a book written by a stern looking conservative woman. I opened to the first chapter and started reading. She talked about McCarthyism and other political and historical topics that I had not known much about. She took a nasty tone that I did not like, and had an obvious hatred for the Clintons. She even alluded to Senator Joe McCarthy as being someone who was just doing his job to protect America. She made sure to make gross generalizations about liberals. I couldn’t believe that a book like this had been written — let alone got enough attention to warrant a four shelf display. Why did she seem to think all liberals hate America? I had never met anyone who endorsed terrorists, liberal or not.

Ann Coulter taught me the following:

Liberals hate America.

Liberals lie.

Liberals sympathize with terrorists.

Ann Coulter is full of shit.

During my speed-reading of the first chapter of her book, I rung up a few customers. I could not help but judge them by what books they brought up to purchase. I wondered if any of them actually thought the way this awful woman did. I was feeling angry and hypersensitive when an older man wearing a Marines t-shirt approached. He had Santa’s beard but none of his jolliness. I saw Miss Coulter’s book in his hand and I was instantly furious.

“She’s so great, isn’t she?”

“What?”

“Ann Coulter — I see you’re reading her book. It’s nice to see a young man with a head on his shoulders, especially with all these liberals in this area.”

“Fuck you,” came out as, “oh, right.”

“Well son, you have a nice day. Try not to let any of these liberals running this store bother you too much.”

I couldn’t reply because any reply I could have thought of would have gotten me fired. I just put the book and receipt in his bag and handed it to him. I may have feigned a smile, but I made sure not to tell this man that I hoped he had a nice day because that would have been a lie.

I may not have been holding a sign flashing ‘gay’ above my head, but I might as well have been. I was wearing a skin-tight collared shirt, spiked hair, labret and septum piercings, and the tightest black pants. What part of my ensemble made this old man think I’d be conservative? Was it my youth large skintight polo? Or the fact that I’d used a flat iron and lots of product to straighten my hair? Or the fact that I use the word ‘product’ to describe the stuff I put in my hair?

I went back to rage-reading the book and as I finished up the first chapter, Jessie came back from break. She looked almost excited to talk to me about the book.

“Isn’t she just the worst?”

My Dad, my best friend Lauren, and I drove to campus in my dad’s Lexus SUV. I was dressed in skinny jeans, a black button up, a red striped tie, and looked like I was on my way to see the band My Chemical Romance, not Ann Coulter give a speech. I, quite honestly, looked gay as all hell. We parked illegally in the teachers’ lot and walked toward the student center. Lauren and I sped ahead of my Dad, in an attempt to not walk in with a Republican.

“Ian, I know I’m just going to get pissed about whatever this bitch has to say. I’m already getting mad,” Lauren said as she grabbed my arm. When she grabbed my arm that meant something was about to be really funny or really upsetting. We’d been best friends since the first day of freshman year of high school, about eight hundred years prior. We were like Will & Grace, only gayer and more obnoxious — in high school we egged my ex-girlfriend’s car, and in college we egged my ex-boyfriend’s car. We never claimed to be mature for our age.

“Well, this is what we do best Lauren — get angry. The only thing we might do better is get bitchy, but they both go hand in hand. You do realize we’re gonna stick out as the two gay kids in a group of hicks and rich people who probably hate gay people?”

“Yeah, but don’t worry Ian, you could just start touching them all and they’ll realize they like it.”

We laughed as we walked up the steps to the student center. I looked back at my dad as we got to the top of the stairs. I gave him a half-smile — he raised his eyebrows and smiled back. This has always been my dad’s way of saying, everything’s okay.

As we entered the student center, a middle-aged curly haired woman was yelling something about Ann Coulter being a Nazi, with a sign hanging from her neck that read, “The only bush I trust is my own, Vote Kerry!” It turned out that we weren’t the only ones who went to “get angry.” Surprisingly there were no more tickets left, and this was, unbeknownst to me, a ticketed event — but the woman with the sign told us not to worry because they would hand out all left over tickets to us after everyone was seated. She then handed Lauren and me “Vote Kerry” stickers, and I put mine directly on my tie.

“Fuck you! Kerry loves terrorists!” yelled a dumpy woman wearing an ill-fitting Tinkerbell sweatshirt and high-waisted mom jeans.

“You’re such a stupid bitch! You have no clue, do you? Bush lies about 9/11 and you buy into it,” our new friend wearing the Kerry sign snapped back.

