The Boss Of Me

Why did you want to fight him?
"He told me I had to buy him some chips from the food cart."
The one across the street? After school?
"Yeah. Yesterday."
Did you do it?
"No. I didn't. So they called me gay."
Do you care what they say?
"No."
Are they your parents?
"No."
Are they your teacher?
"No."
Are they the boss of you?
"No."
So why do you care what they say?
And this is the point where the trolley jumps the track and sense stops being made. Except that "gay" is as vile an epithet as Donald Trump at our school, used with little or no discretion by boys and girls to pierce that thin veneer that covers our pre-adolescent bag of churning emotions. It sits on a shelf right above fat and stupid as the weapon of choice when you really want to get someone's dander up. Which is horrifying, considering the complete lack of understanding they have. In their lexicon, gay is bad and it's a big enough stick to get exactly what they want: hurt feelings.
I have lost track of how many different times I have tried to intercede in the matter of gay. It surprises me still how deeply embedded that word has become. So much so that no amount of attempted cultural awareness can budge it. I know that some of our students have two mommies. I know some of the kids I taught have grown up gay. Into a world that still uses that word like a bludgeon. So I keep soothing those hurt feelings, and attempting to soften the hate and fear. And I long for the day when kids call each other stupid and fat.