I wrote this essay four years ago today. Unfortunately, the passing of time has not made it any less relevant.
I just got home from the Pride parade.
In a lot of little ways, those countless details we notice for a split second, accept, and forget, it's no different from any other year, or any other gathering of activists: legs sore from walking, nose sunburned, pockets jammed with crumpled flyers. But the lens cap from my camera and my bleeding knees remind me things are different this year.
Once, a long time ago, it seemed like a good idea. I've always been fascinated by that handful of people who show up at the parade every year, armed with bibles, signs, bullhorns, and a twisted view of what it means to be a Christian. I've always wondered how they think, what makes them tick, or how they can even function day to day when they're so consumed by hatred. My idea was to stand with them, and observe them... to see if I could get some insight. Of course, the idea of adding another body to their ranks was disturbing, even if my intentions were good. But I wasn't worried. "I'm a graphic designer," I thought. "I'm clever. I'll make a sign that lets everyone know exactly where I really stand."
I thought about that sign for weeks. I wanted the perfect mix of sassy irreverence for those who would hate me combined with empowering encouragement for those in the parade. I considered and rejected dozens of ideas. This one was too obscure. That one insulted true Christians... the last thing I wanted to do. Finally I had my flash of inspiration: "If God hates fags, why did she make us so fabulous?" Oh, was I ever proud of myself. I had the perfect sign, a cardboard and glitter weapon that would sucker them in using their own language of hatred, then BAM! deliver the knock-out blow before they could get their defenses back up. During the days leading up to the parade, I found myself daydreaming a lot. In my visions, feeble protesters scattered like so many ants, dropping signs and bullhorns like ballast off a sinking ship, helpless against the all-powerful wit of my magical sign. Throngs of my gay brothers and sisters hoisted me onto their shoulders, delirious with gratitude for liberating them from the oppression of prejudice. Hey, I daydream big.
Finally, the day of the parade arrived. I found a parking spot about two blocks from where the marchers gather and set out with my sign. A car drove by, horn honking wildly. A man leaned out of the passenger window and called me an asshole. I was confused. He seemed pretty gay himself. Why would he yell... oh shit. He didn't get a chance to read the whole sign. He saw "God hates fags" and assumed the worst. I guess I would have, too. I started to wonder if going for subtlety had been a mistake.
As I arrived at the gathering place, I noticed that instead of the usual six or seven protesters, there seemed to be more, broken up into small groups and scattered around the circle. I did a quick visual scan, trying to pick the group that looked least able to kick my ass. I noticed one small group right at the spot where the parade enters the street, so I walked directly in front of them and held my sign up.
If looks could kill I'd have been struck dead right then and there. But hey, I was with my people now, and these three bozos shouting into my ears had no power over me. I felt good. Let them glare and shout and curse me to eternal damnation. When I foiled their plan by not dropping dead, they moved quickly to plan B, which apparently consisted of quoting snippets of Bible verses, completely out of context and mixed with original phrases like, "you gay piece of dog food" and "there's a little bit of me inside of you," which, by the way, sounds no less sexual and no more logical when it's being screamed at you than it does when you're reading it here.
The marchers started to notice us. I bounced my sign in time with the music, as if to say "hey, look! I have rhythm! I like Madonna! My hat is cute and has polka dots! I'm one of you! Be sure to read the entire sign! Don't hate!"
A woman taps me on the shoulder and says "I was following you for almost a block earlier and I thought you were a bigot. I'm so sorry." I lie to her and say "It's OK. I knew what I was getting into." A woman I know runs up to me, laughing, and jokes, "I was afraid you'd switched teams!" A beautiful young man shakes my hand and proceeds to give the protesters a family-sized serving of sass. His friend tells me, "you look like you need some beads," and after placing a strand around my neck, walks away, smiling back over her shoulder at me. I start to relax. Maybe this won't be so bad. The parade begins.
