OP-ED: It’s Not a Hate Crime If You Love Doing It

Monday, November 16, 2009
By Rick Adams
Rick Adams (MSB '10)

Rick Adams (MSB '10)

There’s been a lot of talk around campus lately about the recent string of so-called hate crimes. Students and faculty alike have been up in arms claiming that Georgetown isn’t a place for hate. And I agree. There’s no place at an academic institution for hate or hateful speech. But I do hope there is a place for love. Love of knowledge, love for your neighbor, love for Christ, and perhaps most of all, love for the vicious, unrelenting assault of homosexuals.

Now, I’m not a bigot. I don’t hate gays. Absolutely not. But I do love kicking the shit out of them. Of course I do. But one man’s hate crime is another’s love mauling. Calling it a hate crime is not only wrong, but it’s dangerous. It brings hate into an equation where there’s only an abounding love shooting straight from my heart.

Frankly, I don’t think people even understand what hate is.

But let me make this very clear right here and now: I don’t hate and I don’t commit hate crimes. I love. I love throwing down with a fairy late a night. I love it. I love everything about it. My chest tightens and I feel all the love I can muster welling up inside as my eyes glaze over. I love feeling the crisp November air cutting at my cheeks outside of Healy Gates. I love hearing the soft pitter-patter of an effeminate man in expensive shoes. I love the sweet smell of perfume from his freshly shaven neck right before I serenade him with calls of “What are you, some kind of faggot? Hey, faggot, I asked you a question. You suck dick?” And oh how I love the dulcet tones of flesh meeting perfectly moisturized gay flesh, reverberating in the air like bells on the Pope’s wedding day. So don’t you dare tell me I commit hate crimes.

Sometimes after I’ve fled the scene, almost ashamed of how much love I have in me, I want to come back and thank the young wayward soul. I want to thank him for reminding me what it is to love. What is to stand triumphantly over a crumpled body, feeling the heat of excitement rush through me, my heart swelling with pride at having vanquished someone of a different perceived sexual orientation. Secretly, I think they know that I owe them everything. That without them, my life would be empty, and I’d be forced to seek refuge in drink and lasciviousness. I need them to understand that I don’t do it because I hate them, I do it because I love assaulting them.

What do you call that shit—symbiotic relationship?  It’s one of those.

In a way, homos and I have a lot in common.  Some people look down on them for sucking dicks all the time, but they love doing that.  They couldn’t live if they didn’t have a dick in their mouths every five seconds.  And I couldn’t live if they weren’t walking around alone all the time for me to beat into a bloody puree.  Lots of people don’t like us doing what we love, but it’s the only thing we have.

So to all the hatemongerers I say, before you go filling the air with your vile, poisonous talk of hate crimes, stop and think for a moment. Try to step out of your narrow, intolerant worldview for just one second and put yourself in my shoes—a proud man who not only likes beating up gay kids late at night but loves it. And love is the closest thing we have to heaven on earth. If you want to take that away from me, I have only one question for you: What are you, some kind of faggot?