Tyler Yoder's Blog, page 21

Post the Sixty-Second: A Recap of Pride 2013: Part II

I had just gently strolled up to the bus stop, Gentle Reader, when we parted. I boarded, primly clutching my bag, Bucephales, looking for all the world like a little old lady who happens to be a young man.

After a short ride – with far fewer stares than expected – I debarked, and followed the convoy of queers towards the parade. I had never watched one before, you know – in years past, either I haven’t gone to Pride at all, or else I’ve been walking in the parade myself. I didn’t stand there watching for long – the sidewalks were packed. The throng was a solid immobile mass, apart from a narrow trickle of movement, like those under-ocean rivers. I watched a few of the floats drift by, then – aggressive and purposeful – shoved my way to a place where I could breathe more easily. I followed the flow to the festival.

It was early yet, and Uncle G. had packed a flask for me*. Despite the hour, I took a sip, and felt my anxiety reduce a little. I found a shady spot on the grass, where I customarily go to smoke at these events, sprawled and wrote for a bit. Around noon, I decided that I needed to circulate, so I went to the nearest of the beer gardens, and instantly ran into a friend. A. – who models, is ridiculously pretty, and is a lot of fun – had brought Young N., my dear Miss Ward’s little brother, freshly graduated and freshly out of the closet. It was his first Pride.

I saw a number of other friends, throughout the day, including my cousin M.† The strangers were the most fun, though – there was an elderly Cockney lesbian, with flowing dyed-orange hair to the waist, who urged me to open a hat shop. “You can call it Tit for Tat, luv – you know, slang for Hat. Plus then you’d get all the traffic from searches online for tits.”  A little rave-twink – giant bleach blonde hair, like Cloud Strife - clad only in electric blue pants and ball-cap and all of the bracelets – embraced me by surprise. I sent him off to play with my pretend-nephew. Actually, there were several twinks§ who were very friendly, including a pair who wouldn’t stop stroking my mustache. We got a picture together.

Close Enough

At this point – about six – I completely regretted bringing my bag with me, instead of leaving it at Maison Stone. The only useful things I’d brought were pen, paper, and flask. Everything else, while potentially useful, was in the event rather unnecessary. If I’m going to pull the traveling off successfully, I’m going to have to completely rethink my packing strategy. As of today, I still have a bruise on my shoulder and collarbone from the weight of … essentially nothing worthwhile.

At any rate, about six the festival starts breaking down. In years past, accompanied by friends, I’d spent Pride Evening clambering up and down Capitol Hill, hitting various bars, making new friends, finding little lost frat boys, and generally engaging in a mad bacchanal celebrating the diversity of what it means to be human. Typically, we’d be fully exploring sensation, experiencing all the pleasures of the flesh. I didn’t quite expect that much revelry this year – I was on my own, considerably poorer than in the past, and staying in someone else’s home. I still walked up to the Hill, where I’d arranged to see Mr. Darling, at least for a short visit. He was just getting off work, wanted to freshen up, then he’d telephone.

I was dehydrated, on my own in a strange city, and a little drunk. I hardly made it up the hill – which is ridiculously steep. Once in the desired district, I dragged my exhausted self to the nearest establishment, ordering a glass of wine and a pitcher of water. I drained two pitchers and two glasses of wine while I waited to hear from Darling. Not wanting to stay without ordering more, and wanting to save what little money I had left for when we were together, I paid up and found some seating outside a convenient cafe. My make-up had completely melted at this point; while hydrated, I was still sweaty and rank. The sweet little old lady of the morning was definitely approaching cronehood.

Nonetheless, I’m very attached to Darling, even if he does play my insecurities like a harpsichord.

It was only after an extra hour of waiting outside the cafe that I realized that I wasn’t going to hear from him. Rather than navigate the bars and parties of strangers on my own, I went back to Maison Stone.

*********

*Uncle G. is the Proprietor and Distiller of Absinthe Marteau, the most historically accurate Absinthe produced in the United States. It’s very good, as well as well researched. In this case, the research involved drinking liquor that was more than 100 years old.

†After my grandfather passed, Cousin M. – then Cousin T. – came out as transgendered. She’s a social worker involved in mental health care, and I couldn’t be more thrilled or proud of her. She ran a booth at this year’s Pride, that involved the “Sassy Gender Wheel of Destiny.”

§Apparently, there are a lot of people who don’t know what the word twink means. I use it as a descriptor all the time, personally. Rather than letting you Google it for yourself – and let’s face it, there’s a lot of porn involving twinks – here’s what Urban Dictionary has to say:

Twink







An attractive, boyish-looking, young gay man. The stereotypical twink is 18-22, slender with little or no body hair, often blonde, dresses in club wear even at 10:00 AM, and is not particularly intelligent. A twink is the gay answer to the blonde bimbo cheerleader.There are two major theories about the origin of this word, both of which probably have elements of truth to them.a) Twink comes from an acronym T.W.I.N.K. “Teenage, White, Into No Kink.”b) Twink is a shortening of the name for the famous “TWINKIE” snack cake: a tasty, cream-filled snack with no nutritional value. The phallic shape of the “TWINKIE” snack cake should not escape the reader’s attention.

