Hey, dear croissants, and double-tall lattes!

So, I have reappeared to talk *again* about something I never thought I could really communicate verbally. That topic, tonight, is masculinity.

It was never really a big deal to me.  Like, I was never really self-aware about myself in regards to other men, but I think today it kind of hit home.

—

So, I’m standing there, at the bus stop in Gastown, swapping stories with a homie, and I hear out of the corner of my ear:

“Are you an [F-ing] faggot?”

To my *great* joy, the “man” moved closer to my friend, and I.

“what?”

It was really all I could manage in the beginning.

“I said: ‘are you a [F-ing] faggot?” He repeated.

The alcohol was strong on his breath.
Classy.
A day-drinking homophobe.

“What do you mean by that?” I asked, coyly, with my Ray-Bans covering the slight fear in my eyes.

(side note: way to poke the bear, Derrick.)

“I MEAN, ARE YOU A [F-ING] FAGGOT. IF YOU’RE A [F-ING] FAGGOT, I’LL PUNCH YOU OUT. ARE YOU A [F-ING] FAGGOT?”

—

“No, that’s not what I would call myself.”

—

“Then, why the [F] are you acting like that? You should act NORMAL. WHY CAN’T YOU BE A ‘MAN’, LIKE ME!?”

—

I didn’t know what to say to him after that.

He, then, walked over to my friend, and inquired if we were dating or not.

“I don’t like her like that…”

And with the lack of rise out of me, he went to go harass some other poor souls.  This “man” wanted a reaction, he wanted the shock value, and the violence.

He wanted to assert dominance over something (i.e. me) in true “masculine” form.

Did it get to me, though? No, It really didn’t.

—

I mean, let’s think about the question posed: “why can’t you be a man, like me?”

I clearly present my gender as male, so, there goes half of your argument, sir.

Secondly, I can’t be like you because we are two completely different people, who come from totally separate backgrounds.

I mean, I had braces to fix my teeth, which you didn’t.

You were sippin’ what looked like an MGD after you verbally harassed me, and went to go sulk on the bench.  Personally, I like to go drown my sorrows in a couple vodka-cranberries, but, to each their own.

I figured out that I didn’t like hockey, which you clearly love, on account of the Canucks jersey you so blatantly sported. Personally, though, I’ll pick my Amy Winehouse tee, and I’ll blast Frank, in its entirety, on my iPod.

I was wearing black skinnies. || You were wearing straight fit, light-wash blue jeans.

I was wearing black Vans. ||  You were wearing white Nikes.

I was born in ’95. || You were born in (probably) the ’70s.

I was wearing a toque. || You were wearing a ball-cap.

—

So, to answer your question: I can’t be a man, like you, because I was destined to be a different one.

I mean, I am not the heteronormative, masculine being that today’s media shoves down the throats of society; you got me there.

But, I like being different.

I like dyeing my hair.

I like spending insane amounts of money on apparel.

I like watching TV, somewhat obsessively.

I like dipping my fries, in ice cream.

I like it when people, occasionally, call me “D,” instead of Derrick, because it makes me feel cool.

I like listening to indie-rock bands from Gilbert, Arizona, that no one has heard of. (LYDIA)

I like my triple grande, non-fat, light-ice, half-sweet, non-fat, caramel macchiato.

I like who I am.

—

And, if all of this, makes me “less of a man,” then, cool.

—

I’m here for a reason.

Even if it’s just to corner the market on Nutella, and decide if I actually think pugs are cute, or not.

—

And, no matter what I do, HATERS GONNA HATE.

But, I’ll be damned if they faze me.

—

Peace. <3