My name is Schlomo Steel. And I’m a faggot.
That’s my face. That’s my name. That’s how a self-respecting adult queer goes through the world.
I don’t care what other people – what other queers think about me anymore. I don’t care about everything in its own time or people blooming in different seasons.
I haven’t spent the last 20 years busting the gender binary’s chops so that your middle-aged ass can get on a hookup app and ask for discretion.
I didn’t haul my ass out of the closet in rural Michigan in the 90s so that you could maintain your conditional heterosexual privilege in 2015 in the most liberal city this side of the Mississippi.
You are part of the problem. You are a grown-ass man with a smart phone in goddam Ann Arbor, MI and you’re too scared to say you’re a fag?
Well fuckin tough titties. I hope your sex is furtive and hollow. I hope your fear eats you alive.
Kids like me get beaten up before we even know we’re queer. Before we even know what queer is. And a lot of the time, we get beaten up by spineless little shits like you.
Some of us eat your hate for breakfast and grow up to expose you on the internet. And some of us end up dead, by our own hands – or by your yours. Taken too soon from a world that would rather disappear us than love us. Or at least leave us the fuck alone.
I know you’re scared. But I don’t give any two shits anymore. When you’re an independently living adult in Little Berkeley, all your excuses come down to how fucking great it is to think that people think you’re straight.
You disgust me. I and millions more like me have gone before you to blaze a trail, but you’d rather sit on the sidelines and call us fags.
But you know what? I am a fag. A fucking ferocious defender of queers everywhere. A proud queer man who turns fuckery into light and truth.
You are participating in your own oppression by hiding in the shadows. And me? I just ran the fuck out of sympathy.
Do something. Be something. Or fuck the fuck off.
– Big Mama Schlomo