Fass
29-04-2006, 17:10
I read this column in a paper and I was stricken by how true her observations of the small and unexpected perks one has as a gay person are. I giggled a bit, thinking about how many times it has managed to allow me to manipulate my way into and out of things. I also found the indictment of what allows this behaviour, the condescension, quite salient.
So, I quickly typed up a translation (sorry for the potential Swenglish, I threw it together in five minutes) to share with people who don't speak Swedish. The comments in brackets are my own explanations to Swedish pop culture references.
Rumours that Birgit Nilsson [famed opera singer] had a few (gay) percentages have circulated now and then. If it was true, she kept it very safe in her closet. Which would not have been a surprise. If you manage to keep your own death a secret and screw the media out of a funeral (wasn't that great!), I guess that keeping your love and sex lives secret is a piece of cake.
Many are those who take their orientations with them to the grave. That's a shame. I don't think they have any idea of how many freebies in life they miss out on when they pretend to be hetero. In spite of being denied rights that are givens in the society of the majority and religious fanatics (who by the way usually display more obsession with sex than a sex addict at a whore house) spewing their vitriol over us - I think that the perks of being gay outweigh the cons.
Lately I have also discovered gains with coming out. Not just once, but whenever one needs to. More and more have I begun to in my every day life use my sexuality to my advantage. (No, I have not started selling sexual favours. No matter that my last bank statement is urging me to.)
Yesterday I saw an old man in the house next door yelling like a psycho at a crackhead homeless girl who was minding her own business and having a heroin nap by the entrance. Immediately I donned the Mother Theresa halo and the Superman cape. I flew down the stairs and out into the street to rescue her. The loud-mouthed geezer had already gotten to the entrance, and the junkie didn't seem to regard me as her guardian angel, sent from some shelter, at all. "What the fuck do you want? Was tha' your 'usband, or wha'?" she swayed, and fixed me with her crossed eyes. I had time to think about her hitting me before I regained composure. "Husband? No way, I'm HOMOSEXUAL." Her face softened. The drugged haze changed into a shiny gaze and she exclaimed joyously: "That's great!"
Joe Shmoe may not exactly get the air of something religious in his eyes when you come out just like that. But they are perturbed. Or are fascinated. Not rarely is one's declaration followed by a compassionate look. In some people's faces you can catch a glimpse of gratitude: It could have been worse. I could have been gay. Unless you're at a National Socialist party convention or in a Pentecostal church most things turn out just fine if only you say that you're a homo.
Recently when I was invited to a dinner with other writers I struck up a convo with a noobie. She was nervous about the seating arrangements and what she was going to talk about. Did I have any advice? "Tell them about your former amphetamine abuse. That will probably make your companions feel a little, if not a lot, better. The bestowing of such confidence will honour them. You will become the picturesque addition at the table and will get a little pity. Just like us homos," I advised. "But the difference is that drug addicts have themselves to blame. You can't exactly help being gay," she answered incredulously. Since then I am a firm claimer of homosexuality being genetic. I was simply born this way. Apart from my lesbian penchant I add that I am working class (father worked at a factory in the 50s) and sort of like a Jew (grandmother's grandfather on my mother's side was Jewish).
The one time I got the most use out of my sexual orientation was in Copenhagen in 1998. Was coming down in a hotel room when one of my friends casually remarked that I didn't have to grieve in the least at not having been in Roskilde and thus having missed my great idol Patti Smith. "She's downstairs in the dining room." I rushed down the stairs. In the lobby I, by some divine miracle, ran into Efva Attling. [Famed lesbian designer, first gay celebrity to marry] "You have to help me," I gasped. Efva then marched resolutely past an objecting restaurant manager and straight towards Patti's table. I was shaking like a little schoolgirl behind her. Patti immediately sensed my fan vibes and looked really annoyed. Until Efva spoke: "We are lesbians and here in Copenhagen to celebrate Europride." [In English in the original]
She might as well have said that I had some severe handicap. You don't diss someone deaf in a wheelchair with a seeing-eye dog. Patti's annoyed countenance warped into a smile and she said "that's great."
