And so the world turned upside down.
Revolutions, life-changing events, a move from what was once impossible into something more in the realm of possibility, good riddance to ignorance, a nod to progress. Is it really possible that a Supreme Court, so recently derided for the decision that ushered in the Bush administration, can so quickly become the catalyst of a more enlightened humanity? Supreme Court decisions, we know full well, have often been decrees that meant social tragedy: Dred Scott v. Sanford, Plessy v. Ferguson, Regents of California v. Bakke. And so we applaud vociferously those landmark decisions that seem to say to the country that we are changing -- positively, for the good of all. Brown v. The Board of Education. It was a court decision that spelled a movement to another level. Slow, yes, but progress nonetheless. Lawrence et al. v. Texas can confidently be placed in that category. And the world turns upside down and we are giddy and hopeful.
And oh, the launching of the domino effect! The last two decisions of the year, affirmative action upheld and a one-two punch on anti-sodomy laws in 13 states! Homophobia, a TKO. The planets line up strategically, the moon in the seventh house. Strom Thurmond and Lester Maddox, the last of the great Southern segregationists, move on to their just rewards in the underworld and Maynard Jackson ascends unto heaven, along with Ivan Allen, his mayoral predecessor who helped to usher in Atlanta’s new civil rights age back in the ‘60s. Canada embraces gay marriage; Massachusetts is poised for its own pro-gay marriage vote; the Boy Scouts, with corporate funding at an all-time low, quietly considers accepting gay members; and England’s House of Lords votes to zap Section 28, the infamous law banning “promotion of homosexuality in schools. Amazing, these earth-shattering changes, executed with a diva’s orchestrated finesse and all unfolding but a few days before our very own big fat Greek wedding, Gay Pride Day!
The Supreme Court snapped Bowers v. Hardwick, and we, the children of the world, snapped too. In Z formation! Especially in New York City where it is reputed to have all begun. Gay Pride this year had more . . . well, meaning. At least to those who care about worlds turning upside down. And those who don’t could pretend it was all just a party and do so without embarrassment or fear of arrest for sodomy. All of the island was Emerald City. The Pride Rally, The Sheridan Square celebration of the Supreme Court decision, rainbow flags everywhere, not just the Village or Chelsea and the Empire State Building is bathed in lavender light. The whole city felt gay-friendly. Same-sex couples smooched in Bryant Park and Times Square. Harlem brothas sat a little closer at Native and Nikkis, knees touching knees flamboyantly as we conspire over lattes at Hue-Man Books or Orbit. The Garden Party seemed a little more important with the inclusion of gay rapper Caushun and “Divas With Pride” rose the emotions to the stratosphere with Martha Wash, BJ Crosby and Marga Gomez, weathergirls for reigning men. The brothas were seen everywhere representin’, out of the closet and into the street, even if most waited for sundown. Perhaps they needed the better part the day for reflection and genuflection. Perhaps they were resting up for the parties at Octagon and 667. The Black Pride benefit boatride was nifty although it is clear that this annual event will eventually morph into an all-girl party. But brothas saw it as a necessary respite from the bottleneck traffic clogging Christopher Street and were shocked to hear of disturbances on the beautifully restored West Street piers, guns being drawn, crowds stampeding, police reminding us that even on this momentous and gorgeous last Sunday in June, things can easily return to Giuliani time.
And, miraculously, some brothas, particularly ones of “a certain age,” stayed home! Such is the success of the modern gay rights movement: It is no longer necessary to go out and “march” for rights that you already have or will have soon enough, if we could just calm down and be patient. The conversations in the aftermath amazingly centered around our same old issues: Finding that special someone for, as one brotha lamented, what’s the point of gay marriage if there is no one for me to marry? So self-absorbed, another one says. Crying about not finding a man when men in Egypt are being executed for being gay and so many of us still haven’t learned the importance of safe sex. A flash from one brotha addicted to the Internet: Calcutta just had its first gay pride parade! A transgendered woman is running for Congress in Mexico. Singapore has removed gay job discrimination. And Johannesburg has its first black gay bar! Yes, chile, we sigh over apple martinis at xl, we are the world, we are the children.
