Lonesome George and the street performer: Homophobia lite

The other day, my partner gave me an article, a sort of obituary for Lonesome George. “Famous Galapagos tortoise dies,” the headline read. Anyone who has been to the Galapagos Islands—that marvelous place where Darwin saw the creatures that inspired his inspired theory of evolution—knows about Lonesome George.

Lonesome George

In case you haven’t heard of George, here’s his story: Each of the islands in the Galapagos archipelago has its own distinctive subspecies of giant tortoise. In fact, this was one of the things that caught Darwin’s attention. He realized that these separate groups were actually subspecies that had evolved differently, over eons, to adapt to different environments. Then at some point, folks realized that these tortoises were going extinct. In a belated rush of awareness, conservationists desperately tried to protect—and to breed—the few remaining members of each subgroup so that their genes wouldn’t be lost forever.

Unfortunately, there was only one surviving member of the subspecies native to Pinta Island (Chelonoidis nigra abingdonii, for the biologists among you). That was Lonesome George. So they built him a large enclosure and treated him like the special guy he was. In fact, Lonesome George (the origin of his name is obvious) became the symbol of the foundation that operates the Charles Darwin Research Station, which studies and tries to protect the islands’ many unique species.

The folks at the research center, where George lived, encouraged him to reproduce by introducing assorted potential mates. But no luck. George never fathered any baby tortoises. So when he died at the unexpectedly young age of about 100, his subspecies died with him. I was sad to read of his death, partly because I felt like I knew him personally. But more than that, his very existence was so mind-boggling: the very last magnificent member of a group of animals that we drove to extinction—more precisely, the whalers and pirates started them on the road to extinction, and folks who cared arrived too late.

So where’s the “homophobia lite” part of this story? Well, as she handed me the article, my partner reminded me of something else about our time with George. Her recollection (and her encouragement to write this blog) brought to mind another recent experience—and suddenly George and street performers were merged. Here’s the story, in two parts.

Part I: A couple of years ago, we went to the Galapagos (I wrote about it a bit in an earlier blog). We met George when we visited the Darwin Research Station, and we brought home many t-shirts with his likeness. We also heard jokes about him, comments from a guide, made in that tone that mingles derisiveness with (supposed) wit: “We’ve started to wonder about George. He doesn’t like girls. You know what I mean?” People laughed, the way we’ve all learned to laugh at jokes about men (or even male tortoises, apparently) who “don’t like girls.” It was one of those moments LGBT people encounter fairly frequently—the subtle derision of gay folks, the comments that are supposed to be jokes but that aren’t funny if you’re the target. If we call attention to them, we’re told that we’re “too sensitive,” “have no sense of humor,” “make everything political.” Make people uncomfortable.

Homophobia lite. Nothing overt, no name-calling, just reminders that we are seen as legitimately the brunt of jokes, our lives as laughable. Ouch.

Part II: You’re probably wondering what this has to do with street performers. Well, the other day, we were on the Pearl Street Mall with my partner’s grandson. Among other things (ice cream, hot dogs, having a song invented especially for him), he was enjoying the street performers. So were we, until we got hit with another dose of homophobia lite. This particular performer was pretty good, doing balancing tricks, juggling, and cracking jokes standing on a ladder that was poised without support. Then, for one trick, he asked for a couple of guys from the audience to help him. As he took one man’s hand for balance, he said “Now, don’t get funny with me, Sam.” He continued with the trick, slipping in, “You know, Sam, you have really soft hands for a guy.”

Homophobia lite. He didn’t say, “No faggots allowed” when he asked for volunteers. He didn’t say, “Don’t get gay on me, Sam.” He didn’t say “You have sissy hands” or “You have hands like a woman”—either of which would be easily recognized as code for “You must be gay.” Nope. It was more subtle than that. Both comments drew laughs, as suggestions that someone is gay often do. But to perceive comments like this as homophobia lite, you’d have to be “too sensitive,” “have no sense of humor,” “make everything political.” Or be the brunt of the joke. Men who aren’t “real men” are laughable. Gay folks are a joke. Ouch.

One of the really complicated things about being a target of discrimination or bias is that you always wonder, “Was that really homophobia?” “Did he mean what it felt like he meant?” … or am I just being too sensitive? Homophobia lite (like racism lite, sexism lite, classism lite, ageism lite, etc.) slips under the high-altitude radar. Folks whose work is all about diversity call these “modern –isms.” Unlike with the old-fashioned version of these “-isms,” you can’t point to exactly what was wrong—no explicitly hateful speech, no physical attacks, no overt refusal of service. It’s more insidious than that, and easier to dismiss.

Homophobia lite. It’s hard to be certain what really happened—and harder to explain it to other folks. What is certain, though, is that it hurts.