Queer-e Vol. 1 no. 1 -------------------------------------------------------------------------- 13. Marina Gonzalez [mg32@columbia.edu] Copyright (c) 1995 by Author, all rights reserved. This text may be freely shared among individuals, but it may not be republished in any medium without express written consent from the authors and advance notification of the editors of Queer-e (queer-e-approval@vector.casti.com). --------------------------------------------- Special Spection on *Queer* Politics and Activism: "Notes From the Front" Business As Usual: On Gay Pride Day 1994 It took less than five minutes of standing in the 14th Street and 8th Avenue subway station for reality to get right up in my face and remind me of my vulnerable existence as a gay man in New York. The smoke hadn't even cleared from the fireworks celebrating the end of the 25th anniversary of the Stonewall rebellion. A young man, taller than myself--a teenager, I think--walked onto the subway platform, turned and looked in my direction. When our eyes met and neither one of us would avert our stare--I tried but couldn't look away--I realized then there was going to be trouble. Over and over again, like the chorus to a new rap song (soon to be the hit of the summer) he kept saying this: "What you looking at? What you looking at? Yeah, you. What you looking at?" I couldn't catch the beat. I was tired. Even as he walked towards me all I could think of was how tired I was, how I didn't have the energy to deal with this. Not now, I said to myself. It had been too long of a day, a busy weekend of walking around New York City in total amazement--at hundreds of thousands of lesbians and gay men, an international assortment of homosexuals, taking pride in being who they were: dykes, fags, bulldaggers, drag queens, androgynous nymphs, leathermen, young Republicans, old activist, lipstick lesbians in color coordinated outfits, Greek statues in different degrees of undress. From Russia, Taiwan, Columbia and Topeka, Kansas, gays descended on the city of New York. Some came to participate in the Gay Games, to celebrate the Stonewall rebellion, to focus international attention on human rights violations against homosexuals; some came to rejoice, to remember the dead, to protest for more AIDS treatments and research. Weeks before opening ceremonies of the Gay Games there were news stories, in every newspaper, on the radio and television--ABC, NBC, CBS, FOX, CNN, MTV. How could this young man on the subway platform not know of Gay Pride Day? There were at least a hundred other gay people, who had also rushed to the subway after the fireworks, standing around us, impatiently waiting for the train to arrive. It was close to midnight and work Monday morning awaited most of us. So why did this irate teenager decide now that he didn't want to be looked at by a homosexual (me) when he was surrounded by them (us)? * Since I couldn't afford most of the official events of Stonewall 25, I walked around each night--till two in the morning- -with my lover and friends, looking. (Looking's free and harmless, isn't it?) There were cheap thrills to be had everywhere. An exhibit on the history of New York's lesbian and gay communities, "Becoming Visible," at the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue. Art exhibits at White Columns, Grey Art and the Fischbach Galleries. A dyke march down Fifth Avenue Saturday afternoon. A reenactment of the Stonewall rebellion in front of the infamous bar on Christopher Street. Openly gay and lesbian tourist roamed all over the city. I stood outside of the Lure, a leather bar on West 13th Street for three hours Saturday night, greeting friends and strangers alike. On Sunday, instead of marching in the parade with the permit, I joined ACT-UP and the Radical Fairies, among others, in the unofficial parade up Fifth Avenue. Not that I disagree with the official parade's demand that the United Nations protect the rights of homosexuals worldwide. What I thought unacceptable was for any group to be excluded from the parade because they were judged too radical, too flamboyant, or too immoral. Why should drag queens, floats and music be excluded? Why be as boring as a meeting of the UN Security Council? To evoke an old stereotype, one of our strengths is our sense of style: we can be extravagant and charming, campy and disarming, all at the same time. The official organizing committee had no problem with RuPaul and Liza Minelli performing at the rally in Central Park. When the two parades joined at 57th Street, there were no ugly incidences, no hard feelings. 6200 police officers were on duty at the parades. Unlike that famous clash twenty five years ago--when a bunch of drag queens and dykes on the verge of a nervous breakdown after the death of their patron saint, Judy, decided they couldn't take any more harassment by the police-- there were no reported arrest on this Sunday of Gay Pride. This gay pride parade was much like any other parade. Politicians worked the crowds. The mayor of the city, Rudolph Giuliani, made an appearence and was politely received. The police commissioner, William Bratton, was even present at the beginning of the protest parade. Asked if he would have ever imagined seeing a gathering like this twenty five years ago, Bratton was quoted in the New York Times as saying, "You could certainly say that." On the streets of New York, in the subway stations and on the trains, I experienced no trouble, no homophobic taunts, no hateful looks. Until it was almost all over. Perhaps I was too excited, overwhelmed, exhausted to notice that young man on the subway platform walking towards me, asking over and over again: "What you looking at? You got a problem?" My lover of five years stood beside me, but I didn't look to him for help. Fear hadn't registered in my mind. Maybe I was only thinking about sitting down in a shiny new air-conditioned A train and being whisked to Washington Heights, home, where two very hungry cats awaited our arrival. The alarm in my head finally went off when this guy moved within arm's reach of my body and I could see the wide gaps between his small white teeth, the sprinkle of fine black hair on his jutting chin and upper lip and the reflection of my flaming self in his piercing black eyes. Hate seeped out of all of his pores. Why he should feel so threatened by my looks, my existence, I do not understand. Unlike Commissioner Bratton, who watched the spectacle of homosexuals before him in slight disbelief, this young man was not going to stand for it. He wanted to physically slam me not only back into the closet, but back in history, to a time when gays could be harassed openly and freely. Even by the police. It's really only been twenty five years since the Stonewall rebellion, not much more since the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the birth of me, a gay African American man. I should consider myself lucky to be born in such a time. I do. But I want more. I not only want equal rights for gays and lesbians around the world, legal domestic partnerships for homosexuals with full benefit coverage, and a cure for AIDS, I want the fear of being bashed by a ignorant teenager--by anyone--to be a distant memory. Finally, I did reply to the young man's question. Without stepping back or averting my eyes or raising my voice above the roar of the train entering the station, I said: "Yeah, I'm looking at you. You're looking at me. You got a problem?" The day, and week, of being saturated by gay pride had really given me strength--which is what it should do and why I attend every year. The look of anger on the young man's face immediately turned to one of confusion, then distraction; I think at that time the doors of the train opened. We both rushed to the train, but to different doors and separate cars. About the Author: Marina Gonzalez is a writer living in New York who is presently editing an anthology of short fiction by black gay writers.