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Just as to me, dyke has always meant pretty darn cool. Of course, my friends, being my friends, don’t use these words as pejoratives. These friends of mine are, you might say, culturally gay-in much the way I was once culturally lesbian.Īt one time or another, I’ve heard most of my gay-ish straight friends utter the word faggot, or at least its shorter sibling, fag. On the other hand, I have a number of straight friends who have significantly more gay friends than I do. For whatever reason-shyness? bad luck? bad breath?-I’ve never had as many gay guy friends as the algorithms on my phone seem to expect.
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Twinks and bears, at brunch or tea dance, they stand together, pec to pec, forever grooving to the same secret playlist. If my social media feeds are anything to go by, most gay men live in packs. “Well, what about the F-slur-do I at least get to use that?” I asked, referring to a word that rhymes with-oh, hell, I’ll just write it. Unless this was my way of announcing that my pronouns were she/her and that I really was a lesbian? No? Then, sorry, I did not get a pass. But I still wasn’t allowed to use the D-slur. They love, categorically, any story that involves a parent being embarrassed. My kids laughed as I described how my face turned red.
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Enthralled, I’d turned to the friend sitting next to me: “Finally, a movie about us!” My friend raised an eyebrow: “You realize this cast is all female?” I told my kids about the day I went to see Go Fish, the 1994 indie comedy about a group of young lesbians. “Me, too-I thought of myself as one of them.” “They called each other the D-slur all the time,” I said. My co-father verified that back in the hoary old ’90s, half my friends had been women-loving women. Well, except that I never watched football.” Haven’t you heard of Dykes on Bikes? Besides, I practically was a lesbian for a while.
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Just like only Black people could use the N-word. “You can’t say that, Daddy-that’s the D-slur. Our kids have berated me numerous times, but never as vehemently as when I used a word that rhymes with psych. It’s a failure to remember a recent pronoun change or anything that they perceive as a slight on a marginalized group that will get us indicted by our in-house team of prosecutors. When we swear in front of them, the kids shrug. These new offenses are of a different order than the old. Today, they are the enforcers of correct speech, and we parents the perpetrators of all linguistic offenses. Now that the twins are teens, the household dynamics have flipped. In third grade, our kids still thought the F-word was fart.Īlas, they grew up. No four-letter words in our house! We lasted longer than I would have thought possible. As gay dads at a time when gay families were still relatively rare, my husband and I felt the pressure to be model parents. But that fantasy ended as soon as the twins could talk. Never mind an asshole or even a bitch.Īs for our family, I’d originally envisioned a more bohemian lifestyle, with midnight dinners and toddlers who swore like sailors. That was 12 titles ago, and I haven’t included a single damn since. Who could object? It stayed until the Scholastic Book Club demanded I take it out-or else they’d take my book off their very lucrative list. The first book I wrote, The Name of This Book Is Secret, I put the word damn in it. But it has made me think about the words I choose to use and not use-about the good words and the bad.Īs a children’s author and the father of twins, I excel at censoring myself. The law, which prohibits discussion of sexual orientation and gender identity in a manner that is not “developmentally appropriate,” is deliberately, devilishly vague. Just look at the T-shirts and protest signs: “#SayGay” is the new “We’re here. I’ve never wanted to say it more.įlorida’s infuriating “Don’t Say Gay” law has given new power to an old word.