I don’t like going to that club because it’s nothing but a bunch of twinks.




Tagged: Aunt and Uncle Stone, Family Stories That Are Completely True, LGBT, LGBTQIA, Pride, Pride 2013, Pride Celebrations, Queer, QUILTBAG, Seattle, Twink, Two-part Episodes

Post the Sixty-First: A Recap of Pride 2013: Part I

I had such a marvelous weekend, Gentle Reader! In a way, it was designed to be a practice run for European Vagabondage: hours of buses, crashing on someone’s couch, alone in a crowd of strangers, relying on my wits. I did learn a few valuable things from this weekend, and from my viewpoint while doing it, which is precisely what I was hoping for.

I got a lift from Miss P. to the bus, because in the unusual heat we’ve been having, the walk to the bus – about a half hour, under normal circumstances – would have been brutal, laden with luggage. She took me into town, beating the bus I would have been on by at least an hour. Three buses later, I arrived safely in Seattle, if a few hours early. Also, I learned that it is very difficult for me to write while on a bus. A pity, as I’d been counting on those otherwise wasted hours to get some work done.

I wandered some local streets in Aurora, looking for a corner shop or local cafe, some place to put down my bags for a while, use a public restroom, and write. I found no public restroom, but I did find a place to sit for a while: there was a park-like area labeled a “Pedestrian Underpass” connecting three bus lines and six different streets. Page after page flew by, and the people-watching was exquisite – the ninety-year-old man driving a rusting hot-rod with chain-doors and an two-man saw welded to the body; the young lady in vintage teagown, bonnet, and gloves;  two teenagers on their first date.

When the wait was over, I practically sprinted the two blocks to my Aunt and Uncle Stone’s place. I adore staying with Uncle G. and Auntie T.; they’re such kind people, genuine and generous. They live in a house that’s over one hundred years old; when you find the gate concealed in the hedge, you’re transported to another world. A towering apple tree bedecked with hanging moss; the green house; a bronze, blind Justice stares at you when you enter. The circle of herbs for Absinthe is to the left, amidst more statuary; the still and the smoker are to the right.

The interior is equally intricate: the only modern electronica in evidence is Uncle’s laptop, which powers the music coming out from the antique console radio. The tiki bar can be seen through an archway, from any point in the living room; Aleister Crowley’s portrait passes judgement on you when you sit on the overstuffed chaise longue, or possibly on the various taxidermy pieces hither and yon.

Such conversation! Such cocktails! Such camaraderie! The Stones are swell. Auntie T. made up a bed for me on the chaise, and with a bowl of homemade absinthe sorbet – made according to a recipe developed for Gustave Eiffel upon completion of his tower – the sun sets on the trip’s first day.

Alarm, arise, ablutions; coffee and cigarettes. Now, staying with Auntie and Uncle, it’s one thing: we have the same vices, for the most part. I had to consider what I’d do staying with strangers, in the morning – I need a little bit of time to caress my coffee, and to inhale the burnt offerings that bring life. I haven’t quite figured that out. I was successful at taking a whore’s bath with the purpose-packed washcloth in their bathroom, then, as I was there for Pride, got myself dolled up. Auntie hasn’t posted the photos yet, but she was very helpful, lending me glitter from her goody bag from Burlycon, a burlesque convention. Let the words “Hot Pink Glitter Lips” speak for themselves. She took many photos, and you just know that I’m going to share them, when they’re up.

I think that I’ll leave you here for today, Gentle Reader, as I’m strolling down the walk in my ridiculous picture-hat and make-up, parasol poised and ready, heading for the bus in the sun. You may expect Part II on Friday.

Tagged: Absinthe, Aunt and Uncle Stone, Bus Trips, LGBT, LGBTQIA, Pride, Pride 2013, QUILTBAG, Seattle, Two-part Episodes

Post the Sixtieth: How To Do Ally Right – A Primer

I’m going to preface this, Gentle Reader, by noting that this piece is not an attack on anyone. Rather, it’s meant as a sort of gentle sign-post, based on discussions I’ve had with many  QUILTBAG individuals over the years, as well as personal experience. With that in mind: some Do’s and Don’ts of Being an Ally.

Do understand that you haven’t lived it.

Understand that you can’t really understand our experiences. I’m sure you’ve gone through times where people judged you, but that isn’t the same as knowing that who you are could endanger your life or lose you your family, your job, your home.  There are many facets of LGBTQIA lives that are baffling unless directly experienced, and empathy is wonderful – but understand that it’s our own.

Don’t tell me “my gay friend says it’s okay.”

This goes for any discussion, really – your gay friend, your black friend, your trans* friend – any of your friends. No one speaks for an entire community, and even if someone did, they don’t have the magical power to confer the ability to use problematic language or behavior in a socially acceptable way. That’s not how it works.

Do listen, and sometimes, apologize. 

