A SIGN OF PRIDE, FARTHER AFIELD

 

I keep my eye out for gay things when I travel in more remote areas. No, not gay people. I’m oblivious in that regard. Mostly. I people watch as I do anywhere, but I focus on clothes, hair and the interactions (and lack thereof) between people. Sexual orientation is rarely a factor, particularly when I’m in a relationship. There’s a gay guy! Um, so? Handsome, too! (Sorta.) Again…so? To the extent that I do any people sorting, it’s not gay versus straight; it’s local versus tourist. What is it like to live in this small town? If I see a rainbow flag or some other queer-positive symbol, that’s when I amend my primary ponderance: What is it like to live as a gay person here?

 

I was heartened to see a sign about Pride while walking through the old streets of the town of Visby, Sweden (population 24,000). My instinct was to snap a photo, but part of the sign had been torn off which made image appear less prideful. Who had torn it? Was it an act of hate, some individual’s effort to create a backlash? If I were a queer kid in Visby, what would I take away from the image? First, I suppose there would be a sense of belonging. I’m not alone. I can be myself here. But then what to make of the tear? Maybe I can’t. Maybe it’s still not safe.

 

The circumstances in Visby are more complicated than in other small towns because there isn’t a big city an hour or two away. Visby is on the island of Gotland (population 58,000) in the middle of the Baltic Sea, a three-hour-fifteen-minute ferry ride away from Nyäshamn (13,000) which itself is an hour away from Stockholm. 

 

In places like this, Pride is even more important, not as a spectacle with drag queens and shirtless go-go boys, but as a means of networking and finding allies. A boyfriend? The chances are as remote as the area.

 

I Googled “Gotland Pride” and was somewhat relieved to discover that the celebration occurred three weeks prior—over the course of four days even. Old signs get torn for an assortment of reasons. I dislike seeing dated notices and have been known to remove such items from bulletin boards. Maybe someone else who likes to keep things current tried to take down the poster and didn’t realize how much adhesive had been applied. But then maybe I’m being generous. If I lived on Gotland, I’d try to put all my thoughts into coming up with plausible, non-hateful explanations for the bulletin’s damage. 

 

Too much thinking about a single sign? Sure, no doubt. But then, it was the only one I saw. (The others were surely removed in a timely manner.) Gotland Pride may have been in May, but June is Pride month most everywhere and I’ve seen recognition of this in shops in both Göteborg (605,000) and Stockholm (979,000). I now take these visuals for granted, along with considerable skepticism, when I spot them in cities. Is a business making a strong statement about LGBTQ rights or is it just another business decision? Welcome, gays! Buy a trendy new blanket here. And socks. (If I ever open a shop of my own, I’ll stock socks. Even if it’s a vacuum cleaner store, I’ll sell socks, too. I’m getting excited thinking about the uptick in sales. 🤑) 

 

When I started this blog, I too lived in a remote area. The only public building in my community was a small elementary school. No bank, no café, no mom-and-pop convenience store. The closest town had 4,000 people and, along the entire eighty-five-kilometer stretch of coastline, residents totaled 30,000. It wasn’t an island but, due to mountains and water, the area was only accessible by ferry, other boat or seaplane. These figures are smaller than those that pertain to Gotland, but the ferry was only a forty-minute journey, with Vancouver (675,000) another twenty minutes away on an exceptionally good traffic day. Many posts I wrote while living there addressed finding a natural paradise and a haven for writing but also teetering from the bliss of being alone to a vulnerability in feeling lonely due to the isolation. My home would have offered the foundation for an idyllic lifestyle had I been in a relationship, but as a single gay man, it nearly did me in. Indeed, several medical professionals finally implored me to move. 

 

I made that doomed decision to move to a remote place as an adult out of freewill and fanciful thinking. I feel the pain for other single gays and lesbians living in remote areas. Maybe they choose to be hermits. Maybe they are more extroverted (most everyone is). Maybe they don’t entertain any desire to be partnered. Maybe they moved there as a couple and then the relationship fell apart. Even for couples, it can feel isolating. I recall one gay couple I met early on who hosted a party which turned out to be a last hurrah of sorts. After five years living in the nearby town, they’d had enough. They were returning to civilization. 

 

I feel even more concern for queer youth growing up in these places. Not their choice. Sure, there’s the internet now to connect with like-minded people but that’s not always positive either and it sure as hell doesn’t make up for in-person friendships and relationships. 

