Sticks And Stones May Break My Bones, But ...

In my London flat, my Greek flatmate has me saying, "Yasu!" and I've got her saying, "Y'all" on a daily basis. All of this said in our mingled English accents.

Take note, United Nations.

OK, well, she has me saying, "Yasu Putana!" which isn't exactly United Nations friendly, but meant in an endearing, reclaiming-the-word way. I've also learned how to say a number of dirty words in Greek, which will come in handy if I ever stub my toe in Athens.

Saying, "Yasu Putana" among friends is one of those things that make the world a little bit easier. It's taking the sting of the word away, and making it into something positive.

I was thinking about it earlier this week, when I woke up after a night of weird dreams. (No, no, keep reading –- this isn't turning into an online dream journal, I swear!) I had a dream about a guy I knew in high school; we'll call him Lawrence. 

Lawrence was a harasser. Not a bully, because that word holds a quaint innocence and nostalgia. This dude was constantly harassing those who were weak or quiet, or those who just happened to be in the same place at the same time when he felt like being a dick. Me? I was a bit of all three. Quiet, shy, and in at least two classes with this charmer. 

I hadn't thought about Lawrence in years. One of the best parts about being a grown-up –- other than having potato chips and ice cream for dinner whenever you want –- is that those annoyances from high school that were so drastically life-changing and important and "OmiGod, I'm going to die, I swear it!" fade to some distant spot on the horizon. When you happen to think about it or glance at it, it takes some squinting and eye-shielding to really see it way off from the course of your daily life. In short: It's awesome.

The last time Lawrence popped up on my radar was when I joined Facebook. Unlike MySpace, which I was addicted to (you were too, don't lie), FB had the brilliant option of allowing other users to be blocked. My blocked list is a long one, and old Lawrence is on there. But apparently my sleeping brain didn't get the message, and up pops Lawrence like some demented groundhog.

Dream Lawrence didn't really do anything, but high school Lawrence had the violent habit of throwing heavy objects at those of us he deemed unworthy.

For example: My friend Becky and I were walking to lunch one day from gym class, arms linked together and deep in conversation about boys and unicorns and all the things teenage girls talk about (at that time it was probably Sailor Moon and Gavin Rossdale and Leonardo DiCaprio, which would be a mind-twisting and awesome threesome), when Lawrence spotted us. His level-headed and mature reaction to seeing two girls minding their own business and gabbing on their way to have a meal together was to aim a full, liter bottle of cola at our heads and shout, "Dykes! Dykes! You're Dykes!"

(I know, ladies, quite the charmer, right? I don't know how he wasn't getting laid all the time.)

Dodging the flying bottle aimed at our heads made Becky drop my arm like it was made of nettles wrapped in bees and jump away from me as fast as possible. It was last time we ever linked arms.

I was crushed at the time. I felt dirty. I felt like I did something wrong.

But those feelings? Bullshit.

Because really? Dyke is not an insult to me. You expect me to be insulted to be called gay? Please. Ain't nothing but the last gasping breath of an old hate-filled tradition that is dying as we speak.

Homophobia will be one of those things that our grandchildren will laugh at. They'll roll their eyes as Great Grandma Natty tries to explain that there was a time when the Internet didn't exist, that gays were not allowed to marry, and that phones were plugged into walls.

Homophobia, shaming, coercing into heterosexual norm: All wrong, and all hopefully a generation or two away from being a distant, ugly memory. Using any word associated with homosexuality as an insult or in a derogatory manner should be seen for what it really is and called out for the backward, homophobic bullshit that it is.

I'm not downplaying that names can hurt; please don't take this wrong. It hurts. It hurts if someone calls you a slut or bitch in anger or out of the blue. And know, my dears, someone will call you that. Without rhyme or reason. And I don't write this to be flippant – I am well aware that what I write is oversimplifying a larger problem. I know those words hurt. Sticks and stones break bones, but words can break hearts.

But all these words are just the masks for the same message. It all boils down to one thing: "I'm angry because you're not doing what I want you to do, and that threatens me." We have to recognize that. And in recognizing it, we can fight it.

I'm angry because you're not following hetero-norms.
I'm angry because you're not dating me.
I'm angry because you're a woman.
I'm angry because I want to be the one walking hand-in-hand with someone of the same sex, but I can't.
I'm angry because you have more sex than I deem appropriate.
I'm angry because your skin colour is different than mine and you are not acting the way I think you should.
I'm angry because I have no control over you and your body when I think I should.

And so forth and so on.

Reclaiming the words, calling friends and lovers and pets things like, slut and bitch and putana? It makes those angry yellers nothing more than vuvuzelas. Noise. Nothing. It's a step to making the world a place where dudes like Lawrence became the marginalized, ridiculed for their homophobia and hate and harassment. It's a step, at least.

Don't let the words hurt you. And remember: You are not alone. We're in this together.