It takes a lot of work to not be an asshole. Like most white gay men, for a long time I ignored lesbians entirely, didn’t believe in bisexuality, had no idea how to respectfully address a Trans* person. People rightfully called me on my shit; I listened. I educated myself. I grew and changed as a person, and I apologize, continually, for the boor I used to be. Sometimes, I still get things wrong, and when I do, I expect to be told what I’ve done wrong and why. It’s up to me to learn what to do instead, and to fix my future behavior.

This is really a good policy to have in general, not just in terms of allyship, by the way.

Don’t talk FOR us – talk WITH us.

I’ve seen this a few times, in the wild – a queer person will be trying to make a point, and no one pays heed until a friendly Ally makes the point for them. Sometimes, the Ally will talk right over what the queer person is trying to say. This very thing is what frustrated me so much about the whole Macklemore debacle; I wasn’t upset at the man himself, and his message is a good one – I was upset that queer artists were saying the same thing and no one cared until Macklemore spoke up. That isn’t his fault – my anger really had nothing to do with him – and it’s sometimes necessary for people in a position of privilege to call attention to important issues! – but it’s frustrating.

Right. Since we’re not all well-loved musicians, what can we do? When given the opportunity, use your voice to give a queer person a chance to speak up. This isn’t to say that you can’t speak up for us! Just let us speak up, too.

Do understand that LGBTQIA anger can be legitimate.

And ninety percent of the time it isn’t being directed at you, anyway. A few weeks ago, on my birthday, I was out with some friends at the Mix. A bachelorette party trooped in, and I was at the point in my cups where I was disproportionately vexed by it. As far as I could suss, they were straight girls, who were all “I LOVE the gays!” and “Do you want to dance? Of course you do! You’re Gay!” and that sort of thing. I am not a fashion accessory, I am not a stereotype, and I am not a pet. So, um,

NOPE.

So I started confiding to anyone who would listen that I hate it when straight people come to gay bars. Including to a lot of my straight friends, who were there for my birthday, and who come to the Mix all the time, with and without me – they’re regulars, for heaven’s sake. Not the most diplomatic thing I could have done, but I was pissed (and I was also pissed) and my anger that with the whole heteronormative world to choose from, they had to invade my little enclave spilled out. There are very few safe spaces for LGBTQIA folks, and a world full of straight spaces, and I felt invaded. It was legitimate; it was not directed at my friends.

Do support equality for all!

And we thank you for your support! We don’t have to all be the same to be treated equally by society, regardless of any of the many differences we have, and you recognize that, and that’s fantastic! There are so many out there who don’t realize this, and they tend to be full of hate, and history will prove them to be just great big jerks.

Don’t expect constant praise for being supportive.

Wait – hear me out! Yes, we appreciate that you’re standing with us, and that you don’t necessarily have to. You remember those great big jerks? You’re not one of them. But if you expect praise for being a decent human being, you may need to examine your reasons for calling yourself an ally.

Don’t forget that we’re all in this together.

We appreciate your allyship. We really do. Sometimes, we disagree, and that’s okay. Sometimes, I’m scared to talk about my experiences because I’m going to piss off a lot of allies. Sometimes, allies feel like they can’t say anything at all without riling up this bitter, angry queen.  Sometimes, we all need to just relax, because we’re all fighting for the same thing.

Tagged: Allies, Ally Cookies, Do's and Don'ts of being an ally, GSA, how not to be a gay ally, How to be a gay ally, LGBT, LGBTQIA, Pride Month, Queer Allies, QUILTBAG, Straight Allies

Poetic Interlude LXI

Carrying on with our Queer Poets, we have next Mary Oliver*, Gentle Reader.

I know I’ve posted this piece of hers before, because it’s my favorite, but it’s well worth re-reading.

Wild Geese
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes, 
over the prairies and the deep trees, 
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, 
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, 
the world offers itself to your imagination, 
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting-
over and over announcing your place
In the family of things. 
 

*********

* Mary Oliver is well-known for her poetry, but less known for her queer identity – which makes sense, as she is pretty protective of her privacy, as is her right. She, and her partner of over 40 years, Molly Malone Cook, are still family, and I’m proud to celebrate her today.

This poem is used without permission, but please don’t sue me.

Tagged: LGBT, Mary Oliver, Poetic Interludes, QUILTBAG Poetry, Wild Geese

Post the Fifty-Ninth: Songs With Queer Themes

I’ve been shoving QUILTBAG history down your throat pretty heavily this week, Gentle Reader, and I intend to continue next week. Why don’t we take a break, and kick off the weekend with some music?

Last year, I shared some of my favorite explicitly queer music with you, and Huffington Post put out a decent, crowd-fueled list of Pride Anthems last year – they weren’t all exactly queer, but they were campy, up-beat, and fun at least. The same goes for Australia’s list of the 50 Gayest Songs Of All Time, – actually,  I don’t think actually it includes any specifically QUILTBAG songs at all, but, you know. CAMPY. FUN.

Speaking of Campy and Fun, I’m just going to leave this right here.

Ok2bGay by Tomboy

This… this video, you guys. Oh, my stars. Enjoy.

