ABSTRACT
I arrive at school on the evening of November 8, 2005, at 7 p.m. and Michael is pacing madly. A white guy with colorful arm tattoos and a speech impediment and a slight southern accent, Michael is the janitor in the building that houses the high school where I teach. For the last year, I have talked to him for a few minutes every night-the weather, the traffic, the photocopier-or I admonish him not to listen to the homophobic radio call-in show that is always on in the background. He says he likes the music. I have taken to random, firm, and polite weekly counterresponses to try to move him from the “god hates fags” spot on the radio dial.
