It’s coming! A month of Pride.
I’m keeping calm and composed. I’m not making announcements to passersby on the sidewalk. “Pride is coming!” I don’t have a flag to pull out of the closet and drape over my balcony—fourth floor; little chance of an outraged homophobe going all Spiderman to scale the building and yank it down. I haven’t dug through that catch-all drawer in my hutch to find my rainbow pin. I haven’t even prepared a special jogging playlist.[1]
I have pride but it’s more lowercase p than uppercase P. That’s just my nature. Understated, unassuming, underwhelmed.
I get that Pride month is a big thing, but I have mixed feelings about it. Same for Christmas, Nicki Minaj and Elmo. I can’t put all my gay/nonbinary joy into June. I have to pace myself. I don’t want to peak. I don’t want to experience Pride fatigue. Heck, I can’t even cope with a hangover (the last one, thankfully, hitting me in 1993).
Capital P Pride is important for newbies and the Qs of the LGBTQIA+, if the letter stands for Questioning instead of Queer. I understand that it is a chance for them to feel A-things, like affirmation, acceptance and acknowledgment. Good stuff. I also get that for well-established queer folk, it can be about P-things: a party, a parade and a play or some other performance piece. (I’m being generous about plays and (non-drag) performances. The parties and parade take center stage.)
Five years ago, I felt a shift as I considered who Pride month was for. I was living in a group home for people with eating disorders, eight women and two of us guys, one straight, one gay. Dealing with (resisting) treatment and navigating weeks spent with a batch of roomies who talked endlessly about Billie Eilish, Love Island and, well, everything…ANYthing!, Vancouver’s Pride Parade snuck up on me. I was only made aware of it because the women in the house were busy buying outfits, makeup and other accessories to attend. All of them were straight but, for them, it was a must-see and be-seen event.
Incidentally, the parade falls outside of official Pride month. The Vancouver Pride Parade is in August, instead of June, seemingly to allow Super Proud people to plan their own Pride circuit celebrations. (Within Canadian borders, this year’s Pride tour can include Toronto (June 30), Halifax (July 20), Charlottetown (July 20)—Ooh, conflict! Two parades in the Maritimes on the same day—Hamilton (my hometown; August 10), Montreal (August 11), Edmonton (August 24), Ottawa (August 25), Calgary (September 1). There are more, of course.
Everyone loves a parade.
Everyone but me. They always start late, there are big gaps and I have a fear of being struck by a rogue baton or even a colorful strand of beads. Even a free packet of condoms lobbed my way might instill panic. I fit that stereotype: The gays can’t catch. No chance of physical injury from flying condoms but a sure-shot of humiliation. Pride compromised.
Okay, I’m sure there are others who are parade-avoidant. It’s just not talked about. A Grand Poobah is to be celebrated; someone who pooh-poohs it all is to be shunned.[2] It’s like saying you don’t like butterflies or babies or ice cream.
WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?
Yes, all-caps. And that wasn’t even lifted from a Trump tweet.
The point I was trying to make before I fell down a rabbit hole, looking up the dates for Canadian Pride parades, is that I don’t feel I’m the target audience for the parade anymore. It’s not that I’ve aged out in the way I’m disregarded by television ratings data, literary agents and advertisers for everything but “niche” products like Viagra, Depends and that alert system for falling and not being able to get up. There is the Been There, Done That factor though. I’ve even passed the point of regarding the event as “tradition.” Yeah. Whatever.
I don’t need to see who is on the gay volleyball team. (I was for a few years.) I don’t need to see drag outfits. Those queens are everywhere now. (Yay!) I especially don’t need to see the obligatory Rave-on-Wheels, a group of toned boys in thongs or Speedos, dancing offbeat to Madonna (so retro), each accessorizing with a plastic water bottle. The fact they get the biggest whoops always makes me question how deep the gay identity goes.
I don’t even get anything out of PFLAG[3] anymore. That used to be my favorite participation group, but my first parade was during the peak of the AIDS crisis. There were fun floats, but there was also a lot of meaningful statements expressed in signs and banners or just by being in it. I’m glad PFLAG still exists. Parents need to support and, in turn, need to be supported.
For first-timers and perhaps tenth-timers, the entire Pride month can be exciting, empowering or even just an opportunity to ogle gays IRL. Maybe a story or two for drag brunch. From Pride events I attended with my ex two years ago—not the parade but some outdoor Seattle festival—Pride seems as much for allies as the community itself. It’s not that different from gay bars and drag events now. Girls’ Night (or Day) Out. Something to do instead of another beach day or eating hotdogs at a ballgame.
And then there are the banks, real estate agents, gyms and cider brands. I’m okay with all the corporate leeches. Their Pride comes down to a business decision. Does hanging a few flags and having two dozen employees march while handing out rainbow stickers with the corporate logo in the bottom right corner bring in more new business to outweigh the possible boycotts from incensed church-going haters? No doubt, the projections were presented at an executive meeting in January. And then an affirmative vote. Still, I’d rather see a sign of support, however calculated, than read about conservatives’ devotion to Chick-fil-A or Cracker Barrel. March on, Royal Bank!