“No straight people were harmed during the production of this music video.” Fair enough! Also, I know I’m exposing myself to your rightful judgement, but I would wear approximately 80% of the outfits displayed. You’re welcome.

Let’s, um, balance that out with something more sedate, alright?

A Limp Wrist and a Steady Hand by My Gay Banjo

These guys. If you’re not familiar with these guys – just listen. Now. I’ll wait.

They are adorable, they are heartfelt, they are guileless and genuine. Yes, please. Except for the bit about bathwater.

Also they do an excellent cover of Jolene.

All-American Boy by Steve Grand

I have BEEN THERE, Steve Grand. We’ve all been there. And it hurts.

I Don’t Do Boys, by Elektra

Exactly what it says on the tin. You’re welcome, ladies.

I Really Wanted You and Fem In A Black Leather Jacket by the Pansy Division.

I know I posted two songs by the Pansy Division last year, too. That’s because I love them. It was ridiculously difficult to pick just one of their songs for your listening pleasure, so when I narrowed it down to just these two? It was a miracle.

Traveling back in time to 1926, we find

Masculine Women and Feminine Men, performed by the Six Jumping Jacks

It’s hard to track down a recording of this, kids, and harder still to find the version that I like. The Irving Kaufman one that shows up in the first twenty search results just doesn’t sit right. This, though? The intonation seems more like a baffled celebration of the changes being made in the world, and I can get right behind that.

And because I want to end with something fun,

Billy Brown, by Mika

Have better, or more recent, queer music – or a particular favorite I skipped over? Let me know in the comments!

 

 

 

Tagged: Elektra, Gay Pride, Gay Songs, LGBT Pride, LGBT Songs, Masculine Women and Feminine Men, Mika, My Gay Banjo, Pansy Division, Pride Month, Pride Songs, Queer Songs, Steve Grand, TomBoy

Post the Fifty-Eighth: The Stonewall Riots

We are the Stonewall Girls

We wear our hair in curls

We wear no underwear

We show our pubic hair!

We wear our dungarees

Above our nelly knees!

As revolutionary anthems go, Gentle Reader, it’s not exactly La Marseillaise, but it’s genuine. It arose spontaneously one fateful night, during a routine police raid of the Stonewall Inn. And that’s the night that the Gay Rights Movement really took off. That’s why Pride’s in June – that’s what it’s about. A bunch of screaming queens were fed up with the daily police brutality, and started throwing high heels and cocktails*. They fought back.

There had been other riots before, like the one at Compton’s Cafeteria in San Fran, led by the trans* community back in ’66. Why didn’t they set off the movement? There isn’t a lot of information or evidence left, but personally? I think that the Mattachine Society† probably suppressed it. I also think that a lot of smaller uprisings had to occur before there was enough momentum for the crisis to come to a head, and burst out right into the public eye.

June 28th, 1969, the time was finally right. Silvia Rivera, Marsha P. Johnson, and others who would go on to found S.T.A.R. (the Street Transvestite Action Revolutionaries‡) - K. Stormé DeLarverie, a lesbian and drag king - so many veterans, so many revolutionaries, so many activists.  It wasn’t the respectable assimilationists, in their ties and skirts, who caused change. It was the freaks, the rebels, those who didn’t fit in the box or who flat-out refused.

NOPE

The rebellion continued for four days. There were fires in the streets, substantial police brutality, and bold warriors resisting. The bar was torched. Police were injured. Prisoners escaped the paddy-wagon. All was in chaos, and the newspapers were enthralled.

Within months, the Gay Liberation Front had chapters in cities across America, and the fight for our QUILTBAG civil rights had begun.

One year later, the Christopher Street Liberation Day Parade was held. It was the first Gay Pride parade in the country.

And that’s why Pride’s in June, children. We’re remembering our history, celebrating our on-going fight for equality, and ensuring that we’re seen and heard. We’re here, we’re queer, and we’re not going away. We’re nothing like you – we’re freaks and deviants and above all, Other. We’re exactly like you – we’re loving and kind and above all, Human.

We are your worst nightmare, and we are your best fantasy, and we commemorate that fact each June.

*********

*Molotov cocktails. Lord, I’m droll.

†The Mattachine (Matt-uh-sheen) Society will get its own post this month. Despite being one of the earliest pro-gay (or, in the parlance of the time, “Homophile”) organizations in the States, they abandoned their original radical roots for a more assimilationist thrust. They did some good work, but, well -

Mattachine’s message during the Stonewall Rebellion.

‡S.T.A.R. was exactly what it said on the tin. The Street Transvestite Action Revolutionaries provided housing and help to a number of street kids, hustlers, and homeless queer youth. They also continually fought for queer rights. More on them will be in a forthcoming post!

 

Tagged: Christopher Street Liberation Day, Gay Pride, Gay Pride History, June, June 28 1969, LGBT, Mattachine Society, Origins of Pride, Pride Parade Origins, Queer, Queer Pride, QUILTBAG, Stonewall Inn, Stonewall Rebellion, Street Transvestite Action Revolutionaries

Post the Fifty-Seventh: In Which We Go Over The Rainbow

Gentle Reader! It’s June! And we all* know what that means – Pride. That’s right, Gay Pride season is upon us – depending on your location, it doesn’t really end until September, but June is Pride’s heart and backbone. To celebrate, every post this June will have a queer theme, including the Poetic Interludes!

