... while completing a "honey-do" shopping trip for laundry detergent yesterday.
I pulled our battered mini-van into the space beside a slightly battered Mitsubishi Eclipse (red; two doors; if such demographics matter to you), and notice something hanging from the mirror as I got out.
Usually, other people's fuzzy dice don't attract my attention.
But this time I happened to catch the angle just right to read (in red letters on a rectangular blue card):
I (heart) Lesbians
Which caused a variety of seemingly disconnected thoughts to go prancing through my mind....
The first one (got to admit it for truth in advertising sake) resulted from my upbringing in rural Virginia where every fourteen year-old Good Ole Boy in training has a copy of Penthouse stashed under his bed was: Me, too!
Then, remembered adolescent hormonal rush out of the way, I became more contemplative.
The only additional glance I allowed myself showed that the car had Delaware plates. Making the (perhaps unwarranted) assumption that the driver would be a woman, I wondered about the nature of the public claim she is making.
I'm a lesbian and proud of it!
One of my best friends or relatives is a lesbian and I'm proud of them!
In your face, white trash homophobes!
Wow, whoever thought they had such neat danglies at the discount store!"
We live in a world of branding and slogans writ large across our chests, our butts, our bumpers, and in some cases tattooed right above our ass cheeks. My youngest daughter is twelve and just beginning to have an inkling (hormones, again) about here sexuality; call me a neanderthal, but we don't let her wear Abercrombie & Fitch slogans across her butt. (It would just increase the number of boys I had to threaten, anyway.)
Maybe the driver of the car is trying to make a statement about the kind of society that she wants to live in, as opposed to the one she actually inhabits--a society wherein its pretty much OK to be yourself.
It ain't necessarily so in this one. I teach Gay & Lesbian history, and I post here pretty often and pretty aggressively for civil rights for Americans of all sexual orientations. I got over having to say, "I'm not gay, but...." a long time ago. Still, you'd never believe how many people contact me to tell me that they're glad I'm posting, and someday maybe they will be able to come out of the closet. They see the progress we've made in society over the past two decades as only baby steps, and they're pretty damn sure that they will become instant targets the moment they reveal themselves.
They're right, of course.
In my last seminar on Gay & Lesbian history I had students keep a journal of their reactions. In the last week they were supposed to sum up what they'd learned. One young man wrote, "Before I took this course I had no ideas how many faggots there were all around me, despite the fact that there are so many fine women out there."
Yeah, we're in the Aquarian age of peace, love, and tolerance, OK.
Maybe I (heart) Lesbians means that she's gotten so tired of having to explain herself that she's just hung the card to avoid dealing with unwelcome questions.
I thought that this is somebody I'd really like to meet and ask, "Just what's the message here?" It would be an interesting conversation.
But then I thought about it from her perspective: middle-aged unshaven white guy in a ratty T-shirt that says (I swear) "Just Do It" approaches a woman in the parking lot of K-Mart and strikes up a conversation: "Hey darlin', just noticed you like poon-tang, too." At least that's what part of me thinks she'd hear as she fished into her purse for the pepper spray or the snub-nose .38.
So I sighed, went into K-Mart and bought four bottles of laundry detergent, surreptitiously trying to figure out whose car it was. (Don't kid me, you'd all be doing that whether you admitted it or not.)
By the time I finished buying Purex and got back to my van, the car was gone, and any chance for me even to express wonder and admiration to another human being had vanished with it. Such is the world in which we live today. Even our stated identity signs interfere with communication rather than facilitating it.
And I had this final thought: maybe she borrowed the car.
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