Pride weekend

The grief literature warns that holidays — especially in the first year — are rough. And they're right. I don't think I quite understood until this week just how much Pride is a holiday for me and for much of the queer community. And if Pride month is our holiday season, then the Pride parade is our Christmas morning.

I'd agreed to march with the referendum campaign in the parade, and to work a shift at the festival afterwards. Even as I signed up to volunteer, I hesitated. But I've skipped Pride many times, and my experience of the event has changed as I've matured, so I thought I'd be okay. I was wrong.

Even before I left the house yesterday morning, I'd suddenly broken into sobs multiple times. Sometimes I'd flash on the 24th last year, the day New York passed a marriage equality bill and we celebrated in Sandy's hospital room. Other times, I'd flash on marching in the parade with Sandy, or working the crowds of people in the staging area before the parade began. It was at a Pride parade many years ago, as I was weary and ready to go home, that Sandy said she hoped that I'd always be home when I was with her.

Given my obvious fragility, I considered skipping it. But I'd made a commitment, so I left the house at 10 a.m. and walked downtown. I cried a few times as I walked the mile or so, but then the carnival energy of the parade line-up cheered me a bit, and I remembered that this was actually my favorite part of the whole thing: excited people finding their groups and making last-minute preparations, entertaining each other as they waited. It's always a festive, utterly chaotic scene, and yesterday was no different. Even as I wandered toward the campaign group, I noticed that other groups included "Approve R74" on their T-shirts and floats. That level of focus pleases me.

Sandy in 1993, in D.C. for the March on
Washington. I was there, too, but not with
her at the time, and we didn't see each
other there, though we compared notes
years later. We had been impressed by the
same things (especially the mood in the
subway stations when the cars and platforms
were filled with jubilant marchers).

I convinced myself to go, in part, because I believed I'd run into old friends, likely to be marching with the campaign. I searched each face among hundreds and recognized none. Already in a pitiful state (literally, a self-pitiful state), I felt adrift, unknown, like I didn't belong. Loud music was blaring from the truck that accompanied us, so I couldn't engage in my usual chitchat to get to know strangers.

It's not quite as pathetic as I'm making it sound. I did see some friends, but they were grand marshals and popular politicians, all occupied and pressed upon by many who needed to say hello. I needed to have a friend in the crowd I could hang out with.

I managed to keep my tears to a minimum during the parade itself, and was hugely relieved when we reached the end of the route. Adding to my emotional discomfort, I'd been desperate to pee for much of the hour-long parade.

I felt much better canvassing once we got to Seattle Center. I like having a job to do. I'm the kind of person who rarely attends a conference or event if I'm not responsible for coordinating it or presenting at it. Collecting pledges from people to approve the referendum in November meant I could talk with people one-on-one, educating some about the referendum, commiserating with others about other political issues, and celebrating with everyone that the sun had come out on a day we'd expected rain.

When my last pledge card was completed, I returned to the booth and was told they had plenty of volunteers, so I could take off. The coordinator asked if I'd signed in earlier, and I said no, so she handed me the clipboard of expected volunteers. My name wasn't on it! I could have stayed home and no one would have known the difference. I'm just as glad I didn't know that, because I at least had a few moments of connection. And because I got through my first Pride without Sandy, so next year should be a little easier.

I'd canvassed for about an hour and a half, and I was surprised to see that the parade was still going on as I left Seattle Center. Instead of walking directly up Denny towards home, I ended up walking back the entire parade route, watching the parade as I went. I saw people I knew in various contingents, which explains why they weren't with the campaign or along the side of the street as I marched earlier. I cheered for Catholics for Marriage Equality and Mormons for Marriage Equality, for Lambert House and the Seattle Public Library, for the Filipino Youth Activities Drill Team, our Democratic gubernatorial candidate, Planned Parenthood, and other groups. And I got back to the starting point, where I'd begun at 11 a.m. with the campaign, just as the last group walked through that intersection at 2:20. Three hours and twenty minutes they'd waited to start the parade. Whew.

I walked up the hill home, had lunch at 3:00, and then lay down, exhausted and emotionally defeated. Every part of my body ached, especially my brain and my heart.

I know now that I should have arranged to march in the parade with someone. And that I probably should have taken a bus home. (All told, I walked about six miles I think, and was on my feet for five hours, much of it walking slowly.) Dozing off and on for a couple of hours helped, as did some dinner and getting to bed on time. This morning, I felt much better, due in large part to getting some rest, but also because I spent time with Sandy overnight. She made a well-timed visit, and today I'm ready to resume my forward momentum.