Pride Vibes

And the inevitable letdown

There is this feeling that accompanies Pride celebrations in the month of June. It’s one of belonging, of representation, of acceptance, of chosen family. It’s a feeling of safety, although in our current state of the nation, that particular feeling can often be usurped by what ifs.

What if someone drives a truck down this street at high speeds to crush as many of us as they can? What if an angry man with an assault weapon or two or twenty decides to open fire from the tree line? What if that backpack contains a bomb, and the person carrying it is conspiring with ten others just like him?

Not one of these thoughts is an overreach in this country so full of hate and division, empowered by a leader draped in a fake Christian flag and intent on destroying us from within with lies and provocation and seeds of discord.

Saturday’s Pride event in Lexington was beautiful and freeing in all the best ways. It was colorful and happy and inclusive and non-judgmental. There were trans people living their best lives in fishnets and combat boots, queers holding hands without fear of being judged, children donned in rainbow tutus dancing in the street, queens strutting in six inch stilettos.

There was a notable police presence that made our safety feel more tangible. There were barriers to the entrance, blockades on the sides of the road, and although it was sobering to understand why their presence was necessary, we were grateful for them nonetheless. Officers were friendly and engaged. We thanked them profusely for being there, and they smiled and waved in return.

At a local bar near the festival, gay patrons were cheering wildly for pups on TV in the Dock Diving competition. We were united in excitement and joy and acceptance. On the main drag (see what I did there?), a young gay tipped and spilled a cooler full of water and Ale 8 bottles. Everyone close by rushed to help, throwing drinks and ice chunks back in the cooler before they melted on the hot pavement.

When I am at a queer event, I don’t feel uncomfortable in my fluffier-than-the-average-bear body. There is a distinct come-as-you-are vibe in the gay community; a we-know-what-you’ve-been-through-and-we’re-not-going-to-make-it-harder air of acceptance that is often missing in hetero spaces. Pride is a place where I can relax and be me, freely and authentically and without a second thought. There are always outliers, of course, but my experiences with the LGBTQ+ community affirm who I am on the inside, not what I look like on the outside.

When I came home to wash off my sweat and rainbows and to throw my “How Many Licks?” t-shirt in the laundry (come on, who doesn’t love a good double entendre?), I stood in the shower for a long time, thinking about where I’ve been and the future that waits for me. I thought about my hetero life and the gift of my four beloved kids. I thought about the pain and loss and turmoil of coming out and the friends I lost along the way. And I thought about the new relationships I’ve developed, the old ones I’ve nurtured, and the loves I have yet to meet. I thought about a world where we could all coexist peacefully and respectfully, without judgment. And I thought about the one preacher who stood in the middle of the divided street and shouted at us about how we were all going to burn in hell while we wished him “Happy Pride” and went about our business of being joyful. And I knew in my heart that I’ll never live to see a nation of acceptance as long as people continue to use their Bibles as a weapon against those who look, feel, believe, and exist differently.

Last night, I had a fun evening playing trivia (which I’m worse than horrible at) and laughing and drinking really bad Cabernet and saying, “Pass” to every question I didn’t know. (Readers: It was all but one.) Our team was comprised of lesbians and faux-lesbians-for-the-night—all peri-menopausal and menopausal—and we named ourselves “Sweaty, Petty, and Ready,” which we found hilarious. We were the leaders the entire night (no thanks to me) until it came time to wager on the final question. We got the question right, but we bet too low, and we lost in the final seconds. Womp, womp.

The biggest loss, though, was when it was time to award the Best Team Name, and the team that called themselves “Iran Got Their Fireworks Early This Year” won. It was a solemn reminder of what this nation finds “funny.” Because it’s hilarious that we’re dropping bombs on other countries, right? It’s a riot that we’re teetering on the brink of WWIII, isn’t it? And those kids in Gaza? So funny that every day, every minute, they’re wondering if it will be their last while they—with empty bellies—grieve their dead parents, their dead siblings, their bombed homes that once contained their families, their clothing, their stuffies, their love, their big/little lives.