Back to life, back to reality. We are not yet free. The ink of our emancipation proclamation is not yet dry and we anticipate conspiracies and subplots blocking our way to first-class citizenship. Should we be totally out? Get married? Have children? Enlist in the military? So many options we suddenly have. Is this the brave new world we have been longing for? It is a little dizzying, so we change the subject and talk about less exalted things. Bravo’s “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy” seems a continuation of that tired new trend of metrosexuals and we feel offended by the concept, straight men embracing things gay. Isn’t that like how the sistahs felt when Bo Derek got those braids and the media presented it as something new? Bravo’s “Boy Meets Boy” reality show is suspect as well. There can never be a reality show that the brothas will be satisfied with and after “American Idol” what else is there but “Fame”? At Day-O’s we chattered excitedly about Beyoncé and her need for finishing school, an APB for the services of Ophelia DeVore, but we like her anyway and attribute her less-than-perfect persona as a byproduct of youth. Her star has risen, and she won’t turn into a monster by 35, but the jury is still out on Ashanti.
The July sun bakes us as we meander on the pier, breezing through gay current events: Michael Savage is fired from MSNBC after telling a caller he “should die from AIDS.” Harry Potter, it turns out, is gay, or will be soon. And Wendy Williams on her VH1 debut asks Queen Latifah The Question. We make plans for Fire Island and will decide -- any day now -- whether we will go on the Black Gay Pride boatride. Eighty dollars we can easily drop at any of the more upscale watering holes, but to pay this amount in order to be holed up from midnight to dawn on a boat with God knows who, well, some of the brothas just can stomach the iffyness of it all. But we love those Black Pride folk and the children at People of Color in Crisis, and promise to show up at all the other events, especially the freebies. Contrary to popular belief, none of the brothas are materially driven intentional archetypes of the bourgeosie. And eighty dollars, we sniff over our third happy-hour cocktails, has to be strictly budgeted, our precious time carefully allotted to projects that will promote our lofty social agendas.
But seriously, the Boat Ride sounds like a good thing, and many of the brothas who have decided to go are planning their costumes, all-white attire being suggested by the planning committee. And wasn’t that something about Abercrombie & Fitch, that revered clothier of the white upperclass, whose hiring practices have been made public: Scandanavian good looks mandatory for sales positions, all others apply for the stockroom? At Therapy brothas fill out the rest of the July calendar. We will see “Madame Sata” at Film Forum. It’s a Brazilian cinema about a true life drag queen and so it will be deliciously discussed at fall cocktail parties. We thought the Homo Harlem tour would be a good way to embark on Black Pride NYC. Michael Henry Adams is so regal and we know the dinner at Native afterwards will be quite cute. The performances by Jennifer Holliday on opening night and then Loleata Holloway at Riis Beach Black Pride Sunday are musts, so a quick trip to Moshood for a cute Africentric ensemble is imperative.
E. Lynn Harris is all over the place, plugging his memoir that tells all. But where were the brothas at his New York booksignings? At Barnes & Noble Astor Place and Hue-Man in Harlem, this was a meeting of Essence women. But even with the no shows, brothas dutifully read his book and gave it stellar reviews. Everette Lynn, we feel your pain and love ya, girlfriend! Now, when is that Showtime series gonna hit the airwaves? And who’s gonna play Basil?
Talk turned surprisingly to sports as brothas showed their jock quotients in lively discussions about that cute Maurice Greene being replaced by the even cuter Tim Montgomery as the world’s fastest human and that dynamic sistah duo holding reign yet again at Wimbledon. Yankee’s Bernie Williams wins accolades when we discover all that brawn is kept in check by an artistic side: the release of his debut jazz CD is a critical success and we languish and sigh, knowing full well that he can strum our pain with his fingers anytime. Speaking of baseball, one brotha chirps, is it true that Ben Afflect is pursuing the film rights for this year’s best play about homophobia in sports, “Take Me Out”? Oooh, we swoon, the casting possibilities for that one! And how will they execute those shower scenes and still maintain an R rating?
Bars on Christopher Street were quiet for a few hours one afternoon as a commemorative vigil passes by on the way to the pier. It is Fierce!, the Village gay youth advocacy group and the Audre Lorde Project, celebrating the life of Sakia Gunn, the 15-year-old lesbian murdered in a gaybashing incident in Newark on May 11. Our lives are far from rosy and carefree and we are once again reminded that that progress is slow and painful. A brotha whispers of friends gay-bashed in Harlem and the Bronx, of ugly incidents all over New York of miscarriages of justice involving racism, classism and all the other isms convenient used to continue the hate. Stony the road we trod.
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We are in the throes of summer. Beach parties and barbecues and getaways to exotic locales. We run into folks from Atlanta and Washington and Chicago on the streets and promise to get together for drinks. We run into celebrities: Isn’t that Freddy Jackson sitting over there in the corner? Quick, Frenchie Davis just strolled passed the window! The brothas, in Native New Yorker mode, don’t make a fuss. Stardom comes easily in the Big City and who is more fabulously famous than any of us, brothas out on the town?
Original Post: 7/19/03
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