Okay. I currently have a rather nasty lump right on my forehead and a black eye. Great, I’m a martial artist, stuff like this is kind of common in my sport.
I’m explaining to a friend in chemistry class today how, exactly, this happened - I was sparring with my boyfriend, who is a 3rd degree black belt at our school, and was being careless. Friend from chemistry is also a martial artist, and thus, she Gets It: if you participate in a combat sport, you will occasionally, say, get conked in the head or throw a kick wrong. You learn what works, in part, by learning what doesn’t work.
Great, so it’s no big deal, right?
Only the girls - three horrendously died-blonde, cheerleading, bubble-gum chewing, intelligence-depleting girls - sitting behind us didn’t Get It. They were partially eavesdropping, and doing a shitty job at it. Listening to only key words, apparently. I’m about to tell my friend about how boyfriend and I were going to enjoy a quiet evening focused around dinner and the tape of Wednesday’s West Wing episode at his house, because I wasn’t up to working out or really teaching tonight.
And then, I hear the voice.
“Your boyfriend gave you a black eye?”
Oh, god. Here it comes. I was really dreading this - he’s far better at sparring than I am, doesn’t use kid gloves. I knew that I would, at some point, need to explain that while yes, my boyfriend beat me up, it’s really Not Like That. “Um, yeah. We were sparring, and he…”
“You were fighting with him?”
“Yeah, see, we’re both black belts, and…”
“He’s a black belt? And he hit you?”
Sigh. “Listen, we’re both black belts. We were sparring, at our gym. Training. I let my guard down, and he hit me. That’s what you do when you spar.”
“He hit you?”
Gah. If you’re going to eavesdrop, at least listen when someone then talks to you, all right? I pull out my wallet, with a picture of him (and me). We’re both in our uniforms. Wearing black belts. “Yes, see? We’re both black belts. We were training. He doesn’t beat me, he spars me and he is more advanced than I am.”
She studies the picture for a second. “That’s your boyfriend?”
Okay, this isn’t going where I want it to (which would be away). “Yes, that’s the whole point.”
“Oh.” Pause. I carefully attempt to slide my wallet from her hand, because I’m afraid of her denseness. In my mind, I’m having visions of her turning into a black hole and my worldly fortune (all 20 bucks) getting sucked into a void. “He’s…African-American?”
Oh. Dear. God. I snap my wallet away from her, and debate smacking her with it. “Does that matter?” I’m half-tempted to say something along the lines of, “No, he’s actually albino,” or some other lame response.
“Black guys are more likely to be abusive. I read that somewhere. Why would you date one? For the sex?” Pause. “I mean, he can’t be rich.”
Holy. Sweet. Jesus. Fucking. Christ. It was at this point that I force myself to take a deep breath, force a mix of a smile and death-glare onto my face, and mentally click ‘ignore’ for any voices from behind me.
I tried explaining to her - really. We were sparring. It was pleasant. Professional, in a way. I showed her physical proof that indeed, the two of us were martial artists. But - jesus! If you’re going to fucking listen in on my conversation, pay some fucking attention when I talk to you! You’re not in the damn conversation, it’s of none of your concern. If I’m half-laughing as I explain how I got a black eye from my boyfriend, it shows I’m not to fucking upset, doesn’t it?
This is, by the way, the same girl who was (for about two-three weeks) fascinated by the fact that I’m bisexual. Who thought it was amusing to ask if she was turning me on whenever she saw me. Who asked me if that’s why I supported the school’s new GSA (no, I said, I’m in it for the toaster.) She’s given a lot of gems in the past - such as (and I quote, straight from quite possibly the angriest page in my history notebook) “Wouldn’t it just be easier to send all the African-Americans back to Africa instead of stopping immigration from, like, Canada? I mean, wouldn’t that just solve so many problems?”
In a way, it’s almost funny, as she truly seems…stupid.
On the other hand…no, it’s not fucking funny. It’s…astounding.
Now, a response to her:
A: Yes, he is black. I’m impressed, you can tell from a color photograph. B: I’m dating him because I like him: he’s very attractive, he’s funny, he’s intelligent, and he’s the sweetest person I’ve ever met. It’s not for the sex (not everyone hops into bed that readily, y’know). And no, he’s not fucking rich. Guess what? I’m not either. Is his family on welfare? No. Were they ever? Yes. Does that fucking matter? No. Do you have any fucking right to ask? No. Does this in any way effect the type of person he is? Dear god - it means he realizes money doesn’t fucking just appear! C: I said about five times he’s not fucking abusive. I’d know if he was, and I wouldn’t give two shit-coated cents what you said then, either. You’re just stupid. D: Him being black has NOTHING to do with whether or not he is abusive. I know you must read incredibly well-researched publications such as Teen Cosmo that easily tackle the complex issues of socioeconomic status, race, and abuse.
And furthermore: You’re a stupid fucking slut. Everyone knows it, you make no attempt to hide it. You’re a racist, a bigot, a homophobe, and just plain fucking stupid. Why in hell’s dark reasons would you suddenly give a quarter of a rat’s turd-coated ass as to whether or not a poor black guy was beating up on his bisexual Jewish feminist girlfriend? You’re looking for some sort of trouble, or something, so you can look like the good guy? Great - there is no fucking trouble, other than you. Talk to me when you realize that you don’t fucking know what the hell a ‘relationship’ is outside of “he’s rich and has a big cock”. Talk to me when you can fucking think.
And I swear to god, if I get called down to the school psychologist to talk about my abusive girlfriend, I’m going to forget about the self-control that 6+ years of tae kwon do training has taught me. If you send this half-assed story to the ‘authorities’ (who are fuckwits just like you), I’m going to kick your ass. If you want to have your hair-dye induced crackpot theories about my private life, go right ahead. Keep it to yourself. You’ve got the right to think fucked-up thoughts. Fine, say whatever the hell you want about me. I prefer you say it to me, but I’ll find out if not. I don’t really give a fuck - we don’t like each other to begin with.
But if you start spewing racist shit that is completely unbased in reality about someone who I care very, very, VERY much about, I will get FUCKING PISSED OFF. If you so much as utter a racist comment about HIM, who you DO NOT FUCKING KNOW, I will convienantly forget the self control that one learns when they study a martial art, and I will kick your ass.
In summary: You a stupid, slutty, horribly ignorant, repungant, disgusting excuse for the union of a sperm and an egg. The world would be better if you simply stopped existing. My goldfish is far more intelligent than you are. You deserve to be violently shoved up the anus of a food-poisoned goat and then flogged by poor, homosexual minorities, since we all know how much you love them. Most of all - get the fuck out of my face. Please.
