My Bad Lesbian

June 28, 2010

I didn’t realize until late in the day yesterday that it was Gay Pride Sunday but it’s not like we would have gone to the parade in San Francisco had we even remembered since neither D or I are fond of parades of any kind or crowds of any kind or the chaos that ensues when the two merge. Call me crazy but I’m just not one of those who thrills to the idea of sitting or standing on the side of a littered street curb in the blazing heat or the pouring rain for hours while qay strangers or straight strangers stand or dance precariously on floats made of balloons or flowers wave in my grumpy or apathetic direction.

I realize that as an openly-out non-conflicted lesbian who enjoys (with traces of guilt) being one of only 14,000 gay couples afforded legal marriage status in California that I have a responsibility to be a visible presence for queer youth and for those GLBTQ folk yearning to come out of the closet. Believe me, I take this responsibility seriously but please, just don’t make me go to a Gay Pride Parade to prove it. I’d rather climb up on this wobbly chair in the conservative suburban Starbucks where I now write to confess my gay pride shortcomings and scream “Yes, I Am!” while waving a 5 foot rainbow flag over my head than spend another June Sunday elbowing my way through a aimlessly roaming horde of my gay brothers, lesbian sisters and non-gender specific family while snaking past the alarming number of Absolut Vodka, free condom, and corporate-sponsored vendors that have become the bane of San Francisco Gay Pride. I don’t need another eco-friendly, shoddily-made Gay Pride tee-shirt that fades with the first washing and if I should get a craving for a soggy elephant ear dripping with nauseatingly-sweet raspberry jam or deep-fried Oreo cookies then I’ll just go ahead and commit nutritional suicide at any State Fair in one of the 50 states, including the unincorporated territory of Puerto Rico.

Side Note from A SoapBox: While there’s many worthwhile organizations that participate in Gay Pride and much to be celebrated, I’m increasingly disturbed by the inordinate focus placed on alcohol and sex, not at the initiation of the parade goers but by those corporations whose sponsorship of the day seems less motivated by their support for the gay community than to use the opportunity to target GLBTQ consumers with all their high-gloss banners, slick swag and free merchandise.

Second Side Note from the Same Soapbox: How do you suppose it is that the anti-gay conservative groups will strategically select a number of shock-and-awe images every year from the parade to serve as evidence of the immorality of the homosexual lifestyle,  yet they never seem to arrive at the same conclusion regarding the heterosexual lifestyle despite an even larger amount of evidence established in images of women flashing their breasts for a strand of plastic beads, leering men who can’t take their eyes off them (the breasts not the beads) and outrageous drunken behavior that stands as the hallmark to each and every Mardi Gras parade?

And yes, in case you’re wondering, I feel better now, but before you write me off as the party pooper who served as the inspiration to the song, let me offer a counter-balance to the someone jaded portion of this post that’s probably left you with an urge to go back to bed and pull the covers up over your head.

When I was younger, and by younger I mean any and all years prior to turning 50 years old, I had some profoundly moving Gay Pride Parade experiences despite the crowds and chaos. About one year, three months, and forty-five minutes after coming out I marched in the 1995 Chicago Gay Pride Parade and watched as leather-clad bare-bottomed bears cried on the sidelines as we passed by singing “Jesus Loves Me.” In 1999 I was nearly hugged to death in the most tender way by a rubenesque drag queen with the warmest eyes and a hint of a 5:00 o’clock shadow who went from being a stranger to my brother in sister apparel in the span of a fashion-oppositional hug; he dressed in a tight slinky gown with mile-high stilettos and me in an eligibly-faded tee-shirt from a previous parade and Birkenstocks. I learned a valuable lesson that day. Compliment a drag queen on what a stunning beauty she is and prepare yourself to be mauled.

And then in 2001 my girlfriend (now forever bride) and I filled out the required forms to become legal domestic partners at the PFLAG booth where other queers’ moms and dads shook our hands and congratulated us until we melted into a big weepy ball of silly putty. In 2003 and again in 2004 I spend a few hours working the exhibit booth for the CLGS (Center for Lesbian and Gay Studies in Religion and Ministry) talking one on one with every kind of queer imaginable and then some about faith and God and their worth in God’s eyes while D anchored her body to the PVC piping framework of our booth to keep it from going airborne and landing on the neighboring booth. “Annie’s Henna Tattoos and Piercings” or something equally San Francisco.

I don’t know exactly why and when the Gay Pride Parade lost it’s magic for me. Maybe I got too old, too comfortable, too lazy, too vanilla. It just seems that when I wasn’t looking I went from being a 44 year single lesbian filled with anticipation, wonder, and a trace of fear to be marching in her first pride parade to a 53 year old married lesbian and clergywoman living in the suburbs who managed to forget the rainbow tribe was boldly and proudly whooping it up yesterday.

Don’t judge me too harshly. I haven’t forgotten my community or my obligation to be out for others who remain hidden and silenced. I haven’t forgotten the struggle that continues or the lies that continue to be told or the lives that continue to be wounded. How could I ever forget when everyday there’s another reminder of how far we have to go even while celebrating how far we’ve come? I’ll continue to live as an unapologetically out lesbian, a word and identity I wear comfortably and gratefully. I’ll continue to speak up, even if it be inadequately so, for those who can’t speak for themselves and I will continue to counter misinformation with truth-telling in the church and in our world.

I guess I’m just at a place in my life where I’ve settled in to being queer enough to know that I don’t have to do my life in a particular way to make it count or to make a difference. Neither do you. Volunteer. Contribute. Participate. Be involved. But above all else live today authentically as yourself and to who God made you to be. The way you live, the truth you speak, and the integrity you possess will do more to change this world than a thousand parades combined will ever do.

Finally, let me impart one last word of wisdom. If you happened to buy a 10 dollar tee-shirt at Gay Pride this year, I suggest you avoid throwing it in the clothes dryer. I’m just saying.

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Posted in News and Events, So Gay