 

I perused the Gotland Pride page on Facebook and came across a video of people marching for Pride. The post included a comment that they’d hoped for fifty and, instead, hundreds turned out. (Really, from watching the clip, maybe just one hundred. It’s not just an orange-haired ex-president who has a way of inflating crowd sizes. But I shouldn’t quibble. If a Gotlander wishes to interpret it as a show of hundreds—hell, let’s round up to a thousand—so be it. But numbers games can be empty exercises.) The posted video would surely be a nice sight for queer Gotlanders and a nice event to experience, but that’s still a small pool of people. How many were actually queer and how many were allies? (In recent years, Vancouver’s Pride parade has felt like a big event for straight people to attend, not entirely unlike everybody being Irish at the pubs on St. Patrick’s Day. Who doesn’t love a party?)  

 

In truth, I didn’t venture much beyond the medieval walls of Visby’s tourist draw to see how the majority of Visby residents live. I recall seeing a trans/gay rainbow flag hanging from an apartment balcony, but that may have been in another town. In two weeks of travel in Iceland and Sweden, it’s been a different place to stay every night. As just a visitor, I rented a bike for my twenty hours on the island and, when not gazing up at the ruins of so many churches, I headed to beaches and shorelines deserted by all but swans and sea gulls. Now that I have a city to return home to and am in a relationship, I crave spaces away from people altogether. For me, it’s a choice and luxury.

 

   

TO HIDE FROM PRIDE

Don’t let me rain on anyone’s parade. Today is the focal point of Vancouver’s Pride celebrations. It’s the first time time in a number of years that I’ve been here for the occasion. I don’t intentionally flee the city to avoid the festivities, but I certainly never regret missing out.

Happening to be here for once, I’ve been asked a half dozen times if I’m going to the parade. It feels like straight people’s way of saying, Aren’t I hip. I know about the event and I’m comfortable enough to bring it up in conversation. My answer startles them: “No.”

Huh? But you’re gay. It’s what gay people do.

They recover quickly from my potential conversation-killing remark. Invariably they say, “So you don’t like crowds.”

If only I didn’t feel the constant need to be honest, I could just say, “Yes. Awful crowds. Whew,...too much.” Then we could move on and talk about something safer—It’s supposed to be a hot one; thank goodness we don’t have the forest fires (yet); yesterday was Mustard Day.

But crowds aren’t a deal breaker. Don’t mind them, sometimes I even feed off the buzz. And, really, isn’t that supposed to be one of the empowering things about Pride? One massive turnout. Look at all the LGBT folks and all the others tagging along to show support or to at least bask in the sun and join the party. Amazing.

And, truly, it is. I attended my first Pride parade by myself twenty-nine years ago in Los Angeles. I was attending law school in Malibu at a stiflingly religious university where it was rumored that faculty had to sign a statement condemning homosexuality. I spent many a Friday and Saturday fleeing to the bars of West Hollywood as I gradually pieced together some understanding of gay culture: lots of dancing and drinking laced with fear as dutiful companions wheeled in men ravaged by Kaposi’s sarcoma and other AIDS-related afflictions. Confusing times.

I parked my car many, many blocks away from the parade route down Santa Monica Boulevard before squeezing my way into a partially open spot at the corner of Kings Road and settling in for the long procession of floats, banner-clad convertibles and marchers. The spectacle overwhelmed me. Brazilian gays and lesbians, a gay swim team, a gay and lesbian university association (not my university). On and on and on.

I ended up chatting with a small group of female nurses, each sporting a rainbow lei, each straight but regular parade goers. “Always the best!” one of them gushed. Their laughter and their frequent whoops kept me in the moment and held my emotions in check. The sheer numbers on the sidewalks and in the parade overwhelmed me in a good way. Far from hating the crowd, I found affirmation in the masses. For so much of my life, I had felt alone, hating myself for being a societal pariah, wishing there were a way to expunge a basic part of me. I saw parents marching in support of their sons and daughters, an expression of unwavering love, something I couldn’t even dream of regarding my own family. That pride event felt like a giant group hug, a moment of acceptance and relief. Driving back to my new apartment in a bright pink building in the Pacific Palisades, I was far from ready to unhinge the closet door but I held on to the euphoria of temporarily stepping out in broad daylight.

Back then, Pride helped me feel less alone. Today I’m avoiding all-things-Pride to protect myself a crushing sense of isolation and a pervasive feeling of failure. My rainbow Converse shoes will remain in the box and I will try to tell myself that it’s so nice to work out at the gym without having to wait to get on any of the machines. I have a novel I want to finish reading, a New York Times crossword to distract me. Like Christmas and New Year’s which I spend alone, I have to simply survive the day. I am so glad the event exists. Let it bring empowerment and connection to many. It’s just become a party where, instead of fitting in, I feel achingly invisible. Always best for the party pooper to stay home.