Who’s Confused?

I got my computer back on Friday, and had to begin the grueling task of putting all of my stuff back on it. Too bad I can't quite locate my disks. This includes my iPod software, which wouldn't have been a big deal, but the Apple folks had to test my little white friend and so were forced to erase its contents. This means I have no music. And my inability to find the disk means I can't put it on my computer. And, well, it sucks.

And then the weekend started. Gay pride. The two days when gays everywhere don their rainbow flags and best walking shoes to express their pride and joy at being gay. Where they celebrate with one another as one big happy family. And then it's over. And gays everywhere go back to hating on one another, refusing to maintain any sort of contact with friends they met unless there's a function, looking down on those "unfashionably dressed, macho women (thanks "L Word" exec. producer for that comment)," and just about every other form of inner disdain. Yeah, it's great to be gay. But I participated anyway.

My gay weekend began innocently enough Saturday evening. I was slow to leave my house, being engrossed in "Queer As Folk" as I was. But I left and was a little late in meeting the people I was supposed to meet. So instead, I joined the Dyke March a little late after an interesting jaunt down East 34th St.

I first stopped into Dr. Jays, a huge clothing store with clothes I love for not much money. I bought a new shirt, because I wasn't happy with the one I had on. All the while, I felt some rage developing within me. I'm not sure what it was based on. It could have been the schizophrenic homeless looking man who sat next to me on the train. It could have been the cute dyke couple sitting across from me on the same train with their little wedding rings on. Ahhh. Love.For everyone else. It could have been the number of stares I got, something that I have been overly sensitive about lately. Who knows. But I was not in a good space. After Dr. Jays, I went across the street to Sbarro to change into my new shirt. I waited in line, making eye contact with a lot of confused people. I usually look away, but lately, and especially yesterday, I maintained eye contact. Letting them know I knew what was going on. Total bullshit.

Girls, boys, men and women alike gawked at my tits to help confirm their confusion. And then they would catch me looking at them. After changing my shirt, I went and bought a soda and then stood at the fountain machine to fill it up. While there, Erin called, but I could barely hear her. And just then, a Sbarro employee opened the door beneath the soda machine to get some supplies. It hit me. She said nothing. I got off the phone with Erin and walked around the bitch, saying something under my breath to the effect of, 'Thanks for saying excuse me when you hit me with the fucking door.' She looked at me.

I grabbed my straw, and left the place through a flood of hungry New York tourists. I continued my trip down 34th in order to catch up with Erin and her girlfriend at 5th Ave., which is the street the Dyke March was heading down. But she wasn't there yet, so I sat on a bench with two people already there. I broke out a clove, because I wanted them to leave. And wouldn't you know it? They did.

I sat back, stretched my arm across the back of the bench, and awaited Erin's call. Just then, a gaggle of oldish-lady tourists limped up and asked if "If I had been staking out the seats."  "No," I replied. "Not if you don't mind my smoking."  "Oh I don't care," the limper said.  Two of them sat down and one remained standing. "Would you like to sit," I asked her.  "No, thanks, I'll stand for now."

Part of me thought that they were dykes themselves just looking for a break from the Dyke March that had, by now, passed 34th St. But they soon confirmed my mistake. "They shouldn't be able to close traffic down for these....people," the limping lady said.  I leaned forward.

"Dykes?"  She looked at me.

"Yes. I'm sorry."

"Don't come down here tomorrow. It's the gay pride parade. It'll be much worse."  Of course, my mood had something to do with my willingness to engage in a conversation with the snatches. And I didn't care, mostly because I was about to leave.

And also, the rage that had been developing causes me to step out of myself and almost become someone else. With no identity (imagine that fiasco).

"You know, I walk down this street every day on the way to work on Park Ave.," I said, knowing that the words "Park and Ave." have a certain meaning. "And I get stared all the time. This is one weekend where we can all get together and be around each other in a supportive environment and not feel like freaks."

They just looked at me. I continued.

"It's tough being gay and mixed."

"It must be confusing." I didn't say anything in response to this; I should have because she was wrong. Or at least I didn't agree with her.

I'm not confused. People like her are confused. And I know that. I'm just the subject of their confusion. And that's the hard part. That's the part that makes me want to put my clenched fist through plate-glass windows sometimes. And that's the part that makes me really good at holding back tears on the subway that start forming out of frustration and isolation. I asked them if they were from here or were visiting. They were visiting. Had never been to New York. No shit. I asked them if they had seen a show, which is the standard question. And they did. And then they took some interest in me.  "What do you do on Park Ave.?" (See, I knew those words had a certain meaning.)  "I'm an editor. I'm very lucky to have gotten the job right before graduation. I just got my M.A." "Wow, congratulations." Of course I don't talk like that to people unless I'm asked. But I threw as much in there as I could, because they had just completely insulted me and I wanted to give them a piece of who I was. Whether or not it was necessary, who knows or cares. I just did it. And I hope they meet all kinds of other people on the rest of their trip.  The phone rang just then, and I went and met Erin and Megan. We proceeded down 5th Ave. and I met up with a new friend of mine and a better one of Cornelia's. That was fun. I even managed to get a kiss from a girl from WOW Cafe Theatre. They were asking for donations in return for a kiss. I said I had no cash on me, but she asked if I'd like a kiss anyway. Well, I'm not gonna turn that shit down, as hard up as my lips have been. And she was cute, so it was all good. We cheered a little bit and looked at some bare tits. And then I spotted Henry Louis Gates, Jr. I made Therese come over with me to meet him. "Dr. Gates," I said. "Thank you for coming." He shook our hands and then introduced us to his girlfriend. Angela. Ok. Thanks for that. Then it was onto Panchitos for three margaritas. I love their strawberry ones and the wait staff is hot. Ok, I'm biased. I knew our waitress. In the height of my margarita-induced good space, I had a nice meeting in the bathroom with a cool Literature professor from Kentucky. And that's that. Finally it was onto Ginger's with Erin and Megan and a beer. And the rage came back. Gay pride is over. I won't even go into the parade today. It was uneventful. And long. That's how it goes, though, right? I'm just glad Erin and Cornelia were there. And I hung out with a new friend named Amanda. She's my age, kind of. And we're gonna hang out. It's so nice to meet friends willing to call you. Hmmm. She already did call and invite me to Ginger's after the parade.