Lauren and I looked at each other and just kind of nervously shrugged. We had gone there to get angry, but that was a lot for us.

I was nervous. When I saw Michael Moore, there were no security guards and everyone basically agreed with what he had to say. I was not the minority (in the way of political viewpoints at least), and I felt less involved since the place was so big. And if someone didn’t agree, well, I didn’t notice because, as I said, it was a huge venue. It was held at a concert hall called the Tweeter Center with over 7000 available seats. But that had been over two months before I found myself going to see Ann Coulter.

The fact that it was the day before the 2004 election didn’t help to make me any less nervous.

Nor did the fact that my father and I were on opposing sides.

David Crawford grew up in the south. He and his brother would torture their sister, Barbara, calling her ‘Big Bertha’ and then enjoy going into the swamps of New Orleans to shoot at frogs. The Crawford family moved around a lot — Louisiana, Iowa and a few places in between — before settling down in New Jersey.

His parents were registered Republicans, who spoke with southern accents and attended church every Sunday. His father sang in the church choir and his mother helped run church functions. They were less than thrilled with my father when he married his Puerto Rican wife, my mother, saying she was no good for him. They were even more appalled when my mother and father weren’t married in a church by a priest — but in a courtroom by a Justice of the Peace. On their wedding day, my grandfather Crawford told my Del Toro grandparents that he gave my parent’s marriage “three months.”

David Crawford met Alicia Del Toro while they were both working in New York City. She was a secretary working for a mall manager, and David was working for the architectural firm that was doing renovation on the mall. She had to deliver papers to him. He’d tell you that the first time he saw her, his first thought was that she was the prettiest girl he’d ever met.

“Are you single?” my dad asked my mom after discussing business.

“Yes, why?” she replied.

“Would you like to go on a date with me?”

For their first date, Alicia wore knee-high boots, gold hoop earrings, and a mini skirt. And while walking across a gravel parking lot into the restaurant, she needed help keeping her balance; after all she was wearing knee-high boots. So she grabbed David’s hand.

“I don’t like public displays of affection,” he told her.

“Oh, really?”

Certain details of this story change every time I hear it, but this part always stays the same: Alicia grabbed him by his arms and shoved her tongue right down his throat.

David proposed not soon after.

My dad could easily be considered in the top ten of the most easy-going human beings on the face of the earth. He has dealt patiently with my mother and me for over thirty years — and we aren’t the easiest of people to deal with. He almost never curses or yells at us. If he uses the word “shit” we all know he is seriously angry. He has cursed out of anger two or three times, and yelled maybe twice.

When I decided to drop out of college at Rutgers New Brunswick, my parents both supported me. Neither told me to stay. I was unsure what I wanted to do, but I knew I hated living away from home. They welcomed me back, no questions asked.

When I came out to my parents, my mom did the cliché parent thing asking, “are you sure you’re gay?” while my dad said, “as long you keep getting good grades in school, I don’t care Ian,” with a smile while putting his arm on my shoulder.

But, David voted for George W. Bush both times. He was a registered Republican. I wasn’t allowed to tell his side of the family I was gay for quite some time. He was afraid his parents would disown me. When the topic of homosexuality came up once, my grandmother Crawford said those perfect lines that every conservative grandmother in made for TV movies says, “It’s fine as long as they keep it behind closed doors.”

I had never been as politically involved as I was for that election. I had never paid such close attention to the news, nor had I read so many articles about the candidates. I even tried to get my parents to watch Fahrenheit 9–11, but both refused. Working at Barnes & Noble forced me to become more politically active. Sean Hannity had apparently informed his ever-faithful audience that Barnes & Noble employees were hiding the conservative books in the back. So every time we were sold out of one, the customers would flip out and accuse us of having a liberal bias and telling us what they heard on Hannity’s show. Things like, “of course you are,” and “stupid liberals,” were heard on a daily basis at this specific Barnes & Noble in New Jersey. So to stay uneducated in that election just wasn’t practical.

Lauren and I nervously waited by the wall to see whether we’d get tickets to be admitted into the seating area or if we’d be forced to stand by the doors. Our friend with the sign kept making comments to us. “These people here are a bunch of assholes,” she said not so quietly. She was with a few other people who were not quite as loud as she. David Crawford stood closer to the entrance by the opposing wall; I noticed he kept glancing over at me. Eventually, one woman gave me an extra ticket she had. I walked over to my dad and gave it to him.

