reminder that visibly religious people belong at pride. that person wearing a hijab is not a threat to you. that person wearing tzitzit and a kippah is not a threat to you. someone simply wearing an item that is culturally or religiously important to them is not a threat to you. however, your aggression upon seeing a religious person at pride is a threat to them.
you are 16. you are talking with a gay man in his 50s or 60s, a friend, huge and gentle with a scarf and short fluffy curls of gray hair, who has directed you in two plays staged in your mid-size artsy town. (he has not yet asked you to be in his production of The Laramie Project which will change your life. this conversation will also change your life.)
he is talking about theatre. he is talking about theatre when he was younger. he says, "of course, it was AIDS then." in the pause, you ask him. clumsy and quiet and 16 and "straight," you ask him. what was it like.
he takes a moment in which his face is not like a person's face. "there was a time," he says, "i'm not sure how long, years. when i went to a funeral every weekend." he tells you about two funerals in a day, and choosing between friends when you couldn't make it to both. he does not look at you, he looks at them. his wet grey gaze is so clear that you start to see ghosts. it will be years before you understand why it feels like your grief too. why the ghosts call you family.
Every time we vend at Pride, there are times when I have to fight breaking down.
It's probably not when you'd expect. Yes, I get misty at the Big Moments and the Conversations, and we have those every time. I love seeing the parents who are buying their kid's first Pride item, the trans girls spinning in skirts they just bought, the curve of fresh scars across a chest that's clearly seeing sunlight for the first time this summer. I love it all. I devour every minute of it.
But it's the parents who hand their kid a $20 or tap their Apple watch on our card reader and look slightly bored that get me, sometimes.
My G-d. It's not scary, it's not overwhelming, it's not tense and nervewacking. It's boring to them.
2 weeks ago, my brother tells me, my parents used the right name and pronouns for me through an entire dinner with Jake and his partner.
I turned 47 three days ago.
Today, a parent looked bored escorting their teenager around at Pride.