If one more person says to me that I cannot help the way I am, we are going to have a problem.
If one more person tells me this, I am going to do something I will probably live to regret. But then I’ll only end up getting arrested and with my luck, I’ll have a defense attorney who tells the jury, “Do not send Katy to prison! After all, she cannot help the way she is! She was… [drumroll, high hat, Ba-Ba-DUM!] BORN THIS WAY!”
Like there was this one time. It was me, and it was Jack, and that guy with the cauliflower ear who wouldn’t drive you to the airport, and Rufus, and Eggplant and the Glob. I’m not sure who else was there, but Cauliflower Ear Guy was definitely doing the driving.
We were in the van. Plenty of room.
I remember this because Cauliflower Ear Guy kept turning around, all the way around in his seat so he could look me in the eyes when he talked and I thought we were going to run a red light. But we did not run a red light, which only goes to prove that either God loves morons or some lights in Houston never turn red.
And I was drunk or I was stoned, or most probably both, so I did not pay attention to how we got onto the subject. But then there I was, in the van, and he was turned around in his seat looking me in the eyes and he said, “But Katy! You owe it to the com-mun-ity! You have a talent for words, so you have to explain to the rest of the world how we are BORN THIS WAY!”
That’s when I asked to be dropped off right there and then, even though we were all the way down Richmond and Greenbriar and I didn’t have my phone. Well, I didn’t so much ask to be dropped off as I shouted, “I don’t need some Hyde Park queer telling me how I was born! Release me from this Sodomy Wagon this very instant, or so help me…blah blah blah.”
They got the general idea.
There is a cultural meme that has gone pandemic in recent years, and it states that gaity, lesbiality, and trans-whatcha-got-ism is genetic. That Daddy stood too close to a microwave the night of that hot date with Momma and hoakum, stoke’em and bam! Instant beautiful bouncing Cher fan.
Somehow or other, this whole “BORN THIS WAY” thing is supposed to make everybody else cease and desist in their joke-telling and their institutionalized-discrimination-ing. No one will be nervous around me in the showers at the gym if only I can show that this is what them lawyers like to call an “immutable characteristic.” As though the genetic argument ever worked for American blacks or the fatties or… I don’t know… Canadian “Star Trek” fans.
What I always tell people – and what I would have told Cauliflower Ear Guy that day if I had not been too drunk or too stoned or most probably both – is that it’s not just that the “BORN THIS WAY” mantra is never going to work on the Sarah Palins and Trent Lotts and Benedict XVIs of the world. It’s that it’s insulting, to boot!
Here is the thing: It took me better than a decade, multiple therapists, thousands of diary pages, several debilitating habits, a couple suicide attempts and a couple dozen fist fights to decide what worked for me in my human relationships. I have enough mental and physical scars on me because of it to make THREE whole Katy suits.
Now you’re going to waltz on in here and tell me we could have skipped right to the climactic reveal with a Q-Tip, some saliva, and a high-powered microscope?
You are denying me the importance of my life experience. Hell, you’re practically negating the whole concept of free will.
Pull this goddamned van over this instant, Cauliflower Boy; you and me are going at it, mano a dyko.
If – and they always like this phrase – you people do not stop this nonsense and stop it straightaway, then you will leave me no choice but to declare my undying love for my bedpost and demand recognition of my relationship based on my genetic predisposition. “Yes, you see this gene sequence right here – A, T, G, G, C, A? – we see that all the time in bedpost lovers…”
|The DNA Mafia
claims credit again.
And sure, I’d have to put up with all sorts of crap, because Leviticus 12:69 clearly and unambiguously states, “Behold, I am the Lord thy God, and I say unto thee that thou shalt love thy bedpost but thou shalt not LOVE thy bedpost (if thou knowest what thy God means), for it is an abomination and would force thy God to smite thee heartily.”
I’m paraphrasing, I think…
The bedpost lovin’ thing would be great, though, because we’d get to have our own nightclubs and an annual parade, and the Reverend Fred Phelps wouldn’t know what hit him. Yeah…
Anyway, I had some sort of point in saying all of this, initially. I forget now…
Oh yeah: You can call me broken. Just don’t call me “BORN THIS WAY!!” And if one more person says to me that I cannot help the way I am, we are going to have a problem…