(i'm sorry matthew)
whenever i think about hate crimes i get really uptight, all paranoid
and defensive and angry about whether i should even be talking about
them. here's my score at the age of 27: one broken jaw; a permanent
case of tmj; one concussion; one case of post-traumatic stress disorder;
and a serious case of the heebie-jeebies when i walk by groups of
people inside or on the street, specially if they make comments about
me.
here's the catch: i don't know if any of the times that i've been
attacked, physically or verbally, count as a hate crime.
the broken jaw was clearly motivated by the desire for stuff, he
grabbed my purse as he ran away. so, economics, yes--yet why a blow
hard enough to fracture my jaw in three places? i cannot help but
believe, in my heart, that there was more than an economic motive.
skin color becomes a possible factor, this man was black and i am
pale. so does gender--here was me, at 19, in my little dress for work,
not having learned yet to pass as a woman very well. i don't know
if it was a hate crime, but whenever i bite down wrong and cringe
in pain i can't help but know that i am a target of hate.
the concussion, then. three crewcut white boys in a youth hostel
who tried to kill me and my girlfriend in an drunken-idiot way. the
owners of the youth hostel who kicked us out for making trouble. our
first crime was to argue with the white boys; our second was to accuse
them before the owner. hate, yes. but again--which part of my identity
were these guys attacking? the nerve of being a woman who told them
to be quiet at 3 am when i was trying to sleep? the insult of being
a dyke, of holding hands and giggling with my girlfriend in front
of them? the offense of being a punk, purple hair in a long mohawk?
the sin of being an arab, since i had talked openly to sammer about
our fear during the gulf war?
damn shame that my attackers have never paused to fill out a questionnaire
to let me know which part of me they are trying to hurt, which identity
they hate.
the verbal attackers are clearer, they have a tendency to shout
what they dislike about me, returning favorites are fag, and dyke,
and cunt. well, yeah. when i'm in a good mood i can laugh it off,
but when i lived in a neighborhood where i got it every time i walked
out of the house it wore me down. so did the time somebody spit on
me in high school, i waited til i got onto the bus and it drove away
before i could bring myself to touch my hair and find the sticky evidence
of their hatred.
yet i feel like a wimp when i even talk about this. i have friends
who go through it so much more than me, every day, every week, so
much worse. my worst attack is matthew's dream, i'm sure, while he
was dying chained to that fence. not being able to eat pizza isn't
much next to not being alive.
(i'm sorry, matthew, i'm so sorry.)
ah, hell, i don't know. i've got friends who i want to apologize
to whenever i say the words "when i was bashed" (it's not
as bad as yours, i'm sorry, i'll shut up now, it doesn't count like
yours) and i've got friends who i sometimes hate for never being hit
at all. i've never managed to fight back and i've never hurt the people
who've hurt my loves, although i have dreamed of it.
i don't know that i have anything else to say, really.