Hey, Faggot:
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We hadn’t been drinking. The argument was fierce for us, but no more so than arguments we’ve had in the past. He apologized for hours and seems genuinely contrite and as upset about the whole situation as I am. Should I break up with him? I drive around town with a “You Can’t Beat a Woman” bumper sticker on my car, I take self-defense classes, and–how’s this for ironic?–both of my sisters work in battered women’s shelters. I don’t want to break up with him, but I feel like I ought to–every time I look at my car’s bumper I feel like a world-class hypocrite, which is making me feel guilty. I know about patterns and cycles of abuse and “abuser” profiles, and nothing about him or our relationship falls into those categories. As far as he knows, we’re “on hold” while I sort this out. What do I do? –LH
My first impulse is to tell you to leave his sorry ass. There is no excuse for violence, none. If women dumped men who hit the first time it happened, think of the women’s lives that would be saved. So the answer seems obvious: leave him. But, you know, I’ve never been hit and therefore have never had to make the decision you’re facing. Situations and choices we see in stark black-and-white are often a whole hell of a lot grayer when we’re actually experiencing them.
Your reply to “No Name, No Game, No Flame” was cruel, irresponsible, and totally out of line. [No Name was a 21-year-old chickenshit closet case, and I told him so–Dan.] This nasty tirade gave no information and offered no help to someone who is in a severe state of sociosexual confusion and instability. I realize your style is ruthless and hard-hitting, but you could have included some constructive advice instead of raving on like some crystallized club queen who’s been on a bender all weekend.
Maybe you have it in your heart to endlessly indulge 21-year-old urban closet cases, but not me. Hordes of crybabies in the closet stay put out of sheer cowardice, and it is not my job to pat their pointy heads and coo “Everything will be fine once you join a coming-out support group” each time one scrapes up the courage to send me a letter. It is No Name’s perfect right to pout in the closet for the rest of his life, or do the perfectly obvious things (join those coming-out groups, lose those homophobic friends) that lead to a happy, healthy homohood. It is not his perfect right to hear the same old list of coming-out baby steps from every homo he meets or seeks advice from.
