Pride in teens with no concept of closet
Pride goeth before the fall. Or is that summer?
On Thursday, we watched “Love, Simon,” a gay coming-of-age movie. Brian cries at Hallmark commercials, and I’m not much better. Even Buddyboy and Bandit were tearing up, but it was a surprise when my tough 14year-old, Zane, wept. “Was that what it was like when you came out, Daddy?”
“Well, actually it was much worse,” I replied. “I got beaten up on a regular basis. Almost made me want to go back into the closet.”
Aidan, the only one of us not to cry, asked, “What’s a closet?”
What a marvelous age we live in! Our teenagers have no concept of the closet, no sense that 50 years ago we got arrested for just being us. AIDS is a theoretical disease to them. Stonewall is ancient history.
But Stonewall, almost 50 years ago, led to the Pride Parade, a tradition we continue this Sunday, June 24, on Market Street.
Brian’s on tour (again) and I’m a little sad. We’ve marched together almost every year for more than three decades, showing the world that a gay couple can be as ordinary as a deputy and a dance hall girl. Fourteen Junes ago, Zane, then a 10-month-old baby, moved in with us, so there was no question whether he would march, but rather, what would he wear? We settled on a rainbow tie-dyed onesie, a picture of which we always bring out when one of his friends visits.
This is about community. Back in the ’70s, we marched for our safety. In the ’80s, we marched to get better treatment for people with AIDS. And in the ’90s, we marched for our rights. And even though nowadays it seems like it’s a victory lap, there’s still far to go. We still have a vice president who thinks that my 34-year marriage to Brian will bring about “societal collapse.”
Aidan does not much like walking, let alone any activity that remotely resembles exercise, and so he asked, “Can’t we just drive for our rights?”
“No, Aidan, we can’t. The march for our rights was meant to be a pilgrimage, not a joyride.”
“You do know that I’m not L, G, B, T, Q, I or 2?” he persisted.
“Yes, Aidan, we’ll add an SST to the end: Smart-mouthed Straight Teenagers.”
The theme for this year’s Pride is “Generations of Strength.” Translated: We old people have still got something to say, but we rely on the vigor of the young, even when we get exasperated with them.
Wasn’t sure if I could handle the boys alone for the parade this year, so I asked Michele, one of the women organizing our contingent. She absolutely refuses to ever have children, unlike both Crazy Mike and me, whom she regards as soft touches. When I go to her for parenting advice, she quotes Eve Arden, who said, “Crocodiles have the right idea. They eat their young.”
I told her that what bothers me is the risks they take, most especially Zane. When Zane was 2, he was already asking the Dykes on Bikes if he could ride with them. He skips school. He rides a hoverboard down South Hills Boulevard at about 60. And these are the activities I know about. How could I manage them alone in the rainbow chaos?
But as a nonparticipant, Michele has scientific objectivity in the sport of Extreme Parenting. So she tells me that teenagers are only doing their part in the survival of the species. Studies show, she says, that 12- to 14-year-old boys are the most likely to take risks, and that adventuring is an adaptation humans have in order to figure out what activities not to do when they become adults. In other words, if they don’t learn by age 15 how stupid it is to stick their heads in a concrete staircase, or put magnets under their foreskin, then they end up doing these experiments as an adult, when they have a lot fewer excuses.
This year our Fisher-Paulson contingent may be two-thirds straight, but the journey never is.
Everyone may be Irish on March 17, but not everyone’s gay on the last Sunday of June. We’re just proud. Me, I’m proud that I’m out of a closet that Aidan never knew existed. And I’m proud that Brian and I have two boys who take the most extraordinary risks, and yet still come back to walk with their fathers.
Aidan does not much like walking, let alone any activity that remotely resembles exercise, and so he asked, “Can’t we just drive for our rights?”