“You sure son? Why don’t you take it? I can watch from here.”

“No, I don’t want to leave Lauren by herself. It’s either two tickets or nothing for me,” I said not really making eye contact.

“Okay, thanks,” he said with a smile.

My Dad walked in. Lauren, our friend with the sign, her friends and I waited, and then about fifteen minutes after everyone was seated, the people running the function started handing out tickets to people who didn’t have any. Most of us who didn’t have tickets were “liberals who came to shoot down the opposition.” Lauren and I were both handed tickets by one of the security guards.

“You two can have these tickets,” the security guard told us.

Our friend with the big sign did not get a ticket.

I found a safe seat in the back row next to a cute hipster girl wearing a “Vote Kerry” t-shirt.

“Why the hell do you get to sit next to the cute girl? You don’t even like girls,” Lauren whispered a little too loudly.

“Shut up.”

I was shaking. I wasn’t even sure why I was so nervous — but I definitely was.

Lauren looked over at me and held my hand, “Relax, Mary, we’ll be ok.”

“I know, I’m just angry already. I’m getting nervous poops just being here.”

As I tried to make the stage burst into flames with my mind, an overly excited guy around my age came out with a microphone.

“Are you all ready? With a degree in law and numerous best-selling books such as Slander, High Crimes and Misdemeanors, and Treason — here she is, the talented, the beautiful Ann Coulter!”

The applauds outnumbered the boos, but at least the boos were still there.

Lauren and I sat in silence, we did not clap or stand, nor did we boo.

“Hello America! Oh boy, look at this turnout,” was the first thing she said. Her voice was deep and evil.

I immediately hated her. I couldn’t even pretend that I wasn’t doing what most liberals do — assuming the worst about conservatives. She had such a smug tone in her voice, I hate you, I thought as I stared at her bony frame.

“Did you all notice the heightened security they have here? I bet the only security they had for Michael Moore was by the dessert tray.”

The room broke out into roaring laughter. I thought it was immature to attack someone’s weight, but color me a human Tumblr page.

“Liberals try and romanticize the lives of gays. They bring up gay marriage as a tool to make them seem like better people. Marriage by definition is a bond between a woman and a man. I don’t hate gay people, but it’s a proven fact that 80% of America is against gay marriage.”

I was furious. Everyone clapped. It seemed so rehearsed — she could’ve farted on stage and they still would’ve clapped. It all reminded me of what little I had read in her book.

“I mean, racial profiling works. It’s proven.”

The audience clapped.

“America needs to learn morals, morals that liberals are trying to get rid of. The Republican Party is not the one for rich white men, the Democratic Party is. Look at its leaders like the Kennedys or the Clintons.”

The audience clapped again.

I grew angrier with every word she spoke. I had never watched someone speak such hateful and ignorant words. Well, never someone who I was watching on a stage. Normally, I’d be sitting at home with two fists full of salt and vinegar potato chips and staring at a TV screen if I was watching someone speak the way Ann Coulter had.

“I mean…why do you think liberals always show the blacks at the Democratic conventions? They need the minority vote, we don’t. Liberals use statistics to lie all the time.”

I quickly scanned the room for my dad, to make sure he wasn’t enjoying this, but I had no idea where he was.

“Ian, she is such a fucking cunt. Can we leave?”

“No Lauren, I can’t possibly. I wanna wait for the question and answer part; I have plenty to say to her.” I was unsure of my confidence level. I was angry and had a lot to say, but could I really stand up in front of this room and try to do battle with this dragon?

I started sweating, I was so mad. I looked at Lauren who had tears in her eyes. The hipster girl next to me mumbled, “Fuck this” and stormed out.

“Ian, I need to leave. Let’s follow the cute girl.”

“I can’t, I’m sorry. I need to ask her a question.”

“She probably won’t even call on us; we’re obviously not going to agree with her. We’re the gayest people here.”

Ann’s speech didn’t last very long. She babbled on for about a half an hour, then arrived at the Q&A part.

“I’d prefer to start off with the opposition. Any intelligent questions from liberals?”

She was daring me.

I raised my hand as high as possible.

“You in the back row with the black shirt and tie.”

