I've Got Pride; Yes, I Do
That Queer Expatriate, Adam, posted a bit today about his second American Pride Event.
I just felt like capitalizing that.
I've got a couple of A.P.E. stories of my own. And, since this has become a stream of consciousness blog...
I'll start with the little one. On a family trip to Montreal we decided to act like tourists as we drove. One destination: The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. One road block: the Cleveland Pride Parade. It seems we parked on the wrong side of the parade route. We looked down the street and saw the paraders were ending just past the entrance into the Hall of Fame.
So, we joined the parade. The photo is my daughter after we made up the steps and to the garden in front of the museum. Age two and half and she's obviously gay.
Somewhere in the early 1990s I met up with my Dad in San Francisco. He was helping a friend move there and I had decided I needed a vacation. When I go on vacation, I try to pay no attention to the news. If I'm really out of touch, it's a good vacation. So, one morning I decided to take dad over to Oakland to see an A's game. I had read who'd be in town before I'd left home.
As we got on the bus, the driver told us it there was no charge. Obviously, it must have been a holiday. Especially since the bus was packed for a weekend morning.
My father was in his mid-60s and looked 80. He was surprised when an Asian teenager jumped out of her seat and offered it to him. He gladly accepted. He was a bit overwhelmed by all the people. He was a small town man at-heart.
As I stood beside him, I noticed Dad had noticed legs. I think he noticed the high heels first. In those days my eyes moved faster than Dad's. I wanted to make sure he wasn't offending anyone. He wasn't as subtle as he thought he was.
I mentally willed him to stop at the knees. But he didn't. I think I could hear his neck crack as his head snapped sideways to look back at the floor.
He had noticed the short-skirt wearing, high heel clad legs were topped by a man with a heavier beard than mine.
"Welcome to San Francisco, Dad," I thought.
I wasn't fazed by alternate dress. At the time, I was doing volunteer work handing out condoms in gay bars. I gave a bit of information too, but most just wanted the free condoms.
As we exited the bus, even I started to wonder what part of Kansas we'd landed in. It seemed every Friend of Dorothy wore a brighter outfit than the next. Dresses were de rigueur. Barely vested were bare-chested or properly trimmed. Men were wearing outfits you wouldn't see outside the Gimp scene in Pulp Fiction. On the way into the BART station, I had to take his arm. The poor man had never been to the French Riviera. He wasn't used to women walking around topless. He didn't know where to look.
I realized what was going on. I was taking my dad through the outskirts of a Pride event. In a large city known for its Pride. My Dad was a tolerant person. He just wasn't prepared for the diversity of style that was passing by his eyes.
The BART train to Oakland was a quieter affair. He had some minutes to relax. I figured there would be little to shock him at the game. He seemed to be enjoying himself until the announcement that smoking was permitted only in a certain room under the stands. I enjoyed the game and the nice weather. He told me the TVs in the smoking room were nice.
On the way back home he saw more of the same, but not as many people. I broke down that night and watched the news. They mentioned San Francisco had one of its largest Pride parades to date. I'm glad I got to share that little bit of history with my dad. I don't remember who won the game.
