Sushi sounded good, but I didn’t ask for a side of slur.
The fraternity house sounded fun, but I could’ve done without the verbal 3 a.m. daggers.
The same goes for dinner the other night. I loved catching up with friends, but the surrounding looks when my pals across the table – a gay couple – kissed goodbye were nothing short of painful.
I relentlessly situate myself in comfortable places, happy spaces – the kind where I can be me, my friends can be them and there’s no interruption. And, no, I’m not a hermit; I just avoid most places with a heavy Trump-supporting population and a lawn sign to prove it.
Okay, okay, I’m sure that notion means I’m guilty of generalizing, but I try to crisis proof my day-to-day life. Maybe that’s my OCD kicking in; I do love to micromanage (a shameless confession you’ll come to see a graf deep in my personal writing).
There are some places that don’t need a welcome mat at the front door to alert an appreciated entrance. The same goes for negative space. Sometimes you can just sense it – a look of disdain turns to a feeling of oppression and, suddenly, an urge to flee.
But, when I find my sacred places prodded by the relentless, fiery blow poke of hate – bombarded by a “bigot” – I’m apt to retreat, avert my eyes, die a little and rebirth myself in the comfort of my home, friends by my side and a drink in my hand.
I averted my eyes when the old lady spit her dirty slur at me (and, for the record, I really just wanted my California roll).
When the letter laden, muscle maddened frat guy screamed a more graphic, much louder slur on that RPI street corner, I kept walking.
As the kind-hearted couple I admire exchanged a harmless kiss – and I felt the discomfort closing in – I shifted my line of vision.
“It’s not happening, Liam” took over and suddenly there’s was no need to face the problem head-on. It’s this sick game of ignorance I play. I think we all do.
Out of sight out of mind, they call it.
But, in those moments, I failed a little. And every time we consciously play dumb – assuming our voices can’t make a ripple, our influences an ocean of change – we all fail.
“Why didn’t I look hate in the face? Why didn’t I fight back?” I ask myself, time and time again. I reflect back on pained scenarios, ones where I had a chance to be vocal, but thrust myself in a cage of comfort.
But there’s a second chance in those post-word dagger, introspective thoughts: feeling uncomfortable.
As of late, every time those sort of hate-filled sentiments rise up and present themselves – in the news, in pop culture or in my face – I’ve tried to redirect my thinking.
Here’s my new motto: It’s easy to retreat to safe spaces – assuming a “bigot will forever stay a bigot.” But, when you feel marginalized, disgruntled, pushed aside – like your worth is invalidated, your very being unacceptable – you’re given a look at a foreign mindset. In a rare, cosmic moment, you’ve been gifted the superpower of situational control.
There’s a spotlight on you. Silence is neutral. Response takes two forms: proactive or reactive.
Don’t be like me in the sushi place, or me at the frat house or me in the dining hall because to look hate in the face and say “hello” is to put down a welcome mat for yourself.
The moment you respond with an air of compassion for an isolated life of apathy – a forgiving smile, acknowledging “hey there” to hate – you declare your presence as valid and claim your seat at the table.
View the slur as a chance to educate, not an invite to retreat.
mcgurllt14@bonaventure.edu
