Pride

Well, it’s a milestone for me and Gay Pride celebrations everywhere. This weekend was the grandaddy of them all, right here in San Diego. People from all over the world come to be part of this celebration. It is the single largest festival of the year in San Diego.

There are some events that are bigger, but as far as festivals go, this is the Kahuna. It’s estimated that the 3 day party pours about a Billion dollars into the local economy.

The milestone was: I didn’t go.

For the first time ever, I didn’t go to the festival.

I’ve been building to this over the years. In the early 90s I went to several festivals each year: always Long Beach and LA and San Diego then whatever seemed fun at the moment: Orange County, Palm Springs, Tijuana, etc. Slowly I cut back and cut back and finally limited my attendance to just the local event. I’d go to the rally, then the parade, then spend 2 days in the festival.

But I started cutting back on that a few years ago to the point that last year I spent about an hour at the parade and half a day in the festival.

This year, my friend and I packed a crab leg picnic and spread a blanket outside the fencing and listened to the music for awhile, then went shopping.

I am proud! I’m proud in the sense that I refuse to buy into anybody else’s speculation about who I am. I’ll tell anyone. In fact, just before I accepted my last job offer, I closed my final interview by asking my soon to be boss how he was going to handle working with a gay guy.

‘Who?’ he asked. It was priceless. I guess he thought I was going to out someone on his staff. I said, ‘Me.’ and we had a big laugh.

Fifteen years ago, I would never reveal to a doctor. I had been told that a doctor’s entry in your chart could cause an insurance company to deny coverage. That’s how annonymous HIV tests came to be: people didn’t want their insurance companys to know even that they were getting tested. Getting tested supposedly indicated risky behavior. When it became necessary to tell my doctor, I said, ‘I’m gay, and I forbid you to note that on my chart.’

I have a new doctor this year, and as he worked on my physical last week, he asked if I was married. ‘Yes,’ I said,’But I’m not allowed to use that word. I’m gay and coupled.’ He burst out laughing and said, ‘No kidding; so am I.’ Times change.

The Pride Festival is supposed to be about affirming who you are, standing up, being counted, making it safe for others like you to be in society. That’s not really what happens at the event, but that’s the spin we’re supposed to put on it. What happens at the event is a flamboyant party celebrating youth, beauty, muscles, dance music, skin and sex. And it’s fun, too. But I don’t think it has much to do with being proud of who you are.

Through the years, the festival has evolved from being the ‘Gay Pride Festival’ to being the ‘Gay and Lesbian Pride Festival’ to being the ‘Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, Transgender Festival.’ Every year we seem to add another letter. The leather people have their own festival as do the Latinos and Ebonys. I know, the rainbow flag is suppopsed to express the diversity and inclusiveness of the Gay Community, but every time we add another letter, it separates us into a new set of tribes . I choose to call it ‘The Pride Festival,’ and I think it’s fine if straight people and non-sexual people and mixed gender people wanna come. And I don’t say LBGTQIA+. That’s just stupid. We’re all Gay and that word is good enough for everyone.

I think New York does Pride about as well as it can be done. Their observance runs for a week, but the first five days are all about speeches and proclamations and history and such. I’ve been to the kickoff in Bryant Park a couple of times and it’s generally hardcore serious with a few musical acts thrown in to break up the speeches. When the weekend arrives, there is the long parade down to the Village followed by a one day festival. Yes, it’s still a party, but there is a fierce deternination in the eyes of the high heeled, feather boa-ed boys clopping down the street. Here, we remember history. We remember Stonewall and the struggle it took to get to this place. Yes, we’ll party. But only in the shadow of our collective memory.

You know, I’d love it if all of the half-million or so attendees at this year’s festival skipped next year’s event and just went about their everyday lives for the rest of the year being openly gay. Hell, they don’t even have to skip the event; just be OUT, be open. Invite questions and don’t avoid answers. It’s an attitude that goes so much further in changing the world than dancing half naked on a float in a parade.

History lesson: Stonewall was a remarkable event. You know about Stonwall, right? June 28, 1969. The Stonewall was and is a gay bar near Christopher Street and 7th Aveneu in New York. At the time, it was common for the NYPD to show up at bars frequented by homosexuals with a paddy wagon, arrest all of the patrons, book them, print them, then release them. It was illegal to serve a drink to a known homo, so that was their justification. It was a time when the gay bar was a secret, a speakeasy, usually with no windows and no sign. To this day, in places like Philadelphia (the city of Brotherly Love) and Pittsburg, many of the downtown bars are unmarked and dark.

Anyway, on the day of Judy Garland’s funeral, when grief was overflowing in the Village, a paddy wagon pulled up once again to arrest the patrons of the Stonewall bar. But this time was different. Something snapped. Someone stood up. Someone said, ‘Hell, NO!’ and fought back. Instantly, the small group, lead by the drag queens, was galvanized into a fighting unit so fierce that it frightened the well trained and well armed police. They retreated and called for reinforcements. For three days the riot continued, patrons and their supporters holed up in the bar, throwing bricks, rocks, and bottles to keep the police out. It taught us that we could stand up, that there really wasn’t anything criminal, evil, or perverse about us. It was the birth of Gay Pride. And that’s what we should be celebrating. Wanna know more about Stonewall? Go here: Stonewall

You know who I’m proud of? Sharon Taylor, a very tough Lesbian I know who was at Stonewall and threw rocks at the police to keep them at bay for three days. She’s big and intimidating and is often mistaken for a man; and she has a heart as big as Mars.

I’m proud of Robert Rivera, a dear friend who passed away at 36. He was OUT from the day he was born, or so he said. He was so clear about who he was that I always expected him to have little tolerance for anyone in the closet. But he was very patient with those of us who found it too difficult to follow his lead. He nurtured us, helped us weigh options, picked us up when we were kicked down. We lived together at a time when I was terrified that I’d get a call from my office and he’d answer the phone. He went away when my parents came to visit. He knew it was the best I could do at the time and he just continued to make it safe for me to make my transition. Robert will always be a hero to me.

And I’m proud of me. I’m proud that I am visible and open, respected and taken seriously. I’m proud of a dozen moments when I was able to help someone much in the way Robert Rivera helped me. I’m proud of the night, ten or so years ago when I grabbed a young man who was quickly getting in over his head in a dangerous sexual game in a dark corner of a bar in New Orleans. I took him downstairs to the light, bought him a beer and talked to him for an hour about himself, his life, safe sex and what’s really important. He calls me every once in awhile to keep me updated on what he’s doing. Somewhere in the conversation, he always manages to say, ‘Still Negative!’

I’m proud of PFLAG, Gay Cops, Gay Firefighters and Gay Teachers who march every year amidst the chaos of the floats in the Pride parade. The courage they demonstrate means a lot to the people on the sidewalk, gay and straight.

You know what’s really wrong with the Pride Festival? It’s the name. It’s a misnomer.We should just call it The Big Summer Party , or Summer Mardi Gras, or Wild Weekend or something like that. Let’s take the pride aspect of the festival and pour that into some other thing that has life and endurance and shines like a beacon in the night.

Then we wouldn’t have the disconnect, the confusion. Then it would be ok for the Club Xtasis float to feature buff Mexican boys in bulging speedos simulating sex acts with one another as they motor down University Avenue.