I grabbed a can of cranberry sauce and a frozen pizza while Helen did a major provisioning, then I did a little work on Facebook, reviewing new comments on some of my stories, and engaging with readers.
As I waded through everything, I noticed a sprinkling of comments that carry a theme I’m all too used to. To paraphrase, it goes something like this:
You guys need to stop playing the “victim card.” Everybody has problems. Your identity politics bullshit is over the top, and it’s hurting you instead of helping you. Stop pretending that homosexuals face special problems. They don’t. You just want special rights. Your sex life isn’t a movement.
I mostly don’t try to engage with people who say things like that, because I want my work to stand on its own. I try to paint life in such a way that I don’t need to answer those criticisms.
It’s pointless to try, I think. If you can read a story about a 14-year-old boy forced into physically abusive “conversion therapy” and then claim I’m fostering a “victim mentality,” nothing I can say is going to impact your thinking.
So, I sighed and worked through more negative comments while Helen shopped. I put her bags in the truck, took her home, and got everything arranged on her kitchen table.
She was smiling and happily putting her groceries away when I left.