It’s commonly known that we filthy queers stole the Rainbow from Noah and made it serve our nefarious purposes.  That is, it’s used internationally as a symbol indicating safe LGBTQIA spaces, QUILTBAG pride, etc. etc. But why a rainbow? What do the colors stand for? What are all these other flags that one sometimes sees during pride and in sex shops?

I’m so glad you asked, Gentle Reader.

We’ll begin with the grand old rainbow flag, go over the colors, and then hit the more common flags you might see this pride season.

This is going to be a LONG post, kids. Strap in tight!

The RAINBOW Flag

A quick history: In 1978, Gilbert Baker designed the first rainbow flag for an early version of San Francisco’s pride parade. Sources differ as to his inspiration; some claim it’s a Judy Garland reference, closely tied to the Stonewall Riots† which were a few days after her death. It’s also been tied to the Hippie movement, a Flag Of All Races, and Allen Ginsburg. What is firmly known is that the rainbow itself shows the spectrum of colors, and therefore represents the spectra of sexuality and gender. Also? Baker attributed each color a specific meaning. Also also? His flag had eight stripes.

Hot Pink stood for Sexuality.

Red stood for Life.

Orange was for Healing.

Yellow was for Sunlight.

Green represented Nature.

Turquoise symbolized Magic, and Art.

Indigo/Blue was for Serenity and Harmony, and

Violet stood for Spirit.

Hot Pink was dropped late in ’78 because hot pink fabric was apparently hard to come by, and Turquoise was dropped in ’79 because when the flags were hung from street lamps, it was hidden by the posts or something.  But the common six-stripe flag is still with us today! Mile-Long-Flags are passed from Pride Event to Pride Event, and usually commemorate something important when they show up. And the Rainbow flag is seen everywhere! So what about all those other flags? What do they mean?

Hours of research went into this, and as ever, if I get something wrong, please don’t hesitate to correct me, to educate me. That’s what the comments are for, darlings.

The Labrys Flag

I’ve never actually seen this one in the wild, but I’ve read about it. It’s for Lesbians! Because they’ll cut a bitch. It originates in the matriarchal societies of ancient Crete, I guess. The black triangle refers to the symbol the Nazis would tattoo on Lesbians and other “Work-Shy” individuals, like the Romani, much like the pink triangle they’d tattoo on gay men. The purple field is there because it’s mandated that all queers like purple purple is a royal color and queers are royalty because purple and lavender are commonly accepted queer colors, from mixing masculine red and feminine blue.

The Bisexual Flag

The Bisexual Pride Flag was designed in ’98, as a way of raising bisexual awareness, as bisexuals in committed relationships fade into the gay world or the straight world. The colors came from an existing bisexual symbol -

- and the pink represents same-sex attraction, the blue represents opposite-sex attraction, while the lavender represents the overlap/gradation between them.

The Pansexual Flag

This one’s of relatively recent vintage. Pansexuality is distinct from bisexuality in that it acknowledges attraction to non-binary genders, and, from what I understand‡, is more about attraction to people based on who they are than what they are. The rundown: The flag dates to 2010; pink refers to those who identify as female, regardless of the plumbing, blue refers to those who identify as male, with the same caveat, and yellow is for those outside the binary§.

The Asexual Flag

Asexuality gets a little complicated, kids, and I can’t explain the colors without giving you a lot of extra vocabulary terms. This post is already overlong, and we still have a lot to get through. Asexuality brings up the excellent point of romantic spectra being different from sexual spectra, though, which I have intimate, long-standing, first-hand experience with. In fact, I don’t think I’ve had a relationship where the sexual and romantic spectrums were aligned. At any rate, I’m going to give you a link to AVEN, the Asexuality Visibility and Education Network, because otherwise I’ll be in way over my head.  They should also be able to explain the separate Demisexual Flag. Demisexuals only experience sexual attraction after a strong emotional connection has been established, and there is very little information on their flag. I can only surmise that the colors are taken from the Asexual flag.

There’s also Aromanticism, Lithromanticism, and a slew of others which seem to be under the Asexual banner.

The Transgender Flag

This is also the Transsexual flag, because there are still folks who identify as Transsexuals. The term, while outdated, refers to Trans* individuals who have gone through gender-reassignment surgery.

AT ANY RATE, this is only the most prominent of the Trans* flags; there are evidently several designs extant. This one was designed back in ’99 by Monica Helms, a transgender woman.  She says “The stripes at the top and bottom are light blue, the traditional color for baby boys. The stripes next to them are pink, the traditional color for baby girls. The stripe in the middle is white, for those who are intersex, transitioning or consider themselves having a neutral or undefined gender. The pattern is such that no matter which way you fly it, it is always correct, signifying us finding correctness in our lives.” So there’s that. It has also been suggested that white is strictly for those who are transitioning.