I’m even okay with the backlash from bubbas and has-been rock stars who take to shooting up cases of Bud Light (which, presumably, they had to purchase). Covert hate was more peaceful, but it left me with less of a sense of safety. Who actually hated me on account of my sexual orientation? Overt hate sets out the cones (Coneheads?) to dodge on the roadway. It also requires the haters to attempt to defend their position, to the extent it runs deeper than, “Ew. Fags,” whenever they dare go beyond their safe circle of jerks. Sure, there are unpleasant family picnics and Thanksgiving dinners but pronouncements of hate, however unwanted in the moment, only strengthen the LGBTQ community, reminding us we can’t take anything for granted while also helping our allies understand how important their support is in everyday life and when making political choices. Haters get louder as their numbers get smaller. These days, there are earbuds for that.
The thing is, while Pride is a one-month (plus) annual celebration that almost mandates some sort of pro-gay display in progressive shops and places, it’s an all-year event for me. Gay in January. Gay in February. Gay in March. And on it goes. Pride is not like Halloween, Christmas or St. Patrick’s Day. It doesn’t end after I’ve eaten the last mini Coffee Crisp[4] and box of Smarties.[5] It’s not out of mind once I’ve taken down the garlands, the pointless mistletoe tossed and that dang Mariah Carey song given a rest from every radio station, café and drugstore speaker. It’s not over after all those people spend a day donning green, faking being Irish, randomly saying, “Erin go Bragh!” and “Top o’ the mornin’ to ya” well past noon and then hitting the bars to sing the wrong words to “Danny Boy.[6]”
Yesterday, today and tomorrow, I’m gay. Forevermore. Forgive me for not jazzing it up come June just because midnight put an end to May 31st. I have to maintain my pride, pace myself for twelve months every year. I’m not a showy dude. Pride manifests in the books I read, the essays I write, the characters I create, the causes I donate to, the art exhibits I attend, the people I choose to associate with and the occasional letter I write to a politician.
Okay, confirmed:
unicorns.
So, wave your flag if you wish. It’ll make me smile, inside at the very least. I have rainbow shoes and socks with rainbow dragons—or maybe they’re unicorns…a gift (What do you get for a gay acquaintance?). Go gaga over go-go boys with hairless six-packs approximating dance moves.
I’ll be proud all of June. Before then and after that, too.
[1] Okay, I kinda sorta created a personal jogging soundtrack…the power of suggestion.Here’s are the tracks:
· “Pride (In the Name of Love)” - U2 (not gay, per se, but it has such an anthemic sound)
· “Smalltown Boy” - Bronski Beat
· “I’m Coming Out” - Diana Ross (already a regular jogging song; makes me hyper which is a good thing on a run)
· “Freedom! ’90” – George Michael
· “I Adore U” – Adore Delano (drag performer and 2008 American Idol semi-finalist, using a different name)
· “Macho Man” – Village People (no “Y.M.C.A.” since that tune’s been lost to straight wedding receptions)
· “Evergreen (You Didn’t Deserve Me At All)” – Omar Apollo
· “Born This Way” - Lady Gaga (obvs…)
· “Love Today” – Mika (he strikes me as hyper to the core, just like his songs)
· “I Will Survive” – Gloria Gaynor (obvs, too, but one of the first 45s I ever bought, before I had any understanding of the word gay.)
· “Constant Craving” – k.d. lang
· “Latch” – Disclosure featuring Sam Smith
· “Slide” – Calvin Harris featuring Frank Ocean and Migos
· “I’m So Tired” – Troye Sivan & Lauv (I like this stripped-down version; their voices go so well together.)
· “Come to My Window” – Melissa Etheridge
I could list more songs, but I’d risk a leg cramp if I kept running.
[2] Unless you’re Winnie-the-. Or possibly Eeyore. We must cut Eeyore some slack. His tail is pinned to his ass with a nail. Plus, that pink bow. AND, he’s had to put up with that bouncing Tigger all these years.
[3] Formerly, the acronym stood for Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays, but now, according to Wikipedia, it’s been broadened to Parents, Families and Friends of Lesbians and Gays. Makes sense. Don’t we all want a big sis cheering us on?
[4] Canadian chocolate bar. So good!
[5] Canadian version of M&Ms. Basically the same, but ours comes with a catchy, classic commercial jingle in which the red ones are especially feted. Plus, Smarties came before M&Ms although a French version, dragée, preceded both, the hard coating covering the chocolate for the practical reason that it allowed fashionable women to nibble without getting chocolate on their gloves (or having to take them off). One article also noted that Smarties are packaged in recyclable cardboard while the American candy comes in less-often recyclable plastic bags.
[6] Incidentally, the melody is Irish but the lyrics were written by Frederic Weatherly, an English lawyer. Blimey!
No comments:
Post a Comment