A Queer Slur on the Sidewalk
Ruminations on justice through the lens of hate speech
As I was pondering the meaning of justice in response to the latest Prism & Pen writing prompt, I couldn’t help but focus on its opposite: injustice.
I could write about grand and successful protests, the start of Pride as we know it today, or how people sometimes get what they deserve, but my mind kept coming back to the small injustices we all face every day, especially if we are queer or a person of color.
When push comes to shove, justice eludes us — sometimes massively, but most often in day-to-day encounters that don’t matter to anyone but us.
As an adult, I’ve been called a faggot by a stranger only once.
It was a warm summer night. My (gay) friends and I had gathered in my apartment to watch RuPaul’s Drag Race. Wine was poured, snacks were munched, and opinions were had.
After the eliminated queen sashayed away, we spruced up to go have a few drinks at our favorite local gay bar.
One of my friends had offered to drive us, and he was parked about a block away from my apartment. I live in the heart of a downtown area, so while it quiets down on the evenings and weekends, there’s always a slight bustle that breathes life into the city.
Darkness had fallen as we trotted our way down the street, laughing at each other’s jokes and relishing the buzz of the wine. Our clothes ranged from “he must be straight” to “I’ve never seen anything gayer,” but taken as a whole it was apparent that we were a gaggle of gays.
As we reached my friend’s car, another vehicle passed by on the street. Before we could pile in, a man poked his head out the passenger window of the passing car and yelled “hey, fags!” before another man followed up by calling us “a group of fairies.”
As cowards do, they drove away before any of us could truly process what had happened and generate a response — not that one would have mattered, or helped the situation. In fact, minorities are often too afraid to respond to aggressive hate speech in the streets, because we never know when we might provoke violence by simply defending ourselves against vocal attacks.
So we brushed it off, laughing at their ignorance and refusing to let it ruin our night.
Yet, I simmered. I went silent in the car, thinking about the audacity it took for someone to be so callous to complete strangers. I couldn’t imagine going out of my way to make someone I’ve never met — and would never see again — miserable.
I thought about justice. I plotted excellent retorts that I wish I would have said. I pictured their car spinning off the road at the next block, not killing them but perhaps breaking some bones.
In reality, justice was not had.
Those men probably drove safely to their destination, ensconced in the privilege that will allow them to continue to degrade strangers on the street.
So often, we have to learn to let go of the concept of justice. The world, while beautiful, is painfully unjust. Bad people do bad things and get away with it, while good people suffer. Saints die of cancer and demons become billionaires.
If we were to put all of our eggs in the basket of justice, we would live a life of constant disappointment.
The reality, especially for minorities, is that justice is a concept best viewed as a dessert — a rare, unexpected treat that satisfies immeasurably when it is properly served.
In order to get through life, we have to hold on to the moments that bring us true justice, but also learn to let go of the moments that don’t.
After all, the lack of justice in this world is the biggest injustice of all.
This story is a response to Prism & Pen’s writing prompt No Justice, No Peace.