Taste the Rainbow

The night before this year’s NYC Pride March, my friend Naveen spotted a rainbow.  My friend Cooper spotted the same rainbow.  We decided that the mutual spotting was a good omen:

 

This year marked the 40th Anniversary of the Stonewall riots, my fifth year out, and my first year to march in the parade.  My first year out, in 2004, I’d shyly walked up to the crowds on either side of the street, and ached to join in, but instead had scrunched back and sat on some steps.  At that time, I was relieved and peaceful about being out, but hadn’t yet reached a place of celebration about it.  Plus I felt a wee inept.  I knew nothing of my community; our traditions, our history.  I had inadvertently come out on the first day of Pride Month, and though I owed this up to some lovely spiritual instinct, I still felt embarrassed when I cocked my head and asked those around me, “What’s Pride Month?”

At the next year’s parade, I inched a bit closer.  I served water to the marchers, with my church.  For the first time, I stepped out into the street; smiled, woot-ed, danced.  Then I dashed right back to the table for my next batch of chilled plastic cups.  I did this for the next two years, though in the latter of the two, I realized I was moving further and further away from the table.  Nearly three blocks up.  I couldn’t wait for the marchers to get to me.  I kept wanting to go to them.  I wanted to march.  But I was still scared.  This past year, I was transitioning churches anyway, so I opted out of the water serving.  This left me with the option.  Marching?  Huh, huh?…I chickened out again.  For by now, though I knew a lot about my community and had grown comfortable with being open about myself, I still struggled to be proud of myself, to celebrate myself.  Though I desperately wanted to.  I’d had so many hurtful experiences of homophobia with friends, family.  It was still difficult to muster up the courage to march into the stride of my queer self and smile and shout: ”yes, I am!”  But I wanted to march.  And this year: I decided it was time.      

 If you’ve never been to the NYC Pride Parade, you should.  Everyone should, regardless of your orientation.  It’s like standing next to an electric waterfall of joy; it just keeps rolling down, down, down 5th Avenue and whirls you up in its dance.  Miles and miles of unihibited joy, wit, camp, colorful clothes and spangles and head-dresses, service groups and churches, and–my personal favorite–the two elderly men that I look for every year; they march arm in arm with gentle grins and hold their traditional sign, always increasing by a digit.  This year, it read: ”Together for 52 Years”.  

Truly, it’s impossible to feel badly about yourself when you stand in the presence of the NYC Pride Parade.  And, for anyone who’s grown up in a tradition or culture where you’ve been shamed into feeling badly about yourself, the Pride Parade can seem slightly terrifying.  Because you’re not used to feeling that good.  I wasn’t.  I was used to being ashamed, carrying my shame around like some kind of justified “you’re sinning, SINNING!” sentence.  My background introduced this shame to me, but I was the one that kept it going. I’d let shame have free reign in my head and heart, privately.  I’d even purposely hung around homophobic people; I still felt as if I deserved that kind of environment.  And the shame continued, no matter how “out” I was.  Because I never ever talked about it.  I was hard on myself.  “Once you’ve come out, you should be fine”, I’d say to myself.  “Homophobia shouldn’t bother you, you should be able to be out and proud like all the other queer folks; they’ll be so disappointed that you still struggle with this sort of shame.” This thinking is, of course, nonsense.  Queer folks get it.  Of course, they get it.  They know: shame takes awhile to clean out its cubicle, especially if it’s served as your CEO.  And it’ll stick around, picking its toenails, if you let it.  It’s particularly easy for shame to stick around if you keep quiet about its presence. 

By the way: did I mention that the Pride Parade is loud?  

It is–very.  Granted, I don’t believe any celebration should cause ear drums to explode, but again–it’s impossible to feel badly about yourself with six straight miles of unabashed stereo sound.  Shame doesn’t like that at all.  Quiet is shame’s fuel.  If it can work its way into your head and convince you that you’re all alone and need to shrink back and keep quiet: it’s got you.  Now, no, I don’t mean that we should scream twenty-four hours a day, or throw caution out the window when our well-being is concerned; queer folks still need to be safe, and coming out is a process that often requires delicate boundaries, specifically with our families.  But you never should keep quiet when it comes to yourself.  Or to those that love you and are there to support you.  And it’s true: the minute you speak out and share that you’re struggling with shame–face it inside yourself and share it with those outside yourself–that’s exactly the moment when shame begins to loosen its grip.  You find yourself tapping your feet.  Smiling a bit more.  And finally, full out walking in pride.

This year, I did just that.  I gathered a group of my closest girlfriends and shared with them just how badly I was still dealing with shame about being queer, and how desperately I wanted to march in the Pride Parade.  I asked them to come, and to cheer for me.  They flooded me with love, and then floored me with an offer.  They asked, instead of cheering for me…could they walk with me?   I was red.  Holly was orange/yellow.  Naveen was blue, Cooper was green, and Heather was purple.  We formed a walking laughing rainbow, a five-strong beam of celebration.  I suddenly had five arms, five legs, five spines, five hearts.  I had roots; and I grew and grew and blossomed into the sky.  We marched.  We cheered.  We held signs.  We guzzled water and tea and Gatorade and  sweated in places we never ordinarily sweat–but it felt great.  Holly recieve our vote as Most Awesome Woo-er of All Time.  Naveen bought bottles of Fred especially for the occassion.  All of us danced and danced.   And once we reached Greenwich village, it was electric.  Hundreds packed into the tiny streets, years of history spinning the air–the place where it all began–and Michael Jackson tunes blaring.  People singing, en mass, holding up their hands.  Cooper handed me a rainbow flag, and I began to wave it every which-a-way, dancing like I’d never danced.  I could feel the energy of my community–how many decades?–pulsing up through my feet.  And as I passed Stonewall Inn, my heart leaped outside of my chest.  And I realized…I’d just started my walk into freedom.  I had fully embraced the rainbow after Noah, and understood what it meant for me.  I had been part of a rainbow, been held by a rainbow, and gleamed all the more brightly for it.

 I’ve decided that I’m going to march every year.  Even when I’m ninety and have a cane.  I’ll cover it in spangles and buy reflectors for my dentures.  Hell, I might even wear pasties.  I have learned from my community, over the past five years, that there is truly a healing power in camp.  Camp. Joy.  Celebration.  Nothing can stop it.  You just fly. 

No matter how far the journey for our equal rights; no matter how hurtful the homophobia in our churches, our societies, and our loved ones; no matter how much we may still struggle with homophobia on the inside of ourselves–there is still peace rolling down like a river, down 5th Avenue, with camp and loud and woo-ing to boot.  Millions caught up in the river.  And it grows every year.  Jesus would dig this.  I dig this. 

 Happy Pride, ya’ll.  This dyke is flying.

By the way: I also had a lovely, lovely romantic evening after the Pride March. 

…But that’s another story.