After a business proposal I went through the other day, my mind came up with yet another metaphor for being a gun bubba working in entertainment.
Embarrassing grandparents.
I love them. Dearly. They're endearing and sweet most of the time. They've been a part of my lives for so long. They're steeped in history and wisdom and I learn so much whenever I spend time with them.
But holy shit, they're so set in their ways they have no idea of the kind of racist, sexist, elitist, bodyshaming, slutshaming, povertyshaming, homophobic bullshit falls out of their mouths at the worst times. Their clumsy attempts at defending it are even more painful.
And that's before we even get to the hoplophobia.
And Yeah, I want them to understand me. But there's only so much they can stand to hear about my life and what I do. Somewhere out there, there is a line. And if I cross that line, with a single word, those two will look at me like I was about to commit sodomy right there on the dining room table: no idea if they'd scream, call the cops, never speak to me again, patronize me, or just be awkward.
And I have no idea where, exactly, that line is.
So there I sit:
Not in the gun safe.
Not open carrying an AR outside a tacky restaurant chain.
Keeping cautiously quiet and resenting it. Knowing that someways I'm being tolerated because I know my place.
Knowing that when the next shooting hits the news, I'm gonna hear something that at best makes me roll my eyes so hard I'll lose a contact lens.
At worst, I'm gonna hear something from someone whose opinion I care about, and it's going to fucking hurt.
Embarrassing grandparents.
I love them. Dearly. They're endearing and sweet most of the time. They've been a part of my lives for so long. They're steeped in history and wisdom and I learn so much whenever I spend time with them.
But holy shit, they're so set in their ways they have no idea of the kind of racist, sexist, elitist, bodyshaming, slutshaming, povertyshaming, homophobic bullshit falls out of their mouths at the worst times. Their clumsy attempts at defending it are even more painful.
And that's before we even get to the hoplophobia.
And Yeah, I want them to understand me. But there's only so much they can stand to hear about my life and what I do. Somewhere out there, there is a line. And if I cross that line, with a single word, those two will look at me like I was about to commit sodomy right there on the dining room table: no idea if they'd scream, call the cops, never speak to me again, patronize me, or just be awkward.
And I have no idea where, exactly, that line is.
So there I sit:
Not in the gun safe.
Not open carrying an AR outside a tacky restaurant chain.
Keeping cautiously quiet and resenting it. Knowing that someways I'm being tolerated because I know my place.
Knowing that when the next shooting hits the news, I'm gonna hear something that at best makes me roll my eyes so hard I'll lose a contact lens.
At worst, I'm gonna hear something from someone whose opinion I care about, and it's going to fucking hurt.
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