I quickly notice three basic responses to my "protester drag." Some people take me at face value and assume I'm with the protesters. They ignore me. Others frown slightly as they read the sign, and as I watch the frown gives way to a smile or a laugh as they get the joke. Still others either don't get the joke or can't get past the "God hates fags." They give me a dirty look or turn their faces away in an elaborate display of indifference or even speak to me. "Bigot!" they yell, or maybe "God loves us all!" I tell them I'm on their side but they've already moved on, not wanting to hear. Kind of like how I'd moved on in years past, not wanting to hear the messages of hatred and intolerance thrown my way. I want to run after them, pleading, "No, really, I'm with you on this... see? I'm gay!" but there were just too many. I'm shocked, not so much at their response, but rather at how much it bothers me.
The Club Marcella float passes and the drag queens and go-go boys throw fake rubber tomatoes at the protesters. I'd be laughing if a good number of those tomatoes weren't actually hitting me. I dance along with the thumping music and thrust my sign forward, partly to shield myself and partly hoping someone will say "Hey, wait a second..." but nobody does. Joey Marcella sees me and calls me over. He asks, "Didn't you used to be gay?" It's hard for us to hear each other very clearly, but I do my best to show him that yes, I am indeed still gay and... well, you know. He understands. Joey is nice to me, and even invites me to join them on the float (which would have immediately triple the average body fat of the riders). "I thought you were with those bigots," Joey's driver says, laughing. "A lot of people did," I reply for what seems like the dozenth time already. I climb up onto the float with a quick "later, freaks!" to my new protester pals. Being part of a group makes all the difference in the world. I am accepted now. I am one of "us" again. People are able to read the whole sign and understand what I was trying to say. Madonna is being played. The moment is perfect.
The parade moves on. I notice the protesters have hurried farther ahead on the route and regrouped. I break away from the parade and resume my position in front of them. Scowls are exchanged, just like before. This time, however, I'm armed with a whistle. I also have allies. I see a man with a bullhorn and plant myself in front of him. My ears ring from being so close to the bullhorn. A man approaches me and tells me to stop blowing my whistle because it's hurting the ears of the man with the bullhorn. I reply - not politely but certainly not rudely - that his words of hatred hurt my ears. He tells me again to stop blowing (yeah, I know) and I ignore him. He gets in my face and growls, "You don't want to find out what will happen if you keep blowing" (yeah, I know). But I ignore the amusing if unintentional homoerotic undertones and say, "Threatening me isn't very Christ-like, is it?" and blow my whistle just to prove how much he's not the boss of me. I'm being kind of an asshole at this point, but there's only so much hatred I can absorb before it needs to be let out.
A group of young women walks by, and though I can't see what, something is going on. I soon realize that one of the group is being restrained by her friends from running over to. "Why do you have to hate me?" she screams at me, her eyes showing both rage and sadness in equal measure. I try to scream back that I'm not a protester, but she's far too upset and angry and hurt to hear anything I have to say. Suddenly my idea doesn't seem so wonderful anymore. I've become one of the people who cause the hate and pain, not one of the people who fight it. The fact that I never meant it to be this way doesn't seem so important, as I watch her friends leading her away, shoulders heaving. I can't let it go. I catch up to them and - foolishly perhaps - try to engage her friends in conversation.
"Hey, I'm really glad you guys came out today," hoping my friendly demeanor and words of encouragement will get the message across. It doesn't at first. Frustration gets the better of me and I finally half scream "I'm gay too! I don't hate you!" She believes me at last and we apologize; she for hating me and I for making her hate me. But the distraction of redeeming myself has cost me dearly. My previously sure-fire instinct for not getting my ass kicked fails me, and moments later I notice the four protesters standing very close in a semi-circle around me. They're younger than any protesters I've seen so far... early twenties. They wear mirrored sunglasses. If they're trying to intimidate me, it's working. "So what's your sign mean?" one asks. Ok, fine. I can put on a dramatic performance, too. I pull out my mental soapbox, climb aboard and say, "it means everyone - regardless of who we love - is a beautiful person and God loves us all, no matter what."
He snorts, "You said she. God's not a she." I take a moment to process the fact that he's more bothered by me referring to God as a she than anything else. "Well, what is God then?" and he replies, without the slightest trace of irony (and an implied "duh") that God is a "man." He punctuates his point with a finger to my solar plexus. The line has been crossed. I've been touched. I turn my back on them and walk away before any more lines are crossed.
