Four Anecdotes
I’m piecing things together slowly. I’m trying to heal through writing. I’m trying to make sense of everything.
I first had a clear understanding of what it means to be gay at the age of four.
My parents worked with many gay couples, and had them over for dinner frequently. Sitting across the table from me, I saw no difference between them and my parents. They all ate the same food. They drank the same wine. They laughed at the same things. They worked at the same place.
I understood that their relationship was built on the same thing my parents’ was: a want to be together.
I was sitting in the backseat of my family’s blue station wagon on Market Street in San Francisco. Traffic had brought us to a standstill at a green light. Suddenly, a man on a bike flew by my window with nothing but a small rainbow thong on. Flags flew from his handlebars and wheels. He was followed, in quick succession, by many other men and women in similar garb. I wasn’t particularly surprised; growing up in San Francisco meant seeing the Bay to Breakers, the pride parades, and the occasional beautiful drag queen picking up milk down the aisle from us.
So this particular instance didn’t faze me. Parades were a common occurrence. Parades of this nature, even more so. I loved it. When I saw people marching, cheering, rainbows everywhere, I was excited. I was excited that there was a whole parade just to celebrate how much people love each other. I couldn’t think of another celebration focused solely on love. Christmas had a religious component for me. Halloween, candy. Easter, more religion, more candy. Fourth of July: America, a hot dog, and setting off rockets into the night.
But when I saw the rainbow flag, I knew exactly what it meant. Love. We were celebrating that these people loved each other and they could be open with that celebration. I even got a small flag of my own from a very nice man later that day, when my mom and I finished up shopping downtown.
Those rainbow flags just fly for love.
As a young girl, I loved going to the Castro neighborhood of San Francisco. Seeing movies at the Castro Theater meant feeling glamorous, grown up. After, my mom would take me to Cliff’s Variety, a store one block from the theater. It was always a treat. Cliff’s sell everything; it’s a toy store, hardware department and party central rolled into one. You could come in for a wrench and some paper plates and leave with a shot glass shaped like a… well, you know.
But now when I think back, this is what I realize: I loved the Castro because I loved the people. Everyone was friendly. Open. Everyone smiled. As a child, I felt nurtured and warm in that neighborhood. Safe. Happy. It was a community, and I was never turned away or scared.
Maybe a movie and a trip to the toy store gave me rose-colored glasses. But that can’t be it. One time our movie was cancelled when the reel spooled up and caught on the projector, and I still went home happy.
Nearly every summer, my family takes a road trip up and down California, covering as many inches as we can. We especially love visiting Mt. Lassen National Park. To us, it feels like Yosemite’s under-appreciated little brother.
One year, outside the park, we stopped for gas. A woman noticed a sticker for my parents place of employment, the San Francisco Symphony, in our car windshield.
“That’s where we’re going next,” she told my dad, as they both filled up their tanks. “I’m just so nervous about all the gays down there.”
I was horrified.
Then I heard my dad.
“Listen lady,” he said. “Those gays you’re talking about? They’re going to be serving you your food. They’re going to be sitting next to you on the bus. They’re walking next to you, eating next to you — they’re everywhere. You can’t hide.”
He got in the car and we drove off. I was highly amused; the look on the woman’s face had been one of abject horror. My dad was never one to hold back. I knew his express use of examples that involved close contact was on purpose, that to a certain extent he was elaborating for emphasis. But I also knew what he meant when he said those things. Those “people” were San Francisco to me. The idea of visiting and not being part of it, excited by it, seemed completely and utterly pointless. Like visiting Rome and refusing to acknowledge the coliseum.
The LGBTQ community has never been anything but wonderful, welcoming, kind and understanding to me. A large part of my childhood was nurtured and developed through that community. My parents’ coworkers. My friends’ parents. My teachers. My employers. My friends. My best friends.
The San Francisco community, for all its flaws, possesses an openness and lifestyle I wish was more available to all people in this country.
I can’t understand how an act of pure hatred and violence could be carried out on a people who have always been loving. Romantic. Positive. Joyful. I feel sick, I feel ill, and I feel distraught.
When I feel this way, I write. Over the last few days, I wrote what you find above. All I wanted to do was express instances in which I felt so thrilled to even be accepted at all into this amazing community of people. I can’t offer final peace or resolution, but I have stories, and I they are stories I wanted to share. I wanted to share because I love the community so much.
These stories all occurred before my thirteenth birthday. They are the foundations and constructs of how I eventually came to be who I am. My friend Clare Healy put it a certain way that I love: “Our childhood minds, although considered to be not quite as developed or understanding, are the foundation of our future selves.”