Of course I got my autograph.
So, I quickly typed up a translation (sorry for the potential Swenglish, I threw it together in five minutes) to share with people who don't speak Swedish. The comments in brackets are my own explanations to Swedish pop culture references.
Rumours that Birgit Nilsson [famed opera singer] had a few (gay) percentages have circulated now and then. If it was true, she kept it very safe in her closet. Which would not have been a surprise. If you manage to keep your own death a secret and screw the media out of a funeral (wasn't that great!), I guess that keeping your love and sex lives secret is a piece of cake.
Many are those who take their orientations with them to the grave. That's a shame. I don't think they have any idea of how many freebies in life they miss out on when they pretend to be hetero. In spite of being denied rights that are givens in the society of the majority and religious fanatics (who by the way usually display more obsession with sex than a sex addict at a whore house) spewing their vitriol over us - I think that the perks of being gay outweigh the cons.
Lately I have also discovered gains with coming out. Not just once, but whenever one needs to. More and more have I begun to in my every day life use my sexuality to my advantage. (No, I have not started selling sexual favours. No matter that my last bank statement is urging me to.)
Yesterday I saw an old man in the house next door yelling like a psycho at a crackhead homeless girl who was minding her own business and having a heroin nap by the entrance. Immediately I donned the Mother Theresa halo and the Superman cape. I flew down the stairs and out into the street to rescue her. The loud-mouthed geezer had already gotten to the entrance, and the junkie didn't seem to regard me as her guardian angel, sent from some shelter, at all. "What the fuck do you want? Was tha' your 'usband, or wha'?" she swayed, and fixed me with her crossed eyes. I had time to think about her hitting me before I regained composure. "Husband? No way, I'm HOMOSEXUAL." Her face softened. The drugged haze changed into a shiny gaze and she exclaimed joyously: "That's great!"
Joe Shmoe may not exactly get the air of something religious in his eyes when you come out just like that. But they are perturbed. Or are fascinated. Not rarely is one's declaration followed by a compassionate look. In some people's faces you can catch a glimpse of gratitude: It could have been worse. I could have been gay. Unless you're at a National Socialist party convention or in a Pentecostal church most things turn out just fine if only you say that you're a homo.
Recently when I was invited to a dinner with other writers I struck up a convo with a noobie. She was nervous about the seating arrangements and what she was going to talk about. Did I have any advice? "Tell them about your former amphetamine abuse. That will probably make your companions feel a little, if not a lot, better. The bestowing of such confidence will honour them. You will become the picturesque addition at the table and will get a little pity. Just like us homos," I advised. "But the difference is that drug addicts have themselves to blame. You can't exactly help being gay," she answered incredulously. Since then I am a firm claimer of homosexuality being genetic. I was simply born this way. Apart from my lesbian penchant I add that I am working class (father worked at a factory in the 50s) and sort of like a Jew (grandmother's grandfather on my mother's side was Jewish).
The one time I got the most use out of my sexual orientation was in Copenhagen in 1998. Was coming down in a hotel room when one of my friends casually remarked that I didn't have to grieve in the least at not having been in Roskilde and thus having missed my great idol Patti Smith. "She's downstairs in the dining room." I rushed down the stairs. In the lobby I, by some divine miracle, ran into Efva Attling. [Famed lesbian designer, first gay celebrity to marry] "You have to help me," I gasped. Efva then marched resolutely past an objecting restaurant manager and straight towards Patti's table. I was shaking like a little schoolgirl behind her. Patti immediately sensed my fan vibes and looked really annoyed. Until Efva spoke: "We are lesbians and here in Copenhagen to celebrate Europride." [In English in the original]
She might as well have said that I had some severe handicap. You don't diss someone deaf in a wheelchair with a seeing-eye dog. Patti's annoyed countenance warped into a smile and she said "that's great."
Of course I got my autograph.