MEAN STREETS

Fear.

I'm not talking about the fear prompted by Measure 36, the proposal for an Oregon constitutional amendment that will ensure homosexuals don't rise above second-class status.

I'm talking about the fear that comes from being just different enough to stand out in a crowd. While that skill comes in handy in most social situations, on the street it makes you a target.

Recently, I witnessed two incidents that reminded me that even streets I consider safe--and for most of my life I've considered downtown Portland my own personal Bourbon Street--might not be.

The first occurred during the end of a workday rush hour on Southwest Yamhill Street between Broadway and 6th Avenue. As I was waiting for a Yellow Line MAX train alongside a bunch of other bushed-looking worker bees, a couple of rough-looking punks started chasing another guy. And BAM! The thugs hit their target. They kicked. They stole his bag. No one made an effort to stop the crime. No one even called 911. It was like watching a 3-D version of MTV's Punk'd. I was just thankful I didn't have to wait long for my train.

The second, more frightening situation happened a block south. Around 6 pm on Saturday, Sept. 4, my partner and I were heading east on Yamhill Street when we noticed what appeared to be a large woman beating the crap out of a much smaller guy on the light-rail tracks. As a train headed toward this clueless couple, the woman pulled out what appeared to be a knife and started stabbing at the unarmed victim.

I thought the incessant horn blaring from the oncoming train had ended the attack, but the woman decided to turn around and take a few more swipes at him, and I kept watching until the woman ran away and disappeared into Meier & Frank. A few minutes later, I saw the cops had caught up with her (who I found out later was a him--she turned out to be a trannie with several aliases). In the end, I was glad another train had arrived to end the incident and break things up.

I'm not claiming that these two events are indicative of a downtown crime wave. According to Portland Police Bureau records, aggravated assault on the city's west side is down 20 percent from last year. But when I saw blood spilled on the tracks on my familiar streets, I was forced to remember that life isn't reality TV.

All of this brings me to admit a dark, dirty secret: At first, I took a perverse pleasure in watching straights face the same kind of random acts of violence that I most often hear about from other gays. Days later, after working through my own guilt about reducing the world into either/or terms--simply gay or straight, myself as simple-minded as the right wingers who don't think gays should be allowed to legally marry--now I can't stop thinking about violence and how universal it is.

This week, the death tally for U.S. soldiers killed in the Iraq war has hit more than 1,000, while at home, on the safe streets of Portland, I watch people beating up other people. I can't help thinking that this is going to get a lot worse before it gets any better.

I don't pretend to have a solution. I just don't feel as safe walking downtown. How about you?