Punk-Ass Kids

While I settled into a seat near the middle, the driver warned a dozen or so of my busmates in the back to settle down.

By the time we'd made it to the Steel Bridge, these impossible-to-ignore urchins dissed a half-dozen strangers on the bus, in addition to taunting passersby through the windows.

I tried to ignore the ruckus, as they were just kids, after all. Then something came whizzing by my head. "It was a piece of candy," the guy next to me said.

I sat in my seat and waited, dreading what I knew would happen next. I knew, somehow, that I would become the next target for this pint-sized pack.

I didn't have to wait long. About three seconds later, something shiny sailed right by my ear. Not candy this time but metal, which caused me to shoot out of my seat and shout: "They're throwing bolts!"

At the Rose Garden, our driver threw the entire group of white/black, male/female, big/little kids right off the bus.

"You little assholes," I said as they exited. "Who the fuck do you think are? You're nothing but punks." A couple of them pounded on a window, trying to freak me out, but as I sat there waiting for the bus to move, I started thinking about why I had gotten so pissed off.

I understand I shouldn't shout obscenities at anyone, let alone children. But I couldn't help myself. I was Michael Douglas in Falling Down. I was Sally Fields in Norma Rae. I was Peter Finch in Network: "I'm mad as hell, and not going to take it anymore."

Now I'll never understand the real reason why these punks decided to pick on me. I do know that for most of my childhood, and a good part of my adult life, I've been treated as if I had an invisible "kick me" sign posted on my butt. Maybe I look like an easy mark. Maybe I'm too short. Maybe I look too gay or simply too whatever.

For the past three years, as I've developed a voice in this column, I think I've begun to change, begun to think I have a right to make a claim. As I've learned to speak out, I've realized I want to have a voice on the street, too, and on the bus. I want more than just a ride home. I want respect.

As a gay man, that's hard to come by. No matter how much we've been accepted in the media, queers are still easy targets. I can't tell you how many times I've heard the word "faggot" on the bus--and that's never expressed in a good way.

I'm not interested in taking it anymore, not from a bunch of kids or anybody else. I want to ride the bus in peace, not pieces, and if that means I have to get all Rosa Parks on someone's ass--well, I say, bring it on.

What if I see those kids on the bus again? I'll simply ignore them--like always. But if they get in my face, I will get in theirs. In choosing to stand up for myself, I realize I'm making the same claim as anyone else who has lived outside the mainstream of society and been bullied long enough to get angry.

I want to help myself by living my life without fear or des-pair. That's the only right thing to do--gay or straight.