I had many interesting conversations with my fellow marchers. They were curious about a straight, older person like myself marching with them and I told them some of my history as an ally going back to the late 1960s when I shared an apartment with a gay man who came out to me while remaining closeted to the world, and the early 1970s when I was engineer and producer of a weekly gay news radio program in Buffalo, NY. I understand some of why so many people are hostile to LGBTQIA+ people, both in general and as individuals. Much of it is a form of xenophobia, fear of the other which comes out in other ways, as well. That this phobia should turn to homomisia seems so typical of how many people respond to their fear of the other. I don't know how best to turn fear and hatred into tolerance, acceptance and even affection. Maybe it takes having a close relative who is in that other group.
I had a friend, Michael whose family rejected him when he came out in the mid-1970s. Michael and I shared an apartment for about a year until both of us found our partners. His father was so angry with his son that he would not even take a phone call from him. When late in the 1980s my friend was in the hospital in NYC dying from an AIDS related pneumonia, a man in his late 60s or so walked into the hospital room where a few friends were sitting with Michael. If my memory is correct, he looked at us with one of those who are these people looks, then saw Michael sitting up in bed. I remember looking at Michael who was looking at the man, and then Michael said, "Dad? What are you doing here?" I remember his father's reply as if it was spoken this morning. "You're coming home with me. It's been too long. I'm sorry. I was wrong."
That room was silent. Four of Michael's friends as diverse as four people can be sat in silence.
Michael was crying. His father was crying as he bent and hugged his dying son.
Why should it take the death of a son to make a man realize how wrong homophobia and homomisia can be?
Michael died a week later in a hospital in Colorado, where his parents lived. I heard from his father once afterwards, a brief phone call to thank me for being his friend.
Anyway, I'm part of a minority that's spent the past few thousand years in danger, too. I always appreciate my allies and it turns out young, queer strangers discovering I'm theirs appreciate me for that, too.
Here's some more photos of the people of the NYC Queer Liberation March. The person wearing the purple platform boots didn't want their face photographed but enthusiastically showed off their footwear.
The folks in the first two photos insisted I show the second if I was going to show the first.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Leave a comment if you wish. Comments will be moderated.