Three Letters

F-A-G

As an openly gay man, it’s hard enough to protect yourself from the realities of a daily existence on this planet.

I have been beyond lucky in coming out early to a loving family and while still insulated in high school where I had a ever growing loving tribe of performers.

From the age of 17 to today (I am now 30), I have always been active in the theatre community. It’s one of the first things I seek when I move to a new city. It’s where I know I will fit in, be safe, find others like me, and most importantly, where I can be myself 100% of the time.

Since I figured this out very early on, most of the horrible things that happen to the gay community only affect me as a witness or a bystander, but never as a victim. I’m so lucky to say that.

Until the day after this election.

I don’t want this to sound over-dramatic, but I have never really had internet hate thrown at me, so this was a huge first for me.

I was called a fag.

I have actually never been called a fag. Not like this. Not by a stranger.

My instagram page is 100% public, and I used 2 hashtags, #feminism (like the shirt) and #Stillwithher

This guy had to have searched those hashtags to find me. That’s the logical conclusion. I don’t know this person at all. It blows my mind to think of how he landed on my page and felt the need to make this comment.

This was also less than 48 hours after Hillary Clinton lost the election. I was hurt, devastated, and looking for solace from friends as many other were, and posted how this was my armor for the day.

This person felt that armor needed to be removed.

I want to believe that this is something that just happened. That it was not a politically-driven, hate-fueled sputtering from a stranger, but a freak glitch in the matrix. I want to believe that bigots are not as emboldened by this election as social media is having me believe. I want to continue to hide in my insulated bubble that I have spent a lifetime constructing. I would like to maintain the safe distance I have built from violence and bullying. I am scared that the next four years are going to tear this apart.

I appreciate and cherish the immediate response from friends and family after I posted a screenshot on Facebook. That is something that I don’t want to forget, I love that I have such a strong, healthy and reliable network of allies.

I am now at a place at odds with myself. I see these things, I read the news, and I address my personal fears. I struggle with wanting to hide, wanting to bury my head in the sand and hope that it just goes away. I read stories like my own — the women in hijabs who are getting their head scarfs ripped off their heads. The mothers of friends who are told in grocery lines that they hope this will soon be a whites-only store, Nazi paraphernalia being left on people’s cars.

I am looking for more ways to stand up. To speak out.

This is not normal. This is not okay. We all deserve to be here. We should all feel safe around our neighbors, in our schools, and the places we worship.

So far, I have been beyond lucky. This is the tiniest blip on the radar of a privileged life, and I want to use that to help, and to heal. I am officially removing my head from the sand.

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