Boys in cars
Boys, boys, boys. We like boys in cars.
Boys, boys, boys. Buy us drinks in bars.
Boys, boys, boys. We love them, we love them!
For anyone too young or not gay enough to remember, these are the lyrics to Boys Boys Boys, a song released by Lady Gaga in 2008. While I hate to disagree with a queer icon, I don’t like boys in cars. And some of them owe me a lot more than a drink in a bar.
On several occasions, (what appeared to be) heterosexual men have shouted homophobic abuse at me while driving (what definitely were) cars. A strange phenomenon seems to happen when some (not all) straight-presenting men get behind the wheel of a car. It empowers them to shout whatever they like at whoever they like. They lose all sense of right and wrong, only concerned with impressing the equally ignorant individual in the passenger seat next to them. They need their voice to be heard, even if what they are heard to be saying is both offensive and moronic.
These men haven’t progressed beyond the mindset of a playground bully. They still see someone's sexuality as a weakness they can exploit. Despite clearly being old enough to drive, they are nothing more than silly little schoolboys in grown-up bodies. As most (but clearly not all) bullies one day learn, words carry weight. Throwing them carelessly out of a car window can cause long-lasting damage.
“Words carry weight. Throwing them carelessly out of a car window can cause long-lasting damage.”
My first encounter with homophobic-hollering occurred when I was 22 years old, while I was living and studying in Dundee. I had only recently come out as gay and, as many queer folk will relate to, was at the peak of my delayed adolescence. Like a teenage girl in a '90s rom-com, I was completely smitten with the first guy I had ever properly dated. I was blissfully besotted with a boy and nothing could tear us apart (we would, of course, break up six weeks later).
My sort-of-boyfriend had come to Dundee for the weekend to visit me. While we were in the supermarket, play-acting as a proper domesticated couple, he accidentally called me the name of his ex-boyfriend. I found this hilarious; he did not. To show him that I wasn’t offended (and because I wanted to), I held his hand. This was the first time we had held hands, and, while I didn’t admit it at the time, it was the first time I had ever held hands with a man I was romantically involved with.
We walked up the hill, hand-in-hand, towards my flat, chatting away merrily, not breaking the tie. Then our conversation was rudely interrupted:
GAAAAAAAAY!
A man threw the elongated single-syllable word at us from a car as he sped past, laughing to his friend. We had both just started to feel comfortable being associated with the word gay, and now it was being sharpened and weaponised against us, bursting our romantic bubble.
We immediately laughed it off, commenting on how it was a ridiculous heckle but an accurate observation. Our conversation continued, swiftly moving on to sweeter subjects in an attempt to reconjure a flirtatious atmosphere. We didn’t acknowledge that our still tightly clasped palms had become sweaty or how our once leisurely stroll had sped up. Soon, we were back at my flat, and we spent the evening, perhaps partially as a form of protest, being gayer than we’d ever been before.
Fast forward 5 years, and I was on a first date with a different (although quite similar-looking) man. We were a little tipsy, walking from the wine bar we’d spent the evening in back to my flat (he was being a gentleman and walking me home - get your mind out of the gutter). As we walked, he was attempting to prove that, just as he had boasted about on his Hinge profile, he was able to speak in 10 different accents. He rattled through a catalogue of different voices, which varied drastically in quality and consistency. We laughed and laughed and stopped on the side of the road for a small, demure kiss.
This quiet, romantic moment was once again loudly interrupted, this time by a slightly more inventive slur:
Batty boys!
For anyone unfamiliar with the term, “batty boy” is a slur often used to refer to a gay or effeminate man. I was familiar with the phrase but had never heard anyone say it, let alone shout it from a moving vehicle. My date was similarly familiar with, but far more enraged by, the term, immediately shouting something (I forget what) back as the car sped away.
Just as it had half a decade earlier, the conversation moved briskly on as we marched forward, creating as much distance as possible between ourselves and the incident. We returned to laughing, showcasing questionable accents, kissing and making plans to see each other again (for what would be our second and final date).
Cars driven by homophobic men are like buses; you wait five years for one and then two come along at once. That same summer, two of my oldest, best friends came down to visit me for Birmingham Pride weekend. We had been to the Pride parade and enjoyed watching the usual assortment of corporate floats while dancing to oddly quiet music. On our way back to my flat, we popped into Lidl (no defamation to Lidl, I love their bakery, that’s just where the incident happened) to pick up some pizza and prosecco to eat and drink while we got ready to go out and party that evening.
The Pride flag I’d been waving during the parade was now tied to my cross-body bag. I’d forgotten I was even carrying it, but as I was walking into the supermarket, I was aggressively reminded:
Put that flag away!
The loud voice came from (you guessed it) a man inside a car. He was paused at the traffic lights just outside the store and seemingly enraged by the sight of a piece of colourful fabric. At first, I didn’t even realise he was shouting at me. I wondered what flag he was objecting to so strongly. As if to clarify, he piped up again:
Don’t ignore me! Put it away.
With this second sentence, I instantly realised he was shouting at me, and a sickness set deep inside my stomach. This was different from the previous incidents. These words were targeted only at me, not the couple I was part of. The impact wasn’t shared. And this time, I wasn’t the butt of an immature joke; I was on the receiving end of a repeated demand. I felt threatened; worried that, if I didn’t do as he said, he would get out of his car and remove the flag by force.
I didn’t put my flag away, and luckily, the man didn’t leave his car. My response was well-rehearsed by this third incident: a quick burst of humour, and then we quickly moved on. After a speedy, sweaty shop, we went back to my place. I slipped into a tartan skirt and within a few hours we were dancing to nostalgic acts including Natasha Beddingfield and Jamelia. I kissed a boy, and then another one.
“You won’t be the perpetrator, but you might be a witness.”
This article isn’t designed to be a deterrent. If you’re reading Headless Friends, a journal about queer culture, the chance are that you also think shouting at someone for holding hands, kissing or carrying a flag is a ridiculous thing to do. You would never dream of shouting homophobic abuse out of a car window. You won’t be the perpetrator, but you might be a witness.
On all three occasions when I was shouted at by homophobic boys in cars, all of the witnesses stayed silent. I’m glad no one shouted back, as this could have escalated the situation. And I understand why no one said anything; it’s uncomfortable to talk to any stranger, let alone one who has just been put in a vulnerable position. That said, no one could have felt more uncomfortable in those moments than I did. I wish someone had said something.
Are you okay?
I’m sorry that happened to you.
That man is an absolute idiot.
You are safe here.
In moments like this, you don’t feel safe. You feel uncomfortable, embarrassed, isolated and othered. A soft sentence from a kind stranger could have made all the difference.
Those boys in those cars didn’t ruin my day by shouting at me, but they did add some unnecessary weight to core queer memories. I still remember exactly what each of those boys shouted at me (and I have a terrible memory), which shows how words can have a long-lasting impression.
If you witness someone falling victim to a boy overcompensating in a car, use your words wisely. Words can cut, but they can also help heal.