The measure of a person’s happiness can be found in their feelings towards Mondays. Looking forward to Mondays means you’re doing it right. Or doing theatre… which is not inherently the same thing.
America, then, has a long way to go. But this is Sunday. Pride. And we’re gonna enjoy both those things this day. And this year I’m on a float: the only way I would go. And they’re paying me.
The most interesting image etched in my mind from on-high was the officer, a large white man in full riot gear with a giant grin on his face. I See him so potentially smug or potentially happy—and perhaps at home—made me happy and cheerful… then it made me sad. A bit angry. Confused...
This was not the only officer of note. The myriad, stationed patiently at every intersection included: the indifferent salty-dog cops; incredulous put-off cops; amused, pleasant approving ones; the short tough butch female cops; a little boy in a cop uniform, maybe 6 years old, standing next to a supportive "white shirt", grinning and saluting as we passed. And I couldn’t help but feel a bit happy again. But he didn’t look nearly as proud as the officer in riot gear and that troubled me…
Among the people at pride parades I feel a bit irritated. I hate both crowds and assholes. Both tend to be devoid of opportunities for new perspective. But on the float, checking the levels of the speakers pumping stereotypically gay friendly music (most of it deeply steeped in black ferocity, bish-ness or whatever you call it) I am enthralled by the people of color in the crowd.
The young black girl to my left (and the to my right; then again on my right, etc.), as the greatest metaphor of the day, danced and flirted with a young sassy white boy like two nymphs. It was gorgeous and flirty and devoid of the confusion I expect of 20-somethings. They flirted for at least an hour-and-a-half, like two fairies in the twilight dancing above a bog. Beautiful. She wears a crown of blue flowers on her head and marched with a group of queer-supporting and -identifying women of color. marching behind and to the left of the proud float of mostly white queer and straight men and women. A vessel upon which I sailed down the thoroughfare amidst the toons of Katy Perry and Lady Blah blah. Women of color at the left hand, the Gabriel hand the whole time. some flirting, all strong enough to draw attention on their own. The second best metaphor of the day.
Gay culture in the mainstream sense (a group of words I feel a good deal of joy at being able to string together) has always flirted with blackness. Most interesting is where blackness is often allowed to stand among queer culture—in the mainstream sense, that is. Black feminine energy has been attached to so much of my understanding of “gay culture”: the lingo; the sashé the balls; the walks; the music; the dress; the balls; the Whacks; the Shablams [spell?]; the “YEEEES”; the “Werk”, the “Boop”, the “Shade". Black women have generated a lot of that style and young black queer folk blew it up. I remember a number of family friends who were “gone” and mourned by part of their community only. I remember my mother thinking of her friend Reginald who used to live with us.
“Blackness” is best summed up by the tall, gorgeous, lace-body-suit-wearing trans woman who walked on our right. Fierce. Regal. Black. beautiful and every ounce the embodiment of the strength and resilience she dance to in the Beyonce and Rihanna she dance to. Women gawk and awed and at this warrior wearing femininity like a coat of arms at a victory parade for a cultural David for slaying a cultural Goliath of abuse and denial at the hands of a nosey and insecure world. A world that may, just may go back to hating and fearing her on Monday. At one point she approaches me (almost shy in reverie after sneaking pics) if we had any rainbow wristbands left. Not my department, but I want to give her one anyway. Til a busted-ass, dusty becky in raggedy shorts and an out-of-sorts Detroit Tigers hat (???) from the float coldly and very whitely dictates “we’re saving them” for when we hit the Village. The Woman of infinite ferocity brushed it off.
And this brings me a bit more sadness. But a lot of good memories. Red strings on fingers curb the little flinches a bit. The sting subsides. As I ride the float, high enough to find some perspective, I'm enamored with the onlookers. The 60-year-old "dykes" in lawn chairs drinking Molsen and Boons and Bartels and James and Cognac. With their partners. reminding me of family friends and people I met while touring with the military. The fierce, steel and black lace woman, herself reminding of the “trannies” from Uptown neighborhood. Having to fight in the street with the men who had crushes on them or were outright unabashed about fucking them at the time attacking a reflection as if one could beat ones self-loathing out of someone else. The Black “sissy”, old enough to be named Otis or Rufus or some old-time-y shit like that, standing by himself looking on quiet, expressionless and hauntingly alone.
