How Many Times This Week Have You Been Called A Faggot?

I was standing watching a band the other night when a friend turned to me and asked a somewhat surprising question.

‘How many times this week have you been called a faggot?’ she said.

A curious question to be sure, so I laughed at first, not quite knowing how to respond. I then realised I haven’t been called a faggot even once this week. Come to think of it, I haven’t been called a faggot in years.

I asked her why she would ask such a question. She pointed to a mutual friend standing next to her, a friend who has only recently moved to Preston.

It turns out that since his arrival, this friend of mine has rediscovered the insult – or I should say, it has rediscovered him. It turns out that what he thought he had left behind in the streets and schoolyards of Brisbane is actually very much alive and well in Preston. His current route home from work passes by the local school and each day he is hailed a faggot. It’s hard to know why, but perhaps due to the fact he’s wearing jeans and a button up shirt. He always was a fancy-boy, what with his jeans and his shirts.

Thankfully, with the passing of time those words no longer carry much weight and we all had a laugh about it. But it did get me thinking about the word itself and the role it has played in my life. 

I spent a decade in Perth, when being called a faggot was a daily event: on the train, on the bus, outside clubs and inside clubs, on the road, and even down at the beach. You didn’t have to go far to discover the rich vein of bigotry that ran through the northern suburbs of Perth. You could always count on a toothy sneer from a muscle-bound jock, or cop vomit-laced expletives from a skinny-jeaned bogan. Hell, even a dread-locked surfer half submerged in his own bong water would often feel the need to cast judgement.

To make matters worse, people often thought I was a girl. Strangely, this never stopped me being called a faggot. Their mistake was understandable. I admit I was somewhat effeminate in my late teens: I didn’t begin shaving regularly until I was over twenty; I was never much of a sportsman, and I am also the not-so-proud owner of a very high voice. I wasn’t pretty either, more like a stick-thin plain Jane with long greasy hair.

My girlfriend at the time and I would often be mistaken for girls. It was always, ‘hi girls,’ or ‘thanks ladies’ as we marched out of the bottle shop with a night’s worth of Real McCoy Whiskey under our arms. Hard as I tried to look tough, it failed to work. It didn’t matter that I was buying whiskey and smoking Marlboro Reds, I was never going to cut it as a man’s man. 

I did my best to make light of it, but there were complications. If I was a woman, that made my girlfriend gay, and she therefore fell victim to the accompanying judgement and taunts. At these times, it was clear she was a faggot because she was going out with me. If I were foolish enough, however, to point out that I was a guy and this here was my girlfriend, I would be called a faggot for pretending to be a woman. It’s confusing, I know!

One time a man came up to me at a bar and asked if he could buy me a drink. I declined, telling him that I wasn’t into guys. His response was,

‘So you’re a fucking lesbian?’

‘No,’ I said making my voice as deep as possible, ‘I’m a guy’.

His arms, which had been draped all over me a moment earlier, were quickly pulled back, and with a face twisted by anger and alcohol, he called me a faggot. Yes, that’s right. The innocent victim of his attempted romance, was a faggot for firstly - not being a woman, and secondly, for not liking men.

So, just in case you missed it. If you’re a man and you like women, you’re a faggot. If you’re a man and you don’t like men, you’re a faggot. If you’re a woman and you like women, you’re a faggot, and if you’re a man and you like men, you’re a faggot. All clear? Good. Aren’t you glad we had this conversation?

Now, let me ask you this. How many times this week have you been called a faggot?