“Man, it’s just not our day. We can’t catch a break,” I complained.
“That’s such a load of crap! Ref, are you blind?”
“Actually, I guess we’re only down by nine. We’re still in it,” I said, trying to be optimistic.
“Ref, who’s team are you on here?”
“Uncle Mark, it’s okay. That might’ve have actually been the right call,” I said in an apprehensive tone.
“Jesus! Make a goddamn call, wouldya?”
This was typically how we watched sports. Yes, I’ve moved on from my Mulan years and now watch something undeniably gender normative: the NBA. My uncle and I like to watch the Bulls together; you could say it’s our way of bonding. Except, it usually escalates into an unnecessary argument between my uncle and the TV while I frustratingly try to watch on the side. In that moment, I felt like Lester Holt helplessly trying moderate a stupid debate. Sometimes he isn’t the easiest person to watch sports with, but I know he likes watching with me. Basketball is something we both enjoy; usually, he offers some funny commentary.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t so funny on that Sunday afternoon. I was home for winter break. It was my freshman year. I don’t know what it was, but, that day, he was worse than usual. It didn’t help that the Bulls were playing against my least favorite player, LeBron James. My uncle didn’t care about the Bulls as much as I did, but he knew that I hated LeBron. I didn’t hate him as a person or anything, but LeBron usually happened to get in the way of my team from winning. So, naturally I wasn’t his biggest fan. My uncle, trying to connect with me, started reaming LeBron. “Oh that’s such a sissy call, ref! He clearly flopped. He’s flopped five plays in a row for god’s sake.”
“Uncle Mark, it’s okay. Relax.” The game went on with some smaller interjections until, towards the end of the game, I noticed him really start to get worked up. “Are you kidding me? That’s bullshit,” he yelled at LeBron. “You’re such a ******.”
“Uncle Mark,” I said in a raised voice. “C’mon, that’s enough.” My sister’s fiancé was also watching the game and echoed my sentiments. He actually said them a bit louder than me and I think my uncle got the idea. He kept quiet for a little.
Hearing my uncle Mark call an innocent, straight, defenseless male a faggot is something that I will never forget. I simply did not think that people in my inner circles even said that word anymore. After all, it was 2014. I think the last time I heard someone use that word in a derogatory way must have been in middle school.
Thinking back to that moment with my uncle makes me ashamed. I’m not shameful that he said what he said, but that I didn’t step up. I disagree with him all the time. I should have told my uncle how much his comment upset me. I should have made him understand how big of a deal this was to me.
Right now, all I can do is hang my head and stare at my feet. That day, I was a bystander. Even my sister’s fiancé who, at the time, wasn’t quite fully comfortable with our family, had a stronger reaction than me. He knew that a line had been crossed. I knew it too; I just didn’t say anything. It was easier to not make a big deal out of it.
Reflecting on that moment, I thought I had put my foot down and proved a point. I thought I had done enough, but this moment is still on my mind. I wanted to say something, but didn’t feel comfortable doing so.
It’s moments like these that make me feel like I should have done more I should be doing more, trying to show people—like my uncle—that I, a hetero-sexual, white male do not stand for derogatory language against minorities. In fact, I strongly condemn it. It offends me. It offends the values that I stand for: equality, morality, compassion, empathy.
Just because I am privileged enough not to have to be on the receiving end of words like faggot, nigger, cunt etc… does not mean that I can sit idly by. Just because I didn’t grow up in the slums, wasn’t raised in an abusive family, or haven’t tasted the bad side of America does not mean that I shouldn’t try to help the people that have.
Just because my uncle is an upper-middle class white man, like me, does not mean that he can make comments about the people who have been made vulnerable by society. I may have not been called a faggot, but I have been called a pussy more times than I can count. Even when it comes out of a friend’s mouth, it still stings. Whether it is in a joking way or not, it never feels good to be put down at the expense of defenseless minorities.