Pride Encounter

I'm a sucker for chachies at Pride. I don't know why but I feel I have to accept everyone's bag of useless plastic toys and ads, most of which I throw away when I get home. Perhaps its just my inner pack rat coming out. I see an opportunity to horde more stuff so I seize the moment.

In my exuberance to collect as much as possible I approached a woman passing out fliers. I asked her what she had. She handed me a pamplet and said it is a free conference. I took it, stepped away, glanced at the front of the flier, read
Exodus International, turned to her, handed it back. "No thanks," I replied the best look of disgust I could make.

Damn, I was too polite. Why was I polite to her? What I wanted to do was shout at her. I wanted to show my anger. I wanted her to feel uncomfortable. I wanted everyone's eyes to turn to this woman and know exactly what kind of fink she was. Sheneeded to know the pain she and her cohorts cause.

Standing beside her was another "Exodus-flier-passer-outer". It was a man that was neatly dressed with a coordinated outfit, stylish glasses, and a well manicured coif. It was apparent he had spent more than a fleeting straight-man moment on
his hair, taking a moment to admire himself in the bathroom mirror this morning. But his overall appearance was stuck in limbo between the gay man that he really was and the "straight" man that Exodus taught him to be. He wanted to go all out with attention to detail. At the same time, though, he wanted to leave some edges rough and unkempt. It showed. He needed liberation.

As I stood off to the side looking back at them, I played out several scenarios of response in my mind. I wanted to go up to her and give her a thoughtful, articulate explanation of why she was wrong. I wanted to tell her that she should feel ashamed and to leave. I wanted to tell her the man standing next to her pretending to be straight was the next John Paulk. I wanted to ask her about the investigation of abuse by the state of Tennessee at Love In Action. But I couldn't. I was so angry that I couldn't formulate a coherent argument in my mind. After all this was my day – our day - to celebrate our lives. Why couldn't she just leave us alone for once? Give us one weekend of fun to be ourselves, to be left alone by the deafening noise of contempt from the outside world. She had come to my party covertly, uninvited, unwanted.

As my friends and I walked away I looked back over my shoulder and locked eyes with her in a cold, long, uncomfortable stare. That was the only response I could
formulate without going into a blind range. Afterall a response like that accomplishes nothing. Somehow, I felt that I conveyed my message. Something in her stare back showed that she registered the rage I felt.

Mission accomplished.