Dirty
Work
It seems, for some reason, that many of my real life stories center around catching the streetcar. I was standing on Canal Street just the other day hiding in the shade of the Rubenstein’s building waiting for the City Park/Museum car to take me home after a challenging day at work when I noticed an older teenage boy noticing me. He was with a group of others comprised of a middle aged man and woman and several other teens. I couldn’t help noticing that this one young man kept noticing me repeatedly. I should have known something was up ‘cause that sort of thing doesn’t naturally happen to me anymore, which is a whole ‘nother story. Anyway, after several awkward glances, he and a young girl of about the same age approached me and asked me about my shirt. I was wearing a T-shirt with the Human Rights Campaign logo that says “CLAIM YOUR TRUTH.” I chose from my limited wardrobe that morning this shirt because it’s the lightest thing I have to endure New Orleans’ stifling summer heat. He said, “Um, we were looking at your shirt and, um, claim your truth, what does that mean?” Now it all made sense. I asked, “Are you with a religious organization?” “Yes,” they said. I also should have known by the glazed over conditioned look in their eyes that they weren’t doing this on their own. Again, “What does that mean?” I looked them each in the eye and said, “It means that if you are homosexual that this is a truth about yourself and you should embrace it.” And before they could start in on their easily predictable pre-recorded admonishments, I added, “Look, I’m not interested in any religious lectures today, OK?” They accepted that and we moved along. Thank goodness the streetcar was on its way.
Once this had settled and I was comfortably on the way home I realized what I wanted to and should have said. “Run, get away, call your parents to come get you, now.” But then, those could have been the parents or their parents probably sent them there. I got angry with the remembrance of the kids. Who are you to come up to a fifty year old elder and question them? And then I rightfully got angry with the adults. How dare you bring these kids to the city and make them do your dirty work?
It seems, for some reason, that many of my real life stories center around catching the streetcar. I was standing on Canal Street just the other day hiding in the shade of the Rubenstein’s building waiting for the City Park/Museum car to take me home after a challenging day at work when I noticed an older teenage boy noticing me. He was with a group of others comprised of a middle aged man and woman and several other teens. I couldn’t help noticing that this one young man kept noticing me repeatedly. I should have known something was up ‘cause that sort of thing doesn’t naturally happen to me anymore, which is a whole ‘nother story. Anyway, after several awkward glances, he and a young girl of about the same age approached me and asked me about my shirt. I was wearing a T-shirt with the Human Rights Campaign logo that says “CLAIM YOUR TRUTH.” I chose from my limited wardrobe that morning this shirt because it’s the lightest thing I have to endure New Orleans’ stifling summer heat. He said, “Um, we were looking at your shirt and, um, claim your truth, what does that mean?” Now it all made sense. I asked, “Are you with a religious organization?” “Yes,” they said. I also should have known by the glazed over conditioned look in their eyes that they weren’t doing this on their own. Again, “What does that mean?” I looked them each in the eye and said, “It means that if you are homosexual that this is a truth about yourself and you should embrace it.” And before they could start in on their easily predictable pre-recorded admonishments, I added, “Look, I’m not interested in any religious lectures today, OK?” They accepted that and we moved along. Thank goodness the streetcar was on its way.
Once this had settled and I was comfortably on the way home I realized what I wanted to and should have said. “Run, get away, call your parents to come get you, now.” But then, those could have been the parents or their parents probably sent them there. I got angry with the remembrance of the kids. Who are you to come up to a fifty year old elder and question them? And then I rightfully got angry with the adults. How dare you bring these kids to the city and make them do your dirty work?
