May 06, 2005  |  By: Chris Crain  | COMMENTS     

IF YOU WOULD have told me when I first came out that at some point in my life I would be beaten up for being gay, I would never have imagined it like this.

As a child of the South, where “fag” and “queer” were everyday insults, I would have expected a fist to the face somewhere back home for sure.

For years now, in big cities and small, I suppose I’ve tempted fate, living my life as I have always seen everyone else live theirs.

If the mood strikes me to hold my boyfriend’s hand, I do it. If a chill in the air makes me want to put my arm around his shoulders, I do that, too. If he says something romantic that deserves a peck on the lips, he can expect that’s coming, too.

As it happens, I tempted fate one too many times in arguably the “gay-friendliest” place on the planet.

By almost any measure, the equality movement in the Netherlands was won years ago. There are laws protecting against discrimination based on sexual orientation, there are hate crime laws, and Holland is one of only a handful of countries where gay couples can legally marry.

What’s more, there are few times of the year more welcoming than Queen’s Day, not so named for the gays who flock by the thousands to Amsterdam for the holiday, but for the Netherlands’ Queen Beatrix, who last Saturday celebrated a quarter century on the throne.

In her annual address to the nation, she said she was disturbed by a rising tide of intolerance in this most tolerant of countries. Early Saturday morning, I got a firsthand look at what she meant.

I WAS WALKING through central Amsterdam with my boyfriend back to our hotel. People were still milling about on the sidewalks from Friday night’s revelry. We were only blocks from the most popular gay areas; and we were holding hands.

As we passed two men standing on the side of the street, one of them deliberately spat on us, mainly hitting me in the face. Without saying a word, we stood our ground. We stopped, turned around, and asked why. The man, who looked in his 20s, had Moroccan features and spoke with a heavy accent, murmured something about "fucking fags."

Within seconds, the two somehow turned into seven — and five of them were ganging up on me, probably because at 6-foot-7 I’m a good bit bigger than my boyfriend.

It seemed like every direction I turned, I got another punch to the face, and when they kicked me to the ground, time seemed to stop. My heart still pounds as I write about it now. I remember feeling almost helpless.

Then just as quickly, it was over. I was standing up on my own, and our attackers were fleeing. There had been dozens of people on the street corner, but none of them had acted or even said anything. My boyfriend had escaped his attackers and had come to my aid, and that finally convinced the others to run.

I was badly bruised and covered in blood, but I got lucky. There was no permanent damage, although my nose was broken.

EVEN MORE THAN the physical wounds, the attack on my boyfriend and me felt like an attack on us for living our lives openly and for having the temerity to stand up for ourselves.

On the ambulance ride to the hospital, I beat myself up emotionally as much as my attackers had. Should we have been walking hand-in-hand late at night, especially on a party weekend? Should we have just shrugged and kept going after the initial spit?

I could see that night in my boyfriend’s face the fear that I might be seriously hurt. He had no visible injuries, but the whole nightmare for him had been worse. He saw me surrounded by five men, being beaten and kicked and covered in blood.

I decided the next evening, as we walked together down that same street, that I was not going to second-guess our decisions anymore. Standing up for ourselves can have consequences, but not standing up for ourselves can, too.

I filed formal charges with the police, who had come to the scene quickly. At the station the next day, they agreed readily that we had been ...