Pride

This is the sixteenth in a series of guest blog posts by up-and-coming author, Suzanne Hersey. Her first book, Faith Food Family, is available now from Iaconagraphy Press!

Even when I am writing about a personal experience, I try to get to a point, a lesson, and a takeaway. I don’t know that you will find one here. I really just need to put these words down; to get them out, so that I have them here to come back to. I need to speak. I went to my first Pride Parade this past weekend and it was a roller coaster, to say the very least. Jump on this ride with me for a moment, will you?

I was excited for weeks about finally going to Pride Boston and walking alongside people I love and respect from Temple of Witchcraft. I relish being a part of that community. I am, in retrospect, incredibly privileged. I didn’t really lose anyone who mattered when I came out of the closet. I did get hurt; I am not going to coat this with royal icing here. Being Bi made me suddenly a bit invisible. I got the “you are just slutty, you are confused, you are not really gay” reactions, and there was a part of me that wanted to put a toe back in the closet, but I had a lot of support from my kids, my partners, some family members, and new friends. There are people out there not as lucky as I am. So I will own my safe privilege. My Momma Linda was afraid for us to go to Pride Boston; terrified someone would attack us. I wasn’t the littlest bit frightened because I had people with me, and this is Boston. Yes, there is a straight pride parade looming in the close future, but Brad Pitt is not going to show up for them; it is super-hot in August in New England and they cannot for a moment steal away what we had at Pride.

Getting there was stressful, but we were decked out in rainbows and ready. First, some lessons I learned that are pretty basic:

Shoes: I wore my most comfy stylish shoes; I just could not wear ugly sneakers with my flowy rainbow dress. I am glad I didn’t wear sneakers, because my feet swelled and those sneakers would have given me blisters. I am really a barefoot kind of person, so I need to do some shopping before next year.

Rage is real. We stood together getting ready for things to get moving and there were, in fact, a few people with signs. You know, the ones where they let us know that they think God hates us, we are abominations, etc. Those signs made me want to go quote the actual Bible at those people, but I was busy sharing the perfect rainbow cookies I had baked, filled with magick for love and for stamina to get through the day. Then one guy walked by and looked our banner holders in the face and spewed some vitriol about how we are perversions. Now that amazing man with the inviting smile and the kindest of eyes simply looked back at this broken, hateful man and said “thank you”. But my Momma Bear came right out: she may have spouted some sarcasm, but under that was rage that I knew I had to contain if I didn’t want to go to jail. This was not about me; it was about the people that welcomed me, about my partners, about my children, and the children of my heart that should never, ever be called such things. I really wanted to open hand slap that jackass. Later, when we finally got home and laid down to rest, I found myself regretting that I had not followed him and said “I am sorry for whatever pain broke you and made you hate us; I do not hate you. I am sorry for you.” I know that would likely have gotten me called a whore or worse and caused a riot. I had so much regret that I didn’t stand for those I love. In the end, I would not have changed a bigot’s mind or heart. I have some work to do on how to deal with that.

Then we walked, we waved, we smiled, we shared. It was mind-blowing. There were so many people: a sea of rainbows, and a cacophony of whistles (that was so loud!). Faces of adults, children, and dogs dressed up in the cutest outfits. That was a long, hot three miles; I won’t sugar coat. But they moved us along. I looked into the crowds, searching for one young man: He is my bonus child; a child of my heart and soul. I wanted him to walk with us; he told me he wasn’t even sure if he was going. I wanted to share this first pride walk with a child who was braver than I, who owned his true self so much sooner in his life than I had. We rounded a corner and braced to trudge up another hill, and then I felt someone grab me from behind and squeeze me. I turned and there he was, screaming “Mom! Mom! Mom!” We said we loved each other; I tried to get him to walk on with us, but he ran back to his friends. (I clearly am still not cool enough, despite being Bi-poly and a witch, but hey, it’s all good.) He was there. I watched for a moment before I had to move on and I cried because I am so proud of him; I am so blessed that he loves me and trusts me. And I saw a flash of the little boy who so many times ran off on some adventure with my daughter. They were so young and innocent then; now they are grown and so very wise. He texted me later on in the day and told me he loved me and was proud of me. If nothing else on that day mattered, that mattered. I was so elated.

Well, then the roller coaster dipped again. We were walking through Boston, headed to the North End, because what is a day in town without a trip to Bova’s Bakery for pizza and cannoli? We passed so many people who said “happy Pride” or “I love your dress”, but then we passed a family–Mom, Dad and small child–and I heard that child ask daddy: “Why are they all in rainbows?” And the respons: “They are supposed to be lesbians.” First off, I am bisexual, but he clearly couldn’t have known that. Second: damn, you asshole, what does “supposed” to be a lesbian even mean? I wanted to run back and call him out in front of his child; to let him know why we walk, why we stand, why we fight for the rights we should and do not have. Maybe that child is one of us; maybe you just locked him in that closet of shame; I hope he never self-harms from the shame you gave him today. But I walked on, because I just couldn’t, I was so tired. I hope the Goddess watches over that child; that no matter his orientation, he grows to be inclusive, despite the ignorance of his father. I thought back on one child right at the end of our walk through the streets of Boston, right as we came in view of the State House. He was with his mom; she was in rainbows, and he was wearing a rainbow shirt and a kilt. Epic parenting! He pointed right at Christopher Penczak and yelled “Momma, look! Look! He is just like me: he is wearing a kilt like me!” And in that moment, he had an ally. Christopher was too far ahead for me to yell to him over the screaming crowd and the whistles blowing. I wish he could have seen how he changed that little human.

Here is the end game: There were people that tried to ruin that day for us; there are people that try to ruin our lives. But in the crowds, and on the streets, there are more that stand with us, stand together, and fight. If we do not stand, we cannot walk. And I will buy new shoes, and I have my sign all planned for next year, and I will hope that maybe we can have a float pulled by someone with a CDL (If you know someone please let us know) and I will stand. I will also wear sunscreen. Because when a really wise Witch tells you to wear sunscreen, you should listen. I am a bit crispy, a bit wiser, a bit sadder, a bit happier and a lot prouder.