From Shakespeare to Monty Python, Benny Hill to Milton Berle, men and women have been switching roles, dressing up in costume or disguise to entertain us, to make us laugh and make us think. Why would I care who you wanted to be, how you dressed, or what music you liked to fuck to? I do not understand why some people want to tell other people how to live their lives. What I do understand is that it is flat wrong, against everything I was brought up to believe in from the life of Christ to the Statue of Liberty, what it means to be an American, what it means to live free, that this land was made for you and me to be who we wanted to be as long as we didn’t hurt anybody. The question for me is: why would I care about something that doesn’t affect me? It’s not my concern, it’s not my business, but if you are doing what you love and not bothering me or anyone else, why would I possibly have a problem with it. And why should anyone give a shit about me or anyone else who did? We try to ignore those busybodies who want to run our lives unless they give us no choice and take some kind of action or violence against us. But that’s breaking the rule of law, right? This is America, damnit! And justice is blind. Unless you are queer! Queer as in being different like: foreign, black, brown, disabled, female, poor, LGBTQ, anyone othered other than a wealthy white male.
At My First Lesbian Wedding The clip-on Yellow Submarine style John Lennon shades found in the jockey box of my mother's car after she died, provided the cover I needed to hide the streams of tears I shed watching the likes of these two young lovers professing and celebrating their promise to care for one another in front of their families today, and for the life-till-death commitment of their sisters and brothers, that full-on crazy-assed family of friends who dance and sing down the aisle behind them Mardi gras style under a ceiling of bright blue sky, the aisle being that parting of the crowd, those gathered witnesses for these twinned hearts' need to proclaim their decision to walk hand in hand to the end of the line—that beginning we don't understand . . . So they do it, they cheer, they dance and sing, they kiss- celebrate this thing, this vow, this marriage, a pact to sail stormy seas together, weather close quarters, sirens and morning breath, all hungers, temptations, tempests, or thirsts— those old desires to jump ship and party every port . . . We toast The dream, to make this moment last, hold onto the happiness of these lovestruck fools, the parade of hoots and smiles, the hugs and laughs— now that the service is history (and my first lesbian wedding is in the books). When I look at the vine-less trellis, now standing alone in the meadow, a homemade latticework archway of sorts, hung with sheer curtains and made for the last outdoor family affair (a cousin's Christian marriage: guarded and guided by traditions and rules). I see how it provided a backdrop, a focal point, an opening, a frame, call it a door for whatever allusion we choose to see or ignore, help us . . . to enter and write an old new-story, one we can follow back and forward for thousands of years . . . And still the breeze wafts the transparent linens lightly . . . as it tousled the bride's blonde curls earlier when she stood before us and kissed her bride, and I leaked beneath the waves of this sweet green sea, happily grinning in my Yellow Submarine. And I believed (because that's the way it seemed to me) God was busy as usual just letting things be.
This weekend marked Missoula’s celebration of queer people, PRIDE, just letting people be. It started for us on Friday night. Tell Us Something, Marc Moss’ version of The Moth, people telling stories, which he founded over a decade ago, was held at the Missoula Paddleheads’ stadium (where we were lucky enough to see a pair of paddleheads in their nest atop a pole behind right field). Each of the eight storytellers walked to the microphone at home plate and told their story to all of us seated in the grandstand. The topic was “Neighbors.” And given that it was Pride weekend, naturally most of the storytellers were queer. All of them knocked it out of the park with life-changing, poignant stories involving neighbors and love and empowerment.
A decade earlier when Tell Us Something was set at the Top Hat Bar, notorious watering hole of the seventies, Marc talked me into joining the storytelling. So I obliged with the retelling of a barroom story since I was in a bar where I’d told plenty of stories including the one I shared about a semi-truck accident where the driver lost control of the rig, shooting off the interstate and tearing into and through the small town of Drummond leaving destruction in its path while everyone miraculously escaped the incident without injury. An unbelievably true story told purely for entertainment.
