On being called a faggot: or, a few thoughts on hate speech

Since it was a summery weekend, last night we went to get an ice cream cone at a shop in our neighborhood, ironically named Mariposa. Because we have no damned sense, we also took the dog with us. At almost seven years old, he still can't sit still at a restaurant or café and he is always overcome by the excitement of an adventure with his gentlemen.

We were walking back, when we heard a woman behind us asking—telling—us to get out of the way, because she and her preteen son and her husband or boyfriend or whatever were riding their BMX bikes on the sidewalk. That's a pet peeve of mine, but the rules to which those on bicycles are responsive are mysteries to me. As they passed, the man called out, "mariquis," one of the various options for calling someone a faggot in Mexican Spanish. It would have been better in a narrative sense if he'd chosen, "mariposa."

Surely this man thought he was being clever or something. He wasn't being brave, as he chose to call us faggots in a language he assumed we didn't understand. Of course, I understand more than enough to know when I've been called a name; and, Fernando simply responded to him in much more educated, if not more genteel, Spanish. His wife or girlfriend had the sense to tell him not to do it again, but probably only because we understood; I fear it wasn't real shame.

And, there are things I could say about what it means to be a man in your 30s riding a BMX on the sidewalk. I could say something about his parenting. I could say something about his general demeanor and whether he could ever have anything to fear from scary homosexuals. I have said all those things and will say them again, but not here.

Neither Fernando nor I are regularly called names. We don't generally fit the uneducated stereotype of gay men. I mean, we do fit several stereotypes, but only ones that are obvious to gay men or those who know them. We've had things yelled at us a few times, but usually only when we are together or together with the dog. That makes things a little more obvious.

When it does happen, my hackles quickly raise. I get angry and, sometimes, afraid. (Anger always rises most quickly in me.) And, shortly thereafter I become very sad: sad because someone would say it, sad because that's the way that person feels, sad because of the way society is, sad. That is to say that it has an effect, a very real effect, and not one—stoic though I may try to be—I can control. 

I am generally opposed to the regulation of speech. I think hate speech is morally repugnant, but I think it should be legally allowed and protected. But, I also think that when people argue for the protection of all speech they belittle the real suffering that hate speech causes—I'm no victim here, this is something that happens on occasion to me, for others it can be a regular feature of life—and that is a mistake. 

Too often, when we defend the absolute freedom of speech, we act as if no real harm is done by it. This is just an example of a more general problem with arguing about morality and the law abstractly, without paying attention to the actual lives involved. It is more choosing principles over people. 

This can be easy in this case, because most of those who argue for the protection of hate speech never feel its sting. I'll reiterate that I think hate speech should be protected, but it should be protected in spite of the harm it does, not because it doesn't do any harm.