Pride

Sometimes I feel like I live in two completely different worlds. Almost like I'm two different people.

The one me is the suburban housewife. The military mom. The private school stay-at-home mother who carries a nice handbag but doesn't dress all that great.

The other me is the writer. The cute, sweet, fat, funny girl with tons of handsome gay cohorts. The fun-loving friend who carries a nice handbag but doesn't dress all that great.

But both of those people have to live inside of me. And sometimes their paths cross.

Going to New York to visit my best friend and attend some Pride events was a big deal for me. I had to take a leap. I had to leave my kids behind with my parents and I had to get over the overwhelming guilt of doing so.

But everything I told myself to get over the guilt only sounded like rationalizing to me in the end. So I spent my time in New York really enjoying myself, but hating myself all the while.

Patrick and I did so much together. Mostly, we walked around different parts of the city, but we were together. Mostly, we drank too much, but we were celebrating and letting go. Mostly we got along great, but we annoyed each other too. I think whenever we spend time together, we push our friendship just a little. Maybe we're testing its bounds. Maybe we're testing it's bonds. Maybe we're seeing where friends end and family begins. Or maybe my guilt and self-hatred just bubbles over too damn much.

I have a crappy memory, so I was glad when Patrick posted a recap of our time together. I mostly remember embarrassing myself. Not because I was drunk (although I did a little of that too). But because I had an audience. I've learned that about myself recently. Give me an audience and I will perform. I'll say things and do things that I'm embarrassed by later. I'm not really sure how I feel about that yet. Let's add it to the guilt and self-loathing pile and deal with it later.

But I do remember holding myself back. A lot. I know that I'll say deep things or ask pointed questions that make people uncomfortable. I've always done that. So when I feel the urge, I try to hold back. And then I lament later on all of the things I should have said.

While Cyndi Lauper was singing True Colors at Broadway Bares, I wanted to let Patrick know that I was crying instead of trying to hide it. I wanted to put my arms around him and whisper in his ear, "I love you." But I didn't.

When I saw Patrick round the last corner at the Pride Run, I wanted to scream and hoot and holler. A quick look at my watch showed that he was on pace to beat his goal. I was so proud of him. But I didn't want to embarrass him. So I just yelled, "Go Patrick!" and scooted off to the finish line to let him know that I was there so he wouldn't go home to his locked apartment without me.

When I finally found him at the finish line, I wanted to hug him and tell him how proud I was. And I did. But I also wanted to tell him how much he inspired me. But I couldn't. I never did. I don't know why.

While we were watching the Pride parade and chatting with a sweet elderly woman, I wanted to grab his hand and tell him how angry it made me that his family would never show him how proud they were of him. If they were even proud at all. I wanted to tell him that his new family would never let him be hurt. But no one can make that promise, no matter how hard they love. So I didn't say anything at all.

And that last night, after watching him work his mojo as a volunteer at a Pier Dance bar, I wanted to tell him how proud I was of him. I wanted to hug him and watch the fireworks and tell him that this is what Pride means to me. That all of the corporate marketing and drugged-up circuit boys and hateful protesters don't take one iota away from the fact that I'm proud of how far he's come in the last 36 years. And that this is the time to celebrate it.

Patrick was in utero during the Stonewall riots. That seems fitting to me somehow.

During Pride I became very, very aware of the fact that your average straight person knows very little of gay history. Oh, most have heard of Matthew Shepherd. Most know that Rock Hudson had AIDS. Most know that there was a time when Hollywood celebrities all wore red ribbons.

But would you believe that I didn't even know that Keith Haring was gay? Never mind that he died of AIDS. I only learned about Stonewall about three years ago. And I only learned about Pride in the last couple of years.

And now I look around at my friends and while I am overwhelmingly proud of every last one of them, I'm left asking myself, "But what can I do?"

My daughter and I finally had a discussion about what the word gay means. And I had to tell her that she would hear kids use the words gay and fag as an insult. And that kills me! It makes me rage!

I need to think more about this.

I need to think more about what to say when people tell fag jokes. I need to think more about what part I can play.

I need to think more about my responsibility.

But while I'm thinking, I'll try to be brave enough to tell my best friend just how proud I am of him. Even if it makes him uncomfortable. And I'll try to find a way to let my husband know that I am proud of his views and attitudes. And I'll try to teach my kids to be proud of who they are.

And I guess while I'm at it I should try to be more proud of myself too. It takes a lot of skill and bravery to merge together my two worlds. I'm not so great at it yet. But I'm trying. And the two women who live inside of me? Well. They have one thing in common.

They love really hard. And that is something to be proud of.