Lauren’s eyes got about as big as they could. I started to sweat even more. I couldn’t believe I was coming face to face with a famous figure that I hated. My heart was pounding. I couldn’t breathe. What was I going to say? I stood up, trying to seem as not gay as possible.

“Okay, so…you said that um…80% of America is against gay marriage…and you also said…that Liberals use statistics to lie…um…”

“Bklih-Faggot-jlkop!” was what I heard yelled from the right of me.

“I don’t think I am talking to you,” I barked back, trying not to let anyone see that I was sweating bullets and shaking like a Chihuahua.

“No, please, let him finish, I’d like to hear what he has to say. Go ahead.”

The great Ann Coulter came to my rescue, how humiliating.

“Okay, you say liberals use statistics to lie and that 80% of America is against gay marriage — can you please tell me who this 80% polled in this statistic is? It sure wasn’t me.”

“Okay well, that 80% is America.”

The crowd clapped. She answered my question with the statement that spawned my question. My first thought was my dad had better not be clapping. But I had to move forward rather than dwell on her non-answer to my question.

“Okay, well you also say that a ban on gay marriage is necessary to uphold the sanctity of marriage — well what about the high divorce rate and celebrities who get remarried constantly? Is that upholding the sanctity? Should divorce be illegal?”

“That’s a very good question, but the high divorce rate is due to sham marriages such as the Clintons.”

The Clintons. Of course. Silly me.

“They aren’t even divorced!” I yelled in response. But I might as well have been yelling into an abyss; no one heard my retort, nor did anyone care what I had to say. Ann Coulter had won this round, or at least she had in her mind (and the minds of every conservative in the room). I was drowned out in a sea of applause. I was defeated by Ann Coulter. Fuck.

More people asked questions, one man even told her she was an “idiot” which made me happy. But I was too upset to pay attention. I felt like I was going to throw up — but I held my composure, I wasn’t going to let this shitbag get the best of me.

“Ian, you okay? Do you want to leave?”

“No, I won’t leave until this is over; I don’t want anyone in this room to feel that I’m leaving because I was proven wrong. That woman has just been promoted to the top of my hate list — so I’m not gonna let her think she somehow has the upper hand.”

“We can stay, but I’m sure she doesn’t give a shit either way.”

“We’re staying!” I folded my arms like the brat I was.

People started applauding, and Ann walked off stage — much to my dismay — without having a pie thrown in her face or her slipping on a banana peel. As we made our way out, I was overcome with an intense feeling of defeat. I knew that I wasn’t defeated, but try telling that to Ann Coulter. Lauren and I stood outside and waited for my dad. He came up to me smiling.

“Shut up, I don’t want to hear it,” I barked.

“Hi,” Lauren tried to make up for my mood. We made our way towards my dad’s car. I walked ahead of both Lauren and my dad.

“Ian, at least she let you speak…”

“Dad, can you just not talk? That fucking stupid dickhead didn’t say one intelligent thing. I asked her a serious question and she couldn’t even answer it. I had a man yell something homophobic at me that I could barely even understand. I’d just prefer we not talk about this right now.”

“Okay, son.” We sat in silence as John Mellancamp sang to us about Jack and Diane.

We pulled into the driveway, and I got out of the car and slammed the door. I walked inside and saw my mom sitting at the kitchen table.

“So, how was it? Tell me how it went? Did your father decide to leave me for her?”

“Let’s not talk…” But before I could finish, my dad cut me off.

“Honey, I have never been more proud of our son. He stood up to a woman who he knew would shoot him down. He had the courage to stand up in a room and go against what everyone thought. He discussed something he firmly believes in — gay rights — and didn’t care who backed him up. Our son never once wavered, not even when he was yelled at. Ian, I know you don’t want to hear what I have to say right now, but I don’t think I have ever been more proud of you.”

And suddenly, my defeat didn’t seem so terrible.

About the Author:

Ian Carlos Crawford grew up in southern New Jersey and, like most people from NJ, he graduated from Rutgers University. He moved to New York for grad school and graduated from New School with an MFA in nonfiction writing. He currently lives in Brooklyn, NY with his boyfriend and his straight best friend. His writing has appeared on sites like Geeks Out, BuzzFeed, NewNowNext, and other random corners of the internet. He is currently shopping around his fiction manuscript (you can view the book trailer here). He loves pugs, comic books, To Kill a Mockingbird, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. You can follow him on Twitter: @ianxcarlos