Fridae

"Never be bullied into silence. Never allow yourself to be made a victim. Accept no one's definition of your life; define yourself."

- Harvey Fierstein

One night some time back, I became a PTQ (aka Public Transport Queen) and was reduced to taking the bus home because my car decided to throw a hissy fit and had to be sent to the workshop.

By all accounts, the journey should have been an uneventful ride home but things do not always turn out the way we expect them to be.

Seated directly in front of me was a heterosexual teenage couple. A few seats further ahead were four "obviously" gay men having an animated exchange. By the term "obvious", I am referring (however politically incorrect) to their exaggerated hand gestures and their penchant for decibel breaking diva-speak.

At a particular point, one of the more dramatic members of the group who was holding court snapped his fingers in a wide arc over his head and uttered what appeared to be a saucy and salacious statement. This truly Oscar-worthy moment soon reduced his group into a mess of high-pitched cackles.

Unbeknownst to them, this public display of "gay behaviour" did not go down well with the aforementioned heterosexual guy and gal.

"I hate faggots," I overheard Tommy (whose name I gathered by eavesdropping on their conversation) whispering to his girlfriend (whom I shall henceforth christen the Salty Shrew for her distinctive rodent-like appearance and her caustic remarks).

"They're such an embarrassment to themselves and to society," Tommy said in a self-righteous tone much like that assumed by Judge Judy in her TV court appearances. Commented the equally homophobic Salty Shrew: "Can't stand men who don't act like men."

The group of gay men, oblivious to the negativity and hatred seething just a few rows behind them, then stood up with a flourish and rang for the next stop, all the while chatting away excitedly.

Tommy and the Salty Shrew never shifted their gaze from the band of merry gentlemen and followed their progress through the bus window as they walked towards a club with a snaking queue made up of men dressed mostly in sprayed-on tees and butt-enhancing jeans.

"I bet they're going to that gay club over there. It's a well-known gay hangout," Tommy remarked confidently to the Salty Shrew.

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"Looks like a homo-pit," she replied, obviously impressed by her partner's astute assessment (though totally in the dark about how he came to that bit of information in the first place).

The gay club in question is, for the sake of convenience, hypothetically called Club V. While certainly familiar to the local gay population on Sunday nights, it could hardly be labeled a queer hangout on any other nights of the week.

In fact, Club V caters to a distinctly heterosexual crowd most of the time and only offers its clubbing premises for gay patronage on Sunday (traditionally regarded as clubland Siberia) in the hope of capturing their share of the formidable pink dollar.

"I hope the club gets raided and all the faggots arrested," the Salty Shrew proclaimed in tones of grave finality before settling into the arms of her gay-bashing boyfriend. Obviously pleased with themselves, they proceeded to engage in whispering sweet-nothings into each other's loathsome ears.

I watched the backs of their thick heads as the bus rumbled on.

I wondered how they would react if I smacked them really hard on their heads and spit the words "breeders" in their stunned faces.

As I brooded, I found myself wondering why we, as a community, continue to pander to heterosexual society and remain passive victims of gay bashing most of the time.

I, for one, don't care if the straight community likes any of us.

I'm tired of being nice and friendly.

I'm tired of worrying about what sort of image I give straight people of the gay community.

I'm tired of trying to make them like us.

Most of all, I'm tired of trying to fit in with them all the time.

Everywhere I look, we're bending over backward to be extra nice and act extra "straight" so that straight people will like us or at least pretend to.

Take the example of Sir Elton John, a leading gay rights advocate and champion in the search for a cure for AIDS, who for all his "fabulousness" finally caved in and performed a duet with the rapper Eminem, an out and proud homophobe.

But should straight bashing be the gay community's answer to gay bashing by our heterosexual counterparts?

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I should think not.

In his book "Perversion: The Erotic Form of Hatred" (1975), Professor Robert J. Stoller said: "Homosexuals, taught self-hatred in childhood, persist in attracting punishment because in part they agree with the cruel straight society... Revenge energizes aspects of many homosexuals' behaviour... In order to salvage a sense of value from foci of despair, they must strike back at all who have qualities like old enemies of their childhood."

With all due respect to Professor Stoller, I beg to differ.

While it is true that straight bashing may be the obvious way of getting back at heterosexual society for their gay bashing behaviour, I wondered if it would ever be or become a truly effective weapon in our never-ending fight against homophobia.

The reasons are simple.

By engaging in straight bashing, we would be doing to heterosexuals what Tommy and the Salty Shrew did to our gay compatriots just a while ago. What's more, we would be guilty of reverse discrimination and bigotry ourselves, and thus become what we hated in the first place.

Worse, we would be guilty of further propagating the "homo versus hetero" mentality and encouraging the further polarization of society into two divisive and non-communicating categories: us and them.

But does that mean that I should let the incident slide and become a passive by-stander while members of our community are abused and vilified for being what they are?

I think not.

Never underestimate an enraged Queen with a Glenn Close fixation.

As the bus neared my stop, I stood up and walked towards the exit. Then I pretended to cast a casual look back and did my best impression of being seized by a wave of sapphic recognition as my eyes alighted on Tommy.

Adopting my most fey demeanour (stereotypes be damned), I walked up to them and exclaimed loudly: "By Dorothy's ruby slippers! Is that you Tommy boy? You never told me you had a fag hag! My, my, you're looking so straight these days! By the way, why aren't you at Club V on a Sunday night?"

Before any of them could even answer, I leaned down and whispered into the ear of a startled Tommy: "You should really watch what you say. They're more of us homos around than you think. And we're watching you."

As I alighted from the bus, I could have sworn I saw Tommy's face turn a deep scarlet and a dark cloud descend upon the face of the Salty Shrew.

Strike one for the Homo Team.