Matt Damon's Daughter's Treatise On Why Saying The F-Slur For A Homosexual Is Bad
Dear Dad,
I wanted to talk about earlier, when we were eating lunch at that seafood place by the beach, and you called some crows picking at garbage nearby “little garbage gay f-slurs.” I had to leave the table. I was so mad at you. Later, when we were driving home, you barely apologized and added, “I’m sorry you have to be all gay about it.” Is that an apology, Dad? I don’t think so. You went on to call me the “F-Slur For A Homosexual Ambassador.” I am no ambassador. But I am a daughter. And right now, I am just a daughter standing in front of her wealthy father, begging him to not say the gay f-slur daily anymore.
You might have noticed that I am refusing to spell the actual slur out. It’s so ugly of a word that I can’t even bring my fingers to hover above its letters on the keyboard.
I am not sure if you know this, but there was a period where I didn’t type anything. One time I heard you yelling at a director of some movie you were in, complaining about a scene where your character is researching something on a computer, and you thought you looked gay while typing. “Only F-slurs type on computers,” you said. I was so confused. I saw lots of different people type on computers and on phones every day. So after that, I gave up typing. I tried all kinds of typing-substitutes. Mailing friends letters instead of texting. Morse code. Etching school papers onto stone tablets. I even tried using only my mind one time in computer class. Finally, I gave up. And thank goodness I did. Since then, typing has made my life so much easier.
Ever since I can remember, you’ve used the gay f- slur. You call everything the f-slur! People, animals, the wind, actual gay f-slurs. One of my earliest memories was when I was three, and you and Mom took me to the aquarium. We watched dolphins jump through flaming hoops, and you turned to Mom and said, “I don’t want to watch these f-slur dolphins.” Dad, that is not OK. No one should ever hear their father call an animal the gay f-slur, especially a dolphin.
Another time, in kindergarten, our teacher showed us a picture of an electrician, and asked us what that type of person is called. I raised my hand and said “Gay f-slur.” My teacher was horrified, and asked me why I said that. I told her how one time, we drove by a crane with two electricians standing close together in its basket, going up to fix a telephone pole. You rolled your window down and yelled “Get a room, f-slurs!” And then you explained to me why poles are gay.
The tapestry of my life seems to be threaded with this vile word. It is in the very fabric of our family. It has a place at the dinner table. Literally. Every year on Christmas, you have us leave out an extra plate of cookies and an extra glass of milk in case Santa wants to be a “F-slur” and eat more. Dad, do you see how destructive this is? To this day, I can’t hear Christmas Carols without immediately thinking, “This is some gay f-slur shit.”
Luckily, in my life, I’ve gotten to know some real life f-word slurs — not that one guy from school who came over to our house to film a video for English class and you called him a gay f-slur because he asked if we could wait till “magic hour” to film—actual homosexual f-slurs. Real life gay people. Gay people are good. And human. Some of them even have jobs! And they are really fun. And kind. And when I got to know them, I realized, “Just because they’re literal gay f-slurs, doesn’t mean they’re bad.” When you call someone or something you don’t care for a f-slur, you make bad and gay one thing. And that is violent! And it’s toxic, not only to the world around you, but to your own heart and soul. Dad, you don’t have to be toxic.
I know deep down inside of you, you have the strength to stop using this word. You don’t have to call the earrings one of Grandma’s neighbors made for her “Ear gay f-slurs,” or call Autumn foliage the “Gay f-slur of trees.” If you feel the urge to say it, just pause and remember that there’s a gay person somewhere who’s creating amazing art, or cheering a sad friend up, or getting married to someone they love and raising a family, or being mean on Twitter. Remember that, and maybe you’ll remember why this word is so terrible.
I have to stand my ground now, Dad. If you don’t stop saying this word, I will have no choice but to screenshot this treatise and post it to my Instagram story.
Do the right thing, Dad. Stop being a faggot.