"Geta Loada Them"copyright 2000
The first Saturday after moving into our home, my new husband and I stood on our driveway surveying our neighborhood as my 6-year-old son, Ryan, rode his bike in the cul-de-sac.
"Whoo! Get a load of our neighbors!" Craig exclaimed.
He continued, "Across the street from us, you got the 'Faggots'..."
"Craig! Don't use that word!" I admonished, "Besides, just because a bunch of young men room together, it doesn't mean they're gay!"
Just then, Ryan rode up to us on the sidewalk and asked, "Mommy, is Officer Patrick gay?"
"Ryan," I whispered as I noticed the young police officer across the street mowing his lawn, "Do you know what that means, honey?"
"Yes, Mommy. It's when a man loves a man or a woman loves a woman."
"Okay," I nodded, "Why do you ask?"
"Well, Officer Patrick's room mate called to him from the roof and said 'Honey, hand me my hammer.'"
"Ha ha!" my husband chortled, "Even your SON knows!"
"Maybe, Ryan," I said quietly, as Ryan rode away on his bike.
"As I was saying," my husband arrogantly continued,"We got the 'Faggots' across the street, the 'Rednecks' next door to 'em, and the 'Spics' next door to THEM! Whoo oo. What a neighborhood."
When he derogatorily mentioned the Puerto Rican family, I reminded him of my Cuban heritage, "Craig, do YOU remember who YOU'RE married to?"
"Yeah, so?" he shrugged.
As I shook my head and expressed my displeasure at his labeling and judging, he shrugged again.
"So what?" he added, "Just wait 'til they getta load of us!"
"Oh Craig, what do you mean now?"
"Well, we're not a normal family. You've been married before. Ryan's my step-kid. You got pregnant BEFORE WE got married..."
He shrugged again as he responded:
THE END
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