Entrada original del 5 de agosto de 2018 en quejoder.wordpress.com
Hace muchos años, por gracia de un blog más antiguo que este(!), encontré a alguien a quien conocí en persona hasta ayer. En esos tiempos jamás habría pensado que viviríamos en el mismo país, pero ya que estamos en esas, me invitó al Pride de su ciudad. Es el segundo Pride más grande del país, después del de Londres.
Más que una marcha limitada a una ruta y a un parque, ocurrió que toda la ciudad estaba tapizada con los colores del arcoíris. Me bajé del tren entre una oleada de gente que llegaba para Pride, y desde entonces no paré de ver personas, parejas y familias de todas las combinaciones posibles en términos de sexo, género y vestimentas. En cada calle por la que pasaba había fiesta, sobre todo en las más cercanas a la playa, y en la playa misma.
Mi cara todo el día:
Después de ver un pedazo de la marcha, porque era masiva y hacía mucho sol, mi amiga y yo nos fuimos a la playa y compartimos perímetro con una pareja de cheros, que estaban ahí frolicking porque no lograron tickets para ver a Britney Spears. Ese fue el nivelón de este Pride, incluía un concierto de Britney, bitch.
El Bus Oficial de Futbolistas Gay iba vacío. Al principio saca una sonrisa pero no es un chiste (véase también: Justin Fashanu).
Mi amiga me contó que en el hotel a la par del de la foto arriba, le tiraron una bomba a Margaret Thatcher. En notas más alegres, mi amiga también me contó que vio en vivo a Ziggy Stardust. Mi reacción:
Me pasa que algunas cosas que he escrito/garabateado, y que usted no ha leído (todavía), terminan materializándose en la vida real. Como ayer, que terminé sentada en la arena sobre mi bandera tricolor, solo que yo le estaba tomando fotos a mi amiga en estado zen, a las gaviotas y a la balsita salvavidas:
También vi mi primer Banksy en vivo:
Pero parece que toda la mariquez que reinó a mi alrededor ese día tenía un precio. El inicio y el final de mi viaje estuvieron plagados por ese flagelo de la sociedad que son los Hombres Blancos Que Creen Que Solo Ellos Importan. Lo vuadejar en inglés porque así lo escribí, recapitulándole a alguien que no habla español, y me da hueva traducirlo. Si no habla inglés, aquí y aquí está la versión corta. Y yo no tengo cara de Stacey.
The first annoying entitled white dudebro appeared at the train station, as early as 5:20 am, calling me “Stacey” *and* “Sharon”, and opening his arms for a hug. I said “nope, sorry” politely and he left me alone. Then I cringed when I noticed he and one of his mates, and no-bo-dy-else went on the same coach as me. They both sat in First Class, I was in a standard seat. They left a few minutes later as the Stacey Sharon guy talked to me again, warning me that First Class was rubbish and there was no need to pay extra for that. Then they both left, thankfully.
***
The London train back home was chaotic. Four dudebros were at the table that had my seat. The response of the one in my seat when I pointed that out was something like “I’m not having a good day, am I”. Asshole. But I’m stupid, so I said he could stay there and I could seat nearby if no one else claimed my new seat. Well, of course someone claimed it, which I knew would happen because I CAN READ THE SIGN THAT SAYS THIS SEAT IS RESERVED, but at least the fucker accepted to go away after that, without aiming his drama at me.
I almost gave up my seat because I’m stupid, but also because I had no interest in sharing a table with three dudebros. I heard one ask “is this really her seat?”, but unfortunately I’m no good at confrontations, and yes, it was my seat. They didn’t bother me, but one of them was engaged with fighting with his girlfriend over text message, and their semantic field suggested they were not the kind to respect women as people.
I just read my book, and eventually put on my headphones and doodled a skull, which reflected my frustration over a train journey ruined. I was hoping I’d get some peaceful time, with music, my notebook and a coffee, to collect my thoughts after a beautiful day. Instead I got a burping bro, who also put his feet on the seat next to me when his mate got up.
I have to repeat that they didn’t bother me, only because I’m relieved about that. Afterwards, I could think of many ways I could have reacted differently to the jerk on my seat, beginning by removing “sorry” from my vocabulary, but maybe not reacting on time saved me some trouble. It sucks to have this as a consolation, but also, there seemed to be no train staff around (no one even checked the tickets) in case anything happened.
When I got to the city, there was a long line to catch a cab, and no cabs. Another group of brodudes, who looked like how the ones from the train will look in 30 years, were growing restless behind me, and seemed ready to steal the next cab that came along. They yelled very rude things at an obese man who took a cab first BECAUSE HE WAS IN LINE FIRST. They insulted a guy who was before me because how one dares to use “one cab for one person”.
I was ready to throw a kick if the one who was the leader jumped in front of me to take my cab. Instead, he touched my side, ugh, I felt his fingers brushing against the side of my stomach, and asked me something I did not understand, but I looked down on him (I was slightly taller than him and I tried to emphasize that), said “YES” in a deep voice, and hopped on quickly.
Again, I can think of many ways in which I could have responded to those assholes, and ways in which things could have gone wrong with them. But let’s not think of that, OK? Fucking entitled white males, they are trash indeed. I was super happy after my day at Brighton, and I’m glad it left me in a solid mood, so at least when I got home I was still smiling and thinking of the good times I’d had, and mostly relieved I’d left all the dudebros behind.
See ya never, grandísimos cerotes.
