Was It My Short Hair?
Right now I am struggling to figure out why that man assumed I was a dyke. I’m allowed to use that word - I’m not straight. But he was not allowed to assume.
Saturday morning. Two strangers sitting at adjacent tables. I am in black yoga pants and a gray sweat shirt. My femme power tattoo is not showing, neither is my Rebel Alliance necklace. I have an engagement ring on - given to me by my male partner.
I’m not wearing any of my “Proud to be Queer” stickers or clothing, nothing on me is rainbow colored. None of my belongings are obviously “gay.”
But he felt it his right - no, his duty - to deliver a message from the God of his fucked up understanding.
With tears streaming down his face he shouted,
“God sees your rotting soul,
He weeps for the love he has for you that
You’ve thrown away.”
With a snarl on his lips and spit flying so it spotted my glasses, he spat,
“You disgust me.
You are not a child of God.
You belong to the devil now.
Stop your wicked way with women.”
Then he got up and left, saying as he walked away,
“My purpose here is done.”
Was it my short hair?