I wonder where his friends are, hoping they didn’t befall the fate so many black men and the women who loved them met and continue to meet. AIDS and HIV were grand marshalls of rain cancellations for a long time on another side of town and continue to make an appearance with regularity. I remember my moms tears. I remember her friend, Reginald being a big voiced man of god. A political volunteer. He lived with us for awhile and I loved him as an amazing guy. A big-mouthed, sometimes insufferably spirited "fag" of an uncle, active in churches his whole life. And then gone.
I remember chastising my father for his irrational (and wonderfully temporary) discomfort when an old friend came out in his 50s because he worried about our family (meaning my sisters) being exposed to it. I remember him admitting he was wrong the same day. I remember being about 5 or so and having my mom’s short haired and butch friend, June (so butch I thought she was a "he"), always bring me some weird and cool toy when she came to hang out. I remember my mom telling me another close friend told her she didn’t “condone” homosexuality. Probably because it wasn’t “christian” but then again neither was how she had her kids. I remember replying “well, some people don’t condone being black, but what can you do about it?” I remember my mom laughing at that. All of this is a glaring reminder of those people who had to be themselves when everyone else wanted to call them something else. Call them and treat them as if liking dicks or was only for the owner of said sex organ and loving your own was a sin. The people who sometime froze, sometimes fled and sometimes fucking fought.
I try to look at these people and guess their names.
I see so many young people. Soooo many young smiling unlined faces. Young girls in Jordans and fitted hats and NBA jerseys draped in rainbow flags. Young latinas flashing boobs for beads. Young men in lace shirts. Black boys singing along to Lady Blah Blah openly at full tilt allowed to fly their corniness for the world.But I digress: Those faces.
Unlined, unworried faces. Happily with friends that were queer straight, cis, non-binary. No worry of hiding or fearing being beaten or outcast. At least for a Sunday. Not wearing the worry of never being or finding a beacon. Not yet too tough to be in love or to dejected to be touched or seen. I tried to give a grin and take a picture as much as possible. Not simply to keep the image but also to reinforce that the image before me was desirable and welcome. Some posed. A couple young dykes mean mugged. It’s cool. They got my love too. I consider how hard it can be for people to find a common ground every day. I see how much protection these people of color had that day. I breathe it in and it makes me smile.
Then I remember that cop. In his gear. Just grinning that amazing great, big shit-eating grin. No teeth. like a content child. He stood maybe 6’4” of intimidating happiness. And I realize why I'm so sad…
There may, nay will or has come a time in all the faces I see when the cultural influences enjoyed by the other folk. the “acceptables” will no longer protect these “non-typicals”. When many will be forced to decide whether to step into the storm again or take shelter pretending to be something else. hated because of what they are attracted to. Stuck in a country that believes dick-owners can’t enjoy any other dick but their own. And Vaginas are NEVER to be loved.
On Monday typical and “acceptable” will reign. Mondays are for business and “non-typical” love is apparently none of our business. The yield of culture will be bought sold as the bodies will be ignored and discarded like dross. And what’s worse, there will be little opportunity to encounter a large police presence protecting black and brown bodies. Certainly not with such a gorgeous grin.
Those young faces, enjoying themselves as themselves will not be left alone. The lines and wrinkles and scars will come. The perception of innocence and fun will be dismissed. And those lives will no longer be part of many people’s conversation. That dusty broad will withhold respect for the ore mined from those peoples as easily as a rainbow wristband for anyone not in the Village, all the while the former praises Sasha’s fierceness chanting “yes all women” shouting “I’m with her… no not her… not her… not her, either… yes HER the one dressed in a suit… no not that one—You know what? Never mind.”.
A friend asked if it would ever be possible or welcome a march by non-Blacks in celebration of Black life. I hesitate to think it’s possible. We don’t have parades for perceived non-Americans. But at the very least, this was an opportunity, even if only once a year, to let the "non-typicals” slide in and be included in a celebration of a very American and very ongoing struggle and victory. And no matter the cops feelings, All they had to do was stand there in their riot gear, protect us from the “typicals”... and smile…
But even if they didn’t, there will always be a little cop-in-training, saluting on his own or flirting like a pixie with a young black queen anyway. Perhaps, then, there will be an opportunity where it's not us wondering where our support is, but a crowd of people, a million people, wondering where we are so they can celebrate our pride at navigating a nation that doesn’t condone our “lifestyle”. For being who we are even when being called something else. Perhaps it is possible to hope that boy rapping the raps or the girl whacking the whacks--or vice versa--will grow up to not forget on Monday. Perhaps that young cop will grow to be the big one. Perhaps, Our Mondays will transition into Mondays that are just as joyous and warm and messy and smiling. But until then I guess I’ll shut up for a couple days and remember how plump Sunday was.
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