The InterSex Flag

This flag is woefully late to the party, Gentle Reader. It was designed by the Organisation Intersex International Australia and they endeavoured to create a flag “that is not derivative, but is yet firmly grounded in meaning”. The colors were chosen specifically because they are not traditionally gendered, and the organisation describes yellow and purple as the “hermaphrodite” colors. I am absolutely certain that intersex individuals of my acquaintance would take offence to the language they use, which is why I made doubly certain to use quotation marks.

The Genderqueer and Genderfluid Flags

  

Genderqueer’s a bit of a blanket term, I’m afraid. It covers, basically, anyone who doesn’t strictly identify as a man or as a woman – and there are a lot of identities out there, so Genderqueer graciously welcomes them allß. Lavender is a mix of the traditional gendered colors, as well as representing queerness itself. The white stripe is for those who find themselves tumbling outside the gender binary entirely into the white space outside it. The green, which is officially described as chartreuse, is the inversion of lavender in the color wheel, and is meant to represent those who identify as NEITHER male nor female – where lavender indicates those who identify as BOTH. Or a mix. YMMV, essentially. Here is an excellent glossary regarding genderqueer terms.

Genderfluid is exactly what it says on the tin. Some days a genderfluid individual will identify as male, other days as female, other days as neither or both. The flag, though, means this: The pink at top represents femininity, the blue at bottom represents masculinity, and the blurred lines between represent the blurred lines between.

The Bear Flag and the Lipstick Lesbian Flag

Bears are those gay men who are a little bit heavier, little bit older, and especially a little bit hairier. There are variations, like cubs, who are hairy, heavy, and young, and otters, who are hairy, slim, and young, ad infinitum. They’re all bears, as far as I’m concerned. Here is their flag:

It refers to the colors of bear fur world wide. And also apparently to the range of human skin/hair tones. Hooray! Bears are mostly harmless, though, unless you’re a twink or at the wrong bar.

Lipstick lesbians are traditionally the ones that your mother is confused by. “She’s so pretty,” Ma will say, “And she’s so delicate!” Just because a lady enjoys being a girly-girl doesn’t mean she’s not attracted to other women. Their flag invokes traditional feminine colors and a great big kiss.

The Fetish Ones

Oh, dear. I’m not even going to go here. There’s a lot of them? And I can’t keep up? They all have their own subculture, and usually a float in the big-city Pride Parade, and you’ll definitely see their various flags in sex-shops. We all have our kinks, you know? And for some, they’re a huge part of their identity. And that’s okay!  Here are some, but there are a lot of others out there, and I’m not even going to try to provide a context, because I am way out of my depth.

BDSM Rights

Leather

Master/Slave

Rubber

Puppy Play

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*Not all. I don’t expect everyone the straight people to know about Pride automatically without thinking about it. JUNE IS PRIDE, Y’ALL. It’s important!

†You don’t know the Stonewall Riots? For Heaven’s Sake, Gentle Reader! Don’t worry, child. I will educate you. Tune in Wednesday.

‡I’m a cisgender white gay man. My understanding is moving along, but I don’t know everything. I figure that if we all help educate one another we’ll all be better people. Also? There aren’t a lot of resources out there to help educate oneself. I’m hoping to help with that, but I need to be educated myself in order, you know, to not be a dick about things.

§This reminds me of a poem I recently found on Tumblr. Ahem:

Roses are Red

Gender’s performative;

Stop being so

Heteronormative.

ßGenderqueer is evidently the Hufflepuff of Gender Identity.

Tagged: Asexual, Asexual Flag, Bear Flar, Bisexual Flag, Fetish Flags, Gay Pride, Gay Pride Flag, Genderfluid, Genderfluid Flag, Genderqueer, Intersex Flag, Labrys Flag, Lesbian Pride Flag, LGBT, LGBTQIA, Lipstick Lesbian Flag, Pansexual Flag, Pride, Pride Flags, Queer Pride, Queer Pride Flags, QUILTBAG, Rainbow, Rainbow Flag, Transgender Flag

Poetic Interlude LX

Today is the first of June, Gentle Reader – and we all know what that means. PRIDE MONTH IS HERE! Every post this month - every post – will relate to something queer.

For today’s Poetic Interlude,  how about a little Allen Ginsburg*?

