Pride

I remember when taking part in a Pride Parade meant turning away from any large camera—lest you appear on television or in the newspaper. Working for a local school in a conservative town meant that some folks didn't "take kindly" to that type of demonstration.

I remember when you took out all your Pride buttons and wore them on your hat.

I remember when the local women's bookstore became the place to find music and books that spoke of "forbidden love".

I remember how a drag queen stopped traffic so that a group could safely cross the street.

I remember when the drag queens weren't too welcome at the Pride parade—"let's not stand out.

Yesterday I went to an annual Pride party—fifty gay and lesbian adults, several straight people— about ten children, three dogs, chicken kabobs, salads, the ubiquitous chips and dips, and a place set up for all those who wished to blow bubbles—huge bubbles. A layered Pride cake, pies, cookies, and anything else labeled sweet.

What I loved about the parade —the photos folks took. Many of the drag queens in outrageously flamboyant outfits. We are all types of people—button down shirts, strictly feminine attire, butch, wildly androgynous, differently gendered, transgendered—ordinary.

What I loved about the party—all the small children who had two mommies or two daddies. We are family... Get up everybody and sing.