The street was glistening with Christmas lights, and tiny flurries were falling onto our hats as we walked down a picturesque Philadelphia street. It was the end of one of the first “real” dates that I have ever had in my young thirty years of life. We started the night with dinner at a fancy restaurant followed by attending the musical White Christmas.
As we walked down the street, my date reached out and held my hand. I had chills down my spine and felt like the moment was being scripted by some unseen director of a romantic movie and we were the leading couple. I was feeling the butterflies of new love in my stomach as we walked two more blocks holding hands when suddenly a group of people started yelling at us: “Look at those faggots holding hands, how gay, I want to puke.”
Finally, they all in unison yelled, “Get out of here you fags and go back to your neighborhood, we don’t want your kind here.”
I wish I could say this happened in another country or another time, but it was 2009 and only three blocks away from a neighborhood nicknamed the gayborhood for its inclusivity and diversity in Philadelphia. To this day, I still feel uncomfortable holding another man’s hand in public.
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