Saturday morning was preparation for the PRIDE parade. It was raining. Pam was planning on walking with Sam in the Girls On Shred group, raincoat and umbrella in hand. I found a spot across from the Wilma at the end of Beartracks Bridge that looked like a good location to take some pictures. It had stopped raining and looked like we’d get a dry parade, only to start again as soon as the parade began moving. But the rain didn’t rain on our parade (even though it did). The street was as packed, lined with onlookers, a crowd to match the number of entries in the parade. No one’s spirit was dampened. So many folks showed up to celebrate queerness, all of us non-hetro, non-binary folks who by birthright are endowed with the same inalienable rights as straight white males of means! The parade included several Indian tribes, churches, non-profits, clubs, the cops and fire department, a slate of public servants and candidates for office including the mayor. And of course there were a bunch of individuals just there, present, on their own and for the benefit of their family, friends, and community, to have fun and advocate for freedom. It was a joyous showing of support for a sector of society that has endured injustice, abuse, threats, and violence. The irony being, that much of the threat to the LGBTQ+ community has come from folks claiming to by Christians, who say they want to “protect their religious freedoms” and their children from immorality. So they punch down on the queer disenfranchised. It’s a head-scratcher for me. What would Jesus do? Well, I don’t know what your Jesus would do, but My Jesus loved the little children all the children of the world: red and yellow, black or white, all life precious in his sight, gender-benders, boys and girls, crewcuts or Gerri curls, trans or queer, all are dear to My Jesus.
My Jesus Is a gay black man Who loves women and Muslims and Jews. My Jesus got off That slivered cross some Two thousand years ago, rolled away His stone and went back to smoking Behind the Salvation Army thrift store. Sometimes my Jesus is a Dick Like Richard Nixon, “Don’t do as I do. Do as I say.” Grab your boot straps and get along Little Commies. My Jesus Thinks Christmas is an obscene Consumer orgy. If he believed in Hell, That’s where the richest Assholes would be. My Jesus swears That churches are heartless as nails Or stone, pinched claws Determined to line out wild souls. My Jesus believes In freedom, balloons, and hypocrisy Some of the time. He walks The talk and like my sister Falls down a lot, but My Jesus gets up again Because he’s a man, And getting up is what men love to do. My Jesus has balls Enough to call bullshit On all that whack he’s credited for— Like walking on water And rising from the dead. My Jesus knows the power of story, He’s seen it deployed with guns And grins again and again. My Jesus dreams we’ll grow Tired of killing each other, Grow tired of feeling afraid And learn to live gently Until we retire, until We return to our subatomic selves. My Jesus knows The kingdom of Heaven Is inside my head Next door to the serfdom of Hell. And sometimes some days He rides my melancholy tsunami Over steeples and freeways, Funerals and white sales, Hurtling bruised and broken Onto stinking mudflats, bankrupt As the American Dream, Tears blurring the blue moons Of his eyes, the stars in my night Sky—bright rimmed puddles, dark Rings of light. My Jesus Celebrates the mornings I wake Up. We both imagine he dies With me. My Jesus doesn’t pretend To know what will happen. He’s just happy to be. My Jesus Is the king of vulnerability— He’s all about love and service, Responsibility, for him There’s no judgment day.
That seems like a good place to stop. I’ll return to talk about Gillian Kessler’s and her sister Hillary Thomas’ brilliant production, “After Roe,” a dance musical dealing with the realities for women in America particularly after being served up the recent Supreme Court Shit Sandwich.
Not to mention, the Juneteenth holiday Monday which delivered another late celebration of one tiny tidbit of American history regarding the issue of slavery and true freedom for black Americans. An issue that a large percentage of the population refuses to swallow even in bite-sized documented tales of injustice and horror. Yes, Africa is not the only place “denial” exists.
Of course the crowning “denial” is the injustices perpetrated on Native Americans. Those “others” who were here when Europeans arrived, the indigenous peoples of the Americas who were all but wiped out yet continue to exist. Those people, them, the others, the queers. Life is queer. We’re all queer because we’re all the same: we’re born, we’re here, and we die. End of story. Why not try to enjoy the short ride. Live, laugh, love, and be kind. Let’s work together and try to enjoy being alive. It really is a fucking miracle. And before we know it we’ll be gone to what is next. PRIDE is the perfect reminder to live and let live, celebrate our individuality, our queerness.
Drag Queen laughter, humor allows us to entertain misbehavior, engage in danger— we can't permit ourselves to act out publicly— so we grin, snort-chortle, mock, and raucously roar about the blasphemes of others taboos exposed and forced to pratfall naked in the streets where we can scoff atop our communal high-horses prancing dancing around the foolish antics of the foppish popinjays we have chosen to point at, mock, and abhor when they titillate our beastly desires to leap the fence run and shriek and play, flush the flirtatious whore inside us all— secretly we envy their balls those faces under the greasepaint— hiding behind our masks of disdain we dare not respect their courage, risk cutting against the grain