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Stories from a man who fails to meet media expectations of what it means to be gay:
white, frivolous, over sexed yet sexless, shrill, single, stylish, a clown, unimportant, et al.
Mon 07/15/2002
Numbers and stories
Numbers:
Number of times I have been called a traitor to my race (at work):
I stopped counting at 15.
Number of times I have been accused of being racist (again, at work):
I stopped counting at 20.
Number of times people have accused me of being racist towards them during a telephone conversation despite my not having any idea what race they where (yup, at work):
about 5 or so.
Number of times I've had racist epitaphs yelled at me:
I never kept track, although I can recall this happening 2 separate times at UCI and once outside of a gay bar
Number of times someone assumed that I was a waiter or busboy at a restaurant because of my skin color:
I�m not positive of the total number, but at least 4 or 5 times.
Number of times this happened at a wedding, which got the bride utterly ticked off at the caterer for demanding that I bus a table:
once.
Number of times I've had employees follow me around a store to prevent me from absconding with the merchandise:
many, many times.
Number of people who told me that I only got into UCI because of my race (read: affirmative action):
2.
Number of people who thought that, but never said anything to me:
probably a whole lot more.
Number of times that people have assumed that I don't speak English:
A bunch of times. Never kept track.
Number of times that I used that as an excuse not to talk to them:
I ain't telling.
Stories:
Soon after starting college, a fellow freshman student told me in a conspiratorial whisper: "Boy, there are SO many Asian students at this school. I've never been around so many Asians in my life before."
I didn't respond. I didn't tell him that earlier I had been thinking "Gosh, there are so many white people here. I've never been around so many white people before."
Roughly ten years ago John and I spent a day shopping around for aquarium equipment. In one of the stores, the owner followed around us at a distance. He never said a word to us. Instead, he glared at us with arms crossed over his chest, waiting for us to do something wrong.
John was annoyed at the man, rightfully so. The owner�s actions didn't bother me, or rather, I didn't find them unusual. I became annoyed with myself when I realized that I had become so blas� about such behavior.
Years ago there was a night when an older Latino guy tried to pick me up at a dance club. At twenty I thought of him as an older man, although thinking about it now, he was probably only about thirty or so.
He was friendly and offered to buy me drinks. He was also a smoker and a bit greasy looking. I wasn't interested in him. When he realized this, he asked me why.
I told him that I had a boyfriend and he asked gruffly if my boyfriend was white. When I answered yes, he said he had some advice for me.
His advise was to warn me that the relationship was not going to last. He said that White men were only prepared to look at Hispanic men as sex objects and that it was impossible to have a true relationship with someone who could/would only see you as a sex trophy, and not as a real person.
He then told me that white men were shallow and cold. That only another Hispanic man would be able to give me the heat and passion that I needed. He ended by telling me that I was still young and that I would eventually get over my fixation on white men. He only hoped that I wouldn�t get too hurt.
I remember thinking �huh� as he walked away taking a long drag on his cigarette.
My second year at Irvine, one of my classes had a weekly discussion group. Everyone in the group was very young, and except for the Latino T.A. and myself, everyone in the group was white and came from an upper middle class background or higher. We got off topic one day and started talking about immigration.
The T.A. and I did not take part in the discussion.
During an exchange about Mexicans taking jobs away from real Americans, a blond, surfer wanna be guy said that illegals were the only ones who would pick produce on his dad's farm. That none of the legal Mexicans in town were willing to do the work.
I remember looking at the T.A. at that point. I could tell that we were both thinking "Dios, save me, I'm in Hell." After a couple more minutes of this, the T.A. got the conversation under control and back on topic.
A few years ago I was hanging out with a friend at a random coffee house. We had been having a rambling conversation about everything and nothing when one of us jokingly said that it was too bad we had never been boyfriends. I no longer remember who made the comment, but I do remember that we both simultaneously answered that it would never have lasted.
I assumed that our hypothetical relationship would be doomed because I would ultimately not be able to handle his constant smoking, his more than occasional recreational drug use, his lack of ambition, or his superior attitude. When I asked him why he thought it wouldn't work, he said "Because I'm White and you're Mexican."
I just looked at him with a raised eyebrow. He raised his eyebrow back at me and said "I've had Mexican boyfriends before, I know how it would end."
My expression not changing, he elaborated that "We would fight about sex all the time."
Realizing that this was still not enough of an answer, he told me that as a healthy Latin Male, I no doubt had a once a day sex drive, while as a poor, weak, feeble, late thirties white boy, he only had a once a week sex drive, which of course meant that as a couple we would have constant fights about our sex life. He wouldn�t be enough for me. I would have torrid affairs. He would become jealous and bitter. Eventually we would hate each other and call it quits.
I did not have a response to this and did not answer when he asked me why I thought we wouldn't work out as couple.
more later,
nico
Music:
a random classical music station
Want:
a good neck rub
Elsewhere:
a freaky movie I�ll most likely write about in the next entry.
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