Monday, June 13, 2011

Shebonics.

Ok, so when I first came out, I did what any self-respecting homosexual would do—I moved to West Hollywood and got a job at a gay bar!  Now, at the time, I’d been out and proud for about a year or 2.  And, being Mr. Know-it-all, I thought I had the whole thing figured out.  I mean, I’m from Portland fucking Oregon, one of the most liberal cities you can find.  All we do is smoke pot and play in trees, so being gay up there isn’t really that big of a deal (lots of lesbians too, because they like plaid, and so do Oregonians).  Yea, I thought I knew everything there was to know about being gay.
            Until they started fucking with my goddamn pronouns.
            I remember when I started working at the bar, and everyone would tell stories from the night before, or about some crazy drunk customer.  And they kept talking about “her” or “she.”  I would look around the bar, trying to pin-point which girl they were talking about, only to realize that there was rarely, if ever, a female in the entire establishment.  We only allow two in at a time. 
It’s true! 
Ok, that’s a lie, mostly.
            So if there weren’t any girls in this place, who the fuck were my co-workers talking about?  And why did all these ladies have such manly names, like Don, or Will, or Mike?
            Well, as it turns out, they were talking about guys.  Apparently, in the gay vernacular, gender-words are quite interchangeable.  At first, it’s quite confusing, but soon you’re calling him a she and saying hers instead of his.  And “what’s up man” gets replaced with a simple “hey girl.”
            I also realized that this wasn’t an attack or insult on ones masculinity—it was, in fact, a term of endearment.  It could be incredibly emasculating and endearing at the same time, which is an amazing dichotomy to find, and only the most secure men can shoulder such a thing.  Some of the most masculine men I know have absolutely no problem referring to themselves as a “she.”  And, as someone who loves irony, this just tickles me pink.
            This also applies to various nicknames as well.  It took me a couple months to figure out that “Mary” wasn’t an actual person, but a nickname used to describe, well, anyone.  Except for my customer whose name is actually Mary, I call her Mike.  And “Blanche” is a character from Golden Girls, not an actual customer.  Dorothy, Wilma, and Ladyface are all acceptable terms as well.  It’s like when straight guys call each other “dude,” or “man,” or “homie” in the locker room.  Except we have sex with each other in the locker room. 
            …also just like straight men.  Oh snap.
            I can only assume this was our community’s way of taking power over the insults that often plague us.  Just like we happily refer to each other as fag, when we feminize (is that even a word?) each other, it takes the sting off when someone uses a term like that derogatorily. 
            Nevertheless, unless you have been allowed into our community, and have proved your love and tolerance, it’s never ok for a straight person to call us fag, or her, or Mary—just like, as a white guy, I would never call a black guy the N word.  See?  I don’t even want to write it. 
            Eventually I got the hang of my new vocabulary, and once I did, it became quite entertaining.  Us gays are quite witty and love playing with words almost as much as we like playing with dicks; we’re known for having quite a quick tongue.  At one point, while referring to one of my male customers as a her, my much older and sassier coworker whipped around and snapped “Don’t call him a her!  She doesn’t like that!”
            Yea, even I still have trouble figuring that one out sometimes.