ROB BECK | 7.2.2008
LAST YEAR WAS MY FIRST experience being in the Pride parade. It was also my first experience committing assault with a soggy weapon. Allow me to explain.
Pride 2007 was my first Pride as an employee of David and Southern Voice, and as such, I participated in the parade for the first time beyond just standing on the sidelines. Since it involved riding on the back of a large truck and throwing goodies out to people and not any actual marching — hey, it was hot, and that’s a long walk — I was not only game, but I was excited.
And it turned out to live up to my expectations. I had a blast getting people to cheer as we rode past, tossing out promotional t-shirts, cups, and underwear — after all, what would a float be without underwear flying off of it? — and cooling off parade-goers with the Super Soaker I was handed upon climbing aboard. Those things can pack a pretty powerful punch, so I was careful not to score any direct hits, preferring to arc the water over the crowd.
It all came to a head for me when we rounded the corner at 10th & Piedmont. As we did so, I found myself facing a sea of people, all there for one reason: celebration of ourselves, and in particular, the parts of ourselves that society sometimes works so hard to tell us are no good.
At the same time, the DJ on the porch of Outwrite cued up Cyndi Lauper’s “True Colors,” and it was over for me. All that overwhelming joy and support paired with the lyrics to that song were way too much for me, a sappy, sappy little girl at heart.
I started crying.
I wasn’t bawling, I just got a little misty-eyed and had to take off my sunglasses to wipe the tears away. It was a nice, sweet moment that I wanted to remember for the rest of my life.
And then I saw the protester.
Stationed not more than a block and a half from the gayest corner in town was a blonde woman equipped with a sign (about how gays are going to Hell), a Bible, and a loudspeaker. Watching her spew hatred, and feeling angry for the celebrants standing near her having to work so hard to shut it out, something in me snapped.
Grabbing my Super Soaker, I pumped it up to full blast and sprayed that bitch in the face.
TO UNDERSTAND MY REACTION, perhaps we should back up and explain the relationship I have with the Pride parade. There are many things I love about Pride, which I have long referred to as Gay Christmas in June — er, I mean, July. It’s a time to celebrate who we are no matter who that is, feel a sense of camaraderie, go to some really great parties, and — fingers crossed — get laid.
But for me, there was always one major highlight: the parade. From the roar of the Dykes on Bikes who lead the way, to that crazy guy who wears the blow-up Delta plane costume, to the PFLAG marchers and groups of gay dads who always make me cry a little bit, I love the parade.
For me and anyone unlucky enough to find themselves caught up in my annual Pride dictatorship — because even more so than usual, I do things my way this time of year — the parade is required viewing.
During 2006’s parade, when the heavens opened up and we found ourselves standing in a river that was once Piedmont Avenue, sensible lesbians and frightened gay boys scattered in the deluge. But I made everyone in my party stand there in the chilly rain until the parade officially petered out.
“It’s our civic duty,” I said to my Lesbian as she tried to convince me to head to my car. That’s the beauty of being the driver: you don’t have to do what anyone tells you. “We’re staying until it’s over.”
“Our friendship’s going to be over,” she muttered, shivering.
But it wasn’t, and our group stuck it out until we could make out no more paraders floating downstream. As we waded our way back to the car and some sense of warmth and dryness, I felt good knowing that we made a statement of support to our brothers and sisters also willing to brave the elements.
Regardless of the less-than-perfect situation, our pride had shone through. Never mind that none of my friends spoke to me for a couple hours.
IF I’M NOT WILLING TO LET A little cold rain ruin my parade, I’m certainly not willing to let a bitch with a Bible ruin it either. Still, I felt bad about my extreme reaction, which I confided to Nate.
“That is so not what Jesus would do,” was Nate’s response. “Then again, Jesus would probably have been the parade marshal if he were there, because we all know he just loved to lead a good parade. So I guess both you and the protester bitch were in the wrong.”
I'm a believer in not answering hate with hate, but unfortunately, I let my anger get the better of me and, in the process, possibly confirmed to that protester whatever prejudices drove her to go to all the trouble in the first place. Then again, that’s the thing about prejudices: they exist without needing to be proven right.
But they can also be proven wrong. Not that I’m going to be heading out this year and engaging those assholes in debate, because if Hell exists, that’s it right there. But I’m not going to be spraying them in the faces with painful jets of water, either. Instead, just like the year it really did rain, I’ll let my prideful colors shine through all the brighter.
That, and I’ll just aim for their signs.
Reach Rob Beck at rbeck@sovo.com.
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