Footnote to Howl

Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!
The world is holy! The soul is holy! The skin is holy! The nose is holy! The tongue and cock and hand and asshole holy!
Everything is holy! everybody’s holy! everywhere is holy! everyday is in eternity! Everyman’s an angel!
The bum’s as holy as the seraphim! the madman is holy as you my soul are holy!
The typewriter is holy the poem is holy the voice is holy the hearers are holy the ecstasy is holy!
Holy Peter holy Allen holy Solomon holy Lucien holy Kerouac holy Huncke holy Burroughs holy Cassady holy the unknown buggered and suffering beggars holy the hideous human angels!
Holy my mother in the insane asylum! Holy the cocks of the grandfathers of Kansas!
Holy the groaning saxophone! Holy the bop apocalypse! Holy the jazzbands marijuana hipsters peace peyote pipes & drums!
Holy the solitudes of skyscrapers and pavements! Holy the cafeterias filled with the millions! Holy the mysterious rivers of tears under the streets!
Holy the lone juggernaut! Holy the vast lamb of the middleclass! Holy the crazy shepherds of rebellion! Who digs Los Angeles IS Los Angeles!
Holy New York Holy San Francisco Holy Peoria & Seattle Holy Paris Holy Tangiers Holy Moscow Holy Istanbul!
Holy time in eternity holy eternity in time holy the clocks in space holy the fourth dimension holy the fifth International holy the Angel in Moloch!
Holy the sea holy the desert holy the railroad holy the locomotive holy the visions holy the hallucinations holy the miracles holy the eyeball holy the abyss!
Holy forgiveness! mercy! charity! faith! Holy! Ours! bodies! suffering! magnanimity!
Holy the supernatural extra brilliant intelligent kindness of the soul!

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* Wait, do you seriously not know who Allen Ginsburg is? *sigh* Okay. Here’s a brief rundown:

He wrote Howl, which was banned for obscenity, in 1956. He helped found the Beat movement in poetry, art, and culture – as well as counterculture. He was briefly locked up because he plead insanity in court. He did a lot of drugs. He was open about being ‘homosexual’ long, long, before it was socially acceptable. He was a firebrand, a fighter, a guiding light.

Hell, there’s too much Ginsberg lore for me to go into. Take a look – it’s all over the place. Yo.

Oh, also this poem is used without permission and I really don’t want to be sued, please.

Tagged: Allen Ginsberg, Gay Pride, LGBT, Poetic Interludes, QUILTBAG Poetry, Sexuality

Post the Seventy-Fifth: In Which There Is A Haunted Castle

It’s the last re-run, Gentle Reader. June has been packed full of fresh-faced queer content for your Pride-Month Pleasure. While I continue working on the move(s) and preparing June’s Special Surprise, please enjoy my personal favorite post: In Which There Is A Haunted Castle.

Some years after my father passed away, Gentle Reader, my mother finally decided that she was ready to scatter his ashes. He had always dreamed of being a mountain man, and there was a spot in the mountains where he and my uncle had used to go hunting. Thus it was that we set out for Port Townsend, where that branch of the family lives, to scatter him. When we arrived, it turned out that we couldn’t get access; the roads and trails were still closed for the winter. Port Townsend is several hours from home, for us; we decided to stay the night, and visit the relatives.

In this case, of course, that didn’t mean stay with them. My aunt and cousins were living in a beautiful, tiny house – crazy pinks and sea-foam greens and oranges, inside and out, with ceilings only barely six-foot high, and while cozy, there are larger studio apartments. My uncle was unavailable, as well, and even if he were available, he was living with his twenty-six year old ex-girlfriend, her husband, and a couple of babies. Maman and I noticed the castle on the hill, laughed, and discovered that it was a hotel.

They’ve expanded the place since this photo

Not only was Manresa Castle a hotel, it was purportedly haunted. There was some girl who thought that her fiance was lost at sea, so she committed suicide, and a priest hanged himself in one of the towers. I stopped reading the brochure at that point, because we were about to meet Auntie L. and my cousins for cocktails in the castle’s lounge. Which looks like this:

Sorry, it was the best photo I could get from the Internet.

The cousins come and go quickly, but promise to meet up with us later on, downtown: one of them has a gig with his fairly successful band, and the other has to pick his girlfriend up from work. My aunt and her best friend – who is gay, incidentally, and with whom she was trying to set me up – stay, and we’re having quite a pleasant time of it.  Well, we were, but after six Manhattans, Maman is a little less charming than usual. Just about exactly when I was about to disappear for a stroll with my aunt’s friend, Maman falls off of her bar stool, ensuring that she gets cut off – especially when she tried to blame the ghosts.

It’s rather possible that this entire blog is about nothing but ghosts, judging by how often I get to use this picture.

While I was carrying my drunk mother up three flights of stairs, in a considerable hurry because her bad hip was acting up†, she was threatening to vomit, and she was still talking about how the ghosts were responsible, the friend slipped away himself. He did not leave contact information; as I later discovered, my mother was a little too intense for him.

Auntie L. was still waiting for me; it had been among my fondest desires to get right royally plastered with my eccentric, bohemian, English, artist aunt, and she was determined not to disappoint. Neither of us drive, but that’s for the best, considering our plans; no matter. My aunt determinedly hit on an elderly lesbian couple until they agreed to give us a lift down to the under-city.

Did I mention that there’s an under-city in Port Townsend? On this occasion we didn’t go exploring it, but it exists, and there’s a bar in one of the safer bits of it, where there was some sort of festival‡ going on. That’s how we gave those kindly lesbians the slip – we got separated from them in the crowd, and I had to stick close to Auntie L.’s heels or get lost in the press. After a brief stop at her studio, we met my other cousin and his girlfriend at a different bar, where Auntie L. confronted me on my sex life. She’s very sex-positive – and so am I, where other people are concerned. She kept pressing the issue, and plying me with gin, until she got to the bottom of the matter. It was, briefly, ugly – I am haunted by aspects of my past, if you will. She packed it in for the evening, and my cousin, his girlfriend, and I, hit the only remaining bar in Port Townsend, having a wonderful time.

