It disturbs me to no end when I hear stories of gay kids being bullied at school. It's 2012 yo. How is it that shame is still associated with being gay? How about we switch it so shame is associated with being a worthless douche bag instead. I mean these people are universally hated. Gay culture has informed a large part of my life and culture in general, whereas the douche bags of the world have contributed zero with their meaningless lives.
It's high time this bullying thing ends. But how one asks? Well in my case, I fought back. And I fought dirty. And although I can't suggest it, I totally suggest it. They're not good people, nor will they ever be and are hardly worth bringing up concepts like morals over.
My high school experience was pretty much exactly like the film Heathers. Jocks ruled the school and it wasn't long before I fell in with the punks and riff raff and rejects and found my friends. Although I wasn't gay, two of my close friends were, but hey if it looks like a duck and walks like a duck, then it's a duck so aside from sexual intercourse, I pretty much was gay, what with my little Robert Smith outfits, black nail polish and eyeliner. The jocks tried their best to degrade us with the whole faggot and gay thing but by my sophomore year it was too late. We had embraced the concept and frankly thrived on it. As long as we were the total opposite of whatever these neanderthals where, we were quite happy.
Clearly I was a bit more crazy than the average high school faggot because I was more than willing to fight back. Not that I wasn't scared, I was. Not that it didn't hurt to get the shit kicked out of you, it did. But for whatever reason, I just wasn't going to take it.
My main tormentor was this douche Noah. A jock who was on whatever sports team we had at our school. He would torment me daily as well as anyone else who was a fag. Like I said, we had already took the power out of the words, so his name calling had no effect, but the physical stuff, threats of harm etc started to really bother me.
By a stroke of luck I had gotten suspended from school for passing out a flyer for my band that the school found offensive. Jesus crucified with a swastika over his head and some witches burning stuff at the bottom. Pretty normal stuff right? This was the mid to late 80s long before alternative culture was normal, and when I got back to school, some people were actually afraid of me. I loved it. Rumors started floating around that my friends and I were "devil worshipers" and we ran with it. Noah, however clearly needed a little more convincing as he continued to pick on me.
One night while visiting my friends girlfriend(fags have girlfriends?)at her Kentucky Fried Chicken job, I noticed a large pool of chicken blood. They were closed and we were in the back smoking cigarettes or whatever. I saw the blood and asked if I could have it. "Sure" she said and I scooped as much of it I could into a little cup. I took it home and waited for the next day.
I arrived a little early at school with my now clotting chicken blood and a paint brush. I went straight to Noah's locker and proceeded to paint a giant pentagram in chicken blood on it. It stank pretty bad at that point, which was a nice touch.
I said nothing and went about my day. I can't imagine how Noah's day went after he arrived at his locker, but later that day when we ran into each other, he had a rather dazed look on his face. We made eye contact. Without words, my eyes said "Yeah, that's right mother fucker. It was me". He said nothing and moved on. From that day on he never looked at me, talked to me or laid a hand on me or my friends again.
He could have kicked my ass. He could have narc'd on me. He didn't though. Why is that? Perhaps he was a little concerned, and rightly so, about what I would do next if he continued to press the issue. He made the right choice. Sugar in his gas tank. LSD in his food. Whatever it would have taken. It's not like I could have won a fist fight with this giant goon.
The moral of the story is this: Bullies have breaking points. Fear is their trade and I made it perfectly clear to my bully that I was not afraid of him. A total lie of course. I was quite terrified actually. He was huge, he had huge friends, but this is not the point. The point is that I needed to make sure he was never going to get what he wanted out of picking on me. I wasn't going to tell on him and like I said, I could have never won a physical fight. I chose to play dirty because my only other choice was to submit. I won. He lost. And I got to keep this funny memory instead of one of the many horror stories I keep reading about.
It's high time this bullying thing ends. But how one asks? Well in my case, I fought back. And I fought dirty. And although I can't suggest it, I totally suggest it. They're not good people, nor will they ever be and are hardly worth bringing up concepts like morals over.
My high school experience was pretty much exactly like the film Heathers. Jocks ruled the school and it wasn't long before I fell in with the punks and riff raff and rejects and found my friends. Although I wasn't gay, two of my close friends were, but hey if it looks like a duck and walks like a duck, then it's a duck so aside from sexual intercourse, I pretty much was gay, what with my little Robert Smith outfits, black nail polish and eyeliner. The jocks tried their best to degrade us with the whole faggot and gay thing but by my sophomore year it was too late. We had embraced the concept and frankly thrived on it. As long as we were the total opposite of whatever these neanderthals where, we were quite happy.
Clearly I was a bit more crazy than the average high school faggot because I was more than willing to fight back. Not that I wasn't scared, I was. Not that it didn't hurt to get the shit kicked out of you, it did. But for whatever reason, I just wasn't going to take it.
My main tormentor was this douche Noah. A jock who was on whatever sports team we had at our school. He would torment me daily as well as anyone else who was a fag. Like I said, we had already took the power out of the words, so his name calling had no effect, but the physical stuff, threats of harm etc started to really bother me.
By a stroke of luck I had gotten suspended from school for passing out a flyer for my band that the school found offensive. Jesus crucified with a swastika over his head and some witches burning stuff at the bottom. Pretty normal stuff right? This was the mid to late 80s long before alternative culture was normal, and when I got back to school, some people were actually afraid of me. I loved it. Rumors started floating around that my friends and I were "devil worshipers" and we ran with it. Noah, however clearly needed a little more convincing as he continued to pick on me.
One night while visiting my friends girlfriend(fags have girlfriends?)at her Kentucky Fried Chicken job, I noticed a large pool of chicken blood. They were closed and we were in the back smoking cigarettes or whatever. I saw the blood and asked if I could have it. "Sure" she said and I scooped as much of it I could into a little cup. I took it home and waited for the next day.
I arrived a little early at school with my now clotting chicken blood and a paint brush. I went straight to Noah's locker and proceeded to paint a giant pentagram in chicken blood on it. It stank pretty bad at that point, which was a nice touch.
I said nothing and went about my day. I can't imagine how Noah's day went after he arrived at his locker, but later that day when we ran into each other, he had a rather dazed look on his face. We made eye contact. Without words, my eyes said "Yeah, that's right mother fucker. It was me". He said nothing and moved on. From that day on he never looked at me, talked to me or laid a hand on me or my friends again.
He could have kicked my ass. He could have narc'd on me. He didn't though. Why is that? Perhaps he was a little concerned, and rightly so, about what I would do next if he continued to press the issue. He made the right choice. Sugar in his gas tank. LSD in his food. Whatever it would have taken. It's not like I could have won a fist fight with this giant goon.
The moral of the story is this: Bullies have breaking points. Fear is their trade and I made it perfectly clear to my bully that I was not afraid of him. A total lie of course. I was quite terrified actually. He was huge, he had huge friends, but this is not the point. The point is that I needed to make sure he was never going to get what he wanted out of picking on me. I wasn't going to tell on him and like I said, I could have never won a physical fight. I chose to play dirty because my only other choice was to submit. I won. He lost. And I got to keep this funny memory instead of one of the many horror stories I keep reading about.