They wore leather vests and do-rags and rode motorcycles that roared visceral belches as the machines lurched forward. They squeezed into tight jeans and flexed their rippling, hairless chests as they waved to cheering parade watchers. They hugged and kissed each other and shimmied down the street to Sister Sledge’s dance hit.
We are family
I got all my sisters with me.
We are family
Get up ev’rybody and sing.
Saturday, June 24, was their day, Pride in Paradise. Loving couples, neighbors and activists celebrated. Countless rainbow flags waved amid the hot dog stands and a Starbucks booth. Politicians marched to show their support of a voter base growing in power.
At the gay pride festival in St. Petersburg, Fla., no one shoved a homemade protest poster in my face for my being straight. No one sentenced me to an afterlife burning in hell for dating a man. No. I was given beads as readily as if I had a girlfriend. It was a grand party, with the only condition being that you must have a good time.
And I did have fun. The dozen strands of beads from that day hang on my closet door, a festival trophy like the overstuffed bear you might carry home from a fair. Instead of a victory in a contest of skill, these plastic sparkling gems remind me of a special, unconditional relationship that I no longer take for granted.
As a citizen, I find myself indignant at Mary Cheney’s apathy for the plight of her fellow lesbians and gay men in this country. As a journalist, I am aware of both sides of the struggle for gay rights. As a consumer, I have soaked up the explicit details that my gay hairdresser enthusiastically described from his favorite part in the Nutcracker performance one Christmas. And as a member of my family, I have a gay sister.
You would never know Patricia is gay. I never suspected in the more than 20 years that I have known her. She is nearly 18 years older than me, and I have always thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world. Topped with the same unruly curls, Patricia shares her hair secrets. On nights out, she borrows my shoes so she can be as cha-chi (our word for being cute and fashionable) as me. We share the same politics, but argue about going to my favorite restaurant every time I visit.
Growing up in a small, rural town, I can’t recall any classmates who were gay. Working at the local newspaper, there were the token homosexuals that homophobic men at cocktails parties would make off-color comments about to secure their manhood. There were also those well-dressed, well-educated, slightly older men who attracted whispers, with a giant question mark floating above their heads. And then, there were married men who went on “cruises” by themselves.
When friends ask me, “Oh, is your sister married?” I force my grimace into a smile and elaborate on how independent she is and how her dachshund – named after me, of course – is her child. Patricia and I have a mutual admiration society, but I am paralyzed when it comes to talking about her sexual orientation.
Maybe it’s the shame that society puts on being gay.
Maybe it’s the shame created by an ex-boyfriend who accused me of being a lesbian during one of those times when he didn’t fight fair.
Maybe it’s the shame my oldest sister, Patricia, feels inside, like there is something wrong with her.
She didn’t come out to me until 2004, just months before I was set to move to Missouri where she lives. We were talking on the telephone as I drove to the gym. After parking, I sat in the car as she told me that the woman I’d met about a year earlier, Michelle (pronounced Michael), was her lover and that they were moving in together.
“I didn’t want to tell you because I thought you wouldn’t love me anymore,” she said.
How could I not love her? She was the woman who I first called mother. She was the indignant teenager who dipped my pacifier in sugar to quiet me while she babysat when my parents were busy or traveling. She was and is my favorite artist, my favorite interior decorator, my favorite singer.
When I was 5 or 6, Patricia was singing at an annual festival near our hometown. Hundreds of people listened as she dedicated Elvis Presley’s “American Trilogy” to our parents. Then, she pulled my sister Joy and me on the stage. Because she was so much older than us, we didn’t get to see her often, and Joy and I relished the opportunity. We took turns flipping the pages of music and holding Patricia’s hand. I loved feeling her stroke my hair in between the verses. After the number was up, I wouldn’t leave the stage and we stayed through the rest of her performance. I wanted to be close to her. I still want to be close to her.
That’s why I went to the Pride Parade. I had seen Patricia’s private world when I stayed weekends with her and Michelle. Now I wanted to see her public world. I wanted to be close to her.
After the parade, I called Patricia.
“Guess where I went this morning,” I said. And then, “I’m cooler than you!”
She laughed. “I can’t wait to tell Michelle,” she said.
We chatted for another hour – my describing the parade, the fabulous beads that matched my outfit and the beautiful, well-groomed men. She recalled her days living in Chicago, where she had attended a similar festival. Sister Sledge was actually on a float.
“They were minus one sister, I think. And RuPaul was on another float – this was before he was big, he was just getting started.”
Maybe one day we can go to St. Petersburg’s pride festival together. We’ll walk around the street looking at all the booths, stopping to pick up the fun freebies. She’ll cover my eyes when she spots the giant poster advertising lubricant, and we’ll share the beads we catch.
After a day in the unforgiving Florida sun, we’ll head over to BayWalk for a sushi dinner. No saki, neither of us likes it. Then we’ll finish off the evening at a karaoke bar.
Patricia will be nervous – she hasn’t had any formal voice training in almost a decade. But after a few beers and my relentless nagging, she’ll get up on stage. She’ll sing some of those old Whitney Houston hits that used to fill her public performance routine. And sitting out in the crowd, I’ll cheer louder than anyone else. After all, that’s what sisters are for.
Back to “West of 34th Street” | Back to “On the Beat” | Back to the Poynter Summer Fellows main page
