Diary of a Teenage Atheist

What I did for love (TA at the gay pride parade) December 9, 2007

(Why yes, that post title is a reference to A Chorus Line. Man, I’m cheesy.)

It was the night before the parade, and I approached my mother in the kitchen to ask her again if I could attend the gay pride parade. She, again, refused.

“Please,” I whined, “my gay friends are counting on me to be there!”

After taking a while to think it over, she sighed, “Ask your father.”

So I did, and Dad was like, “It’s up to you,” and hey, a victory is still a victory, even if I didn’t get to use the “they’re being discriminated against, like meee!” speech I had prepared in my mind.

My parents have a certain way of showing their disapproval of my choices, and that’s by leaving me to fend for myself as much as possible. They pulled this little trick on me when I enrolled at Dream College; Mom went through all the red tape to procure an application form and even bargain for an extended deadline for me when it came to College That She Wanted for Me (also known as Smarty-Pants College), but when I insisted on applying for Dream College, they didn’t lift a finger to help. I had to take three-hour-long trips on public transportation (no walk in the park, especially not here) to and from the school for a number of days to complete my application. For the parade, I had to take the whole journey myself as well.

This trip was made significantly more difficult because of what I’d chosen to wear. I’d never been to a gay pride parade before, but I figured that what I wore to the parade made an important statement, so I gay-ed it up some, with a black mini-skirt and rainbow striped knee-high socks. It was a little discomforting to hear the catcalls and lewd remarks as I walked to the bus stop, as well as the odd stares from pedestrians, but hey, it’s for a good cause, isn’t it? Ah, the things I do for love.

I’d actually signed up as a volunteer with the organizers a week beforehand, so I got to be a marshal to the madness, which was really cool. People loved my outfit — some even stopped to take pictures of me! I’m always flattered to hear praise about my sartorial choices from gay men. I remember being at a high-end shoe shop once, where the gay manager approached me to tell me how much he loved my outfit. I happily recounted this to my mother later on.

“Yeah,” she snorted, “it’s no surprise that he liked your outfit — he’s a fag.”

Thanks a lot, Debbie Downer. I just brushed it off, because I love gay people, and my mother is a frumpy dresser, anyway.

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