A man covered in tattoos leans out the window of a black SUV and calls me an asshole. "I'm a Christian!" he yells over and over, and I'm not even sure if he hates me because he thinks I'm a bigot or because he knows I'm gay. "I beat up shit like you all the time!"
At last I arrive at the end of the parade route. I look for my friends, carrying the sign low at my side. The faces seem inscrutable. Do they think I'm an incredibly brave/stupid protester walking through a crowd of thousands of gay people on Pride? Do they know I belong here? Do they care? Am I being paranoid? I see my friend Craig and I share some of my battle stories. "You mean with that hat they didn't know you were gay?" Come on, it's not like a pink polka dot gardening hat from Target looks... ok, yes it does. But apparently it doesn't look gay enough. I walk around the park, chatting with people I know, taking pictures, listening to the performances, signing petitions, joining mailing lists, buying a keychain. A man passes by and asks me if I made the sign myself. Yes, I say, ready to explain how it's just a couple of color prints spray mounted... but I don't get very far. Suddenly he's swinging at my face, screaming about "you being here with your goddamn camera!" The guys from the Marcella float I'd talked to earlier are there and one holds the man back from me, saying "He's cool, he's one of us." The other puts his arm around me and asks if I'm OK. I say I'm fine, but I'm not. I just want to go home. As the man who attacks me walks away he's still screaming at me. "Why'd you have to say that? I don't give a shit what you're trying to prove."
I decide I've had enough and it's time to leave. Only now I'm scared. Being poked with a finger was no big deal. It's the sort of thing that will make a good story about my adventures among the insane. But being attacked in the middle of the Pride festival by a gay man is different. My little naïve fantasy is now, at last, completely shattered. I've bitten off a lot more than I can chew . I've pushed buttons with no regard to the consequences of my actions. I've angered people, hurt them, and brought a note of negativity to what should be a positive and uplifting day. I could get hurt physically. What if the guy in the black SUV sees me walking home without a crowd of witnesses? What if the sunglass wearing protesters are still lurking at the corner of Lafayette? What if... what if. I put my sign into a garbage can as discretely as possible, and make my exit with no fanfare. This isn't my proudest moment.
As I retrace the parade route back to my car, thoughts of a bath and a cold drink dominate my typical post parade musings: how did I end up with all these beads? Say, he's cute. I didn't know that store was still open. Wow, He's cute. Oh shit, I dated him. My car is going to be like a furnace. My legs hurt. I'm getting to old for this.
I turn from North Street onto Arlington Park. I'm almost to my car - just a couple of blocks to go. Suddenly I'm on the ground, face down, a sharp pain in my hands and knees. Stunned, I finally get up and look around to see a man running away with my camera. My hand burns where the strap was pulled from my light, unsuspecting grip. I run to the corner, but he's too fast and too far gone for me to do anything other than watch him run. As he rounds the corner at Symphony Circle I finally start to walk again. I never even heard him coming up behind me.
One of the great things about Buffalo, and the Allentown neighborhood in particular, is that there are all different types of people living side by side. So I can't claim the man who knocked me down and took my camera was a protester who was either afraid of what pictures I might have taken or simply pissed off at me for being gay. It could very well have been someone in a desperate situation who saw a pudgy faggot with a loose grip on a nice camera and did that math. My gut tells me, however, that right now there's a group of protesters laughing about how easily they got my camera. That pisses me off. I loved that camera, and the 10 or 12 shots I took that day are lost to me forever. That pisses me off, too. But the anger and helplessness I feel over my camera pales next to the overwhelming sadness and dismay I feel over learning firsthand what it's like to be hated... even by the people I consider my family. Turns out the joke was on me.
Note: I've re-read this essay a few times to myself in the years since it was written, and it comes off as far more negative than it should. Yes, parts of that day were brutal, but other parts were wonderful, and I never would have experienced those if I'd simply watched the parade from the sidelines.