 As a not-so-obvious gay man, I am constantly amused at some
of the lengths people go to these days to let me know just how much they love gay people and how
many gay people they know.
Which I guess is better than a fist in the face.
But still, it’s quite entertaining when they find out I am
gay and you see them scramble for a way to come across as tolerant and
accepting of this new twist on what they thought they knew about you.
Upon meeting our new receptionist at work, a lovely, middle-aged
lady who oozes sweetness and propriety, I mentioned that I had to leave, “to
pick up my partner from work”.
“Oh, where does she work?”
“He works in Moonah in a call centre”.
“Oh, that’s nice. One of my daughter’s friends is gay. He is
the sweetest boy. I still remember that time he came around to our place and he
helped me wash the dishes after lunch. You’re all such lovely people”.
She obviously hasn’t met many other gay people in her
travels.
A week or so later, I was dining with one of our many visitors
to Tassie at a new Hungarian eatery in the northern suburbs of Hobart. Our host
was another lovely, middle-aged lady who was eager to get us to tell everyone
we knew how good her food was.
“Why don’t you two bring your girlfriend to eat next time...”
she began in her broken English. She stopped dead after giving my friend a
quick up-and-down.
“Or... or... or... boyfriends...
Yes, boyfriends good too. No discriminate. Welcome everyone. Boyfriend.
Girlfriend. Girlfriend eat here on Tuesday. Nice girls. Everyone welcome here
no matter where from. Everyone is customer.”
God bless her! She thought she was opening a cafe. She
probably didn’t realise that it would become a popular haunt for cash-strapped
poofs and dykes who were after a good, cheap meal.
Although it can be an uncomfortable position to be in, where
a person’s whole opinion of you changes from being “that lovely boy who leaves
tips” to “that lovely gay boy who
leaves tips”, there is some power in it, too. It was only 50 years ago that the
same lady would have been well within her rights to kick you out of her
establishment if she suspected she was serving a sodomite. Now you can only be
booted out for lighting up a cigarette or getting a little rowdy after too many
Cascade Draughts.
But I often wonder whether the change of heart in people
like the receptionist and the Hungarian barista, who were raised in eras more
hostile than ours, is born of tolerance or fear. Are they more tolerant and
accepting of us, or are they just scared of the potential lawsuit if they don’t
humour us?
I like that I get more goulash than the average serve. I
just hope that the special treatment is due to me being a nice guy who
complements her when she’s had her hair done; rather than a fear that I have
the ability to bring down her business.
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