The World in Which a Dead Son Is Better Than a Gay Son

by pinkagendist

From my new blog:
“I’d rather have a dead son than a gay son.
Let that phrase wash over you. Let it envelop you. Let it sink in. Taste its bitter sting. A dead son, is better, than a gay son. Dead better than gay.
Now imagine being a child hearing that: a little boy who’s just that little bit different from the other little boys. The way he walks is just that little bit different; the way he talks is just that little bit different – even the way he crosses his legs is just that little bit different, just enough that it makes him stand out.”

My Mazamet

I’d rather have a dead son than a gay son.
Let that phrase wash over you. Let it envelop you. Let it sink in. Taste its bitter sting. A dead son, is better, than a gay son. Dead better than gay.

Now imagine being a child hearing that: a little boy who’s just that little bit different from the other little boys. The way he walks is just that little bit different; the way he talks is just that little bit different – even the way he crosses his legs is just that little bit different, just enough that it makes him stand out. At first, he’s too young to understand what any of that could mean, but he hears the subtle whispers and he sees the not-so-subtle nudges. Then at a certain age the playground taunts begin. Girl, sissy, fag. Along with the taunts comes fear. He’s frightened…

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