A cab ride home, slipping into the hotel room (not quite silently – as Maman said, “If it’s the ghost, just leave me alone!”), and bed. In the morning, Maman was chock full of talk about the ghost waking her in her sleep, and how, evidently, the ghost had vomited in her bed before she’d reached it. We tipped heavily, and explained about the ghost-vomit. The staff was not amused.

Piling into her little red VW convertible, Dottie, we turned down my aunt’s breakfast invitation, both feeling a little haunted by our actions of the night before. As soon as we were out of town, after stopping for Bloody Marys, we laughed until we were exorcised, absolved.

**********

† I can’t imagine why, at that point, her hip would have been acting up.

‡ The festival was where my cousin was playing in his band.

Tagged: Angry Ghosts!, Betrunken Wutend Geist, Family Stories That Are Completely True, Funerals, Haunted Castles, Maman, Port Townsend, Vomit

Post the Fifty-Sixth: In Which There Is A Drunk Man With A Puppet, and Lazarus Darkwinter

I apologize for yet another re-run, Gentle Reader. I promise you that June will be glorious  -well, if you’re interested in all things Queer – and will also contain a Secret Surprise! For now, I beg your pardon, but double-moving is cutting into my writing time; please enjoy this madcap little foray from last May.

Hello, Gentle Reader. Today’s post refers to the events of last weekend. Ms. Capere thought it might be fun to get together our little clique from high-school together while Miss Ward was in town. With the addition of Miss Taylor, a mutual friend that we’ve known for years, and who is also fascinating (and moving to the same general area that Miss Ward is moving to), we had a decent little party.

Ms. Capere picked me up from my home early that afternoon. We stopped for coffee, and ran into a childhood friend of hers – though I don’t see Ms. Capere that often, I was with her the last time she ran into H., about a year and a half ago at the Ethnic Festival in Tacoma. It seemed an auspicious and surprising start to the day’s adventures.

We continued on to Ms. Capere’s new home for her housewarming barbecue, where Miss Taylor was waiting for us. There were a number of equally charming other guests, many of whom I’ve known for ages. It was altogether a lovely afternoon; the brand-new baby chicks peeping in their crate, the sun lazing about in a golden stupor, an improvised game upon the lawn. Eventually, the bulk of the guests left, and it was time to prettify ourselves for the goth club that Ms. Capere and I both belong to.

While we were dolling up, L, Ms. Capere’s young man, brought out his stove-top still; he was running water to check the lines for leaks. I bounced back and forth between the two areas, once I was dressed; both make-up and distillery fascinate me. I suggested that Miss Taylor use eyelash glue to create feather-eyelashes, as her boa was moulting, but it was not to be.

Once primped, we clambered into Ms. Capere’s car, and set out – but first, petrol. Initially, Miss Taylor and I were going to wait in the car, but Ms. Capere was not about to go into the shop looking ridiculous alone. Off we went, straight into a drunken hobo with a handpuppet. Seeing us, he commented that it had been many years since he’d seen Cabaret.

Heads high, we marched past him, looking for what we were calling a Lady Rockstar* so that Capere could keep her dancin’ groove up all night long. The hobo followed us all over the shop, and finally, we got him to take photos of us. Well, actually his sock puppet dog, Sparky, took pictures of us, but no matter. Fueled up, we hit the road.

After meowing and clucking out some ’80′s songs, we arrived at our goth club, and met with Mr. C.W.L. Darling, Miss Ward, and Darling’s young man, S. After our guests got the introductory spiel, we headed out. As I don’t dance and have a bad leg, I grabbed a drink and a table, and thankfully lit up a cigarette†. The others trooped out to the dance floor, where this played:

We stepped outside, for some air, and Miss Ward waxed rhapsodical about the differences in America since she’d left on her travels, a few years ago.  We all chattered and revived ancient jokes, and were in high spirits. Various goths glared; we were far too cheerful for their club. When a distinguished gentleman of middle years approached our apparent receiving line (we were flanking the door), Miss Ward offered him a high-five. As he’d been distracted briefly by an apparent mutual friend (one of Ms. Capere’s acquaintance), he didn’t see, and Ward held her hand out, waiting, for at least five minutes. However, it sparked a conversation between them, as she is a tall, beautiful, redhead, and Lazarus Darkwinter claimed the pleasure of a later dance with our dear Miss Ward.

Darling isn’t much for the goth scene, and his boyfriend was sticking to his side like a lamprey. I’d spent my entire drinks budget, so when Darling proposed that we fellas leave and head to his apartment, I agreed. The girls were glad to stay – Ward had an appointment with Darkwinter, after all – and meet us later at the apartment. We set off.

Bear in mind that I’m hobbling the several blocks to Darling’s, and that I’ve been struggling with my head quite a lot lately. Further, bear in mind that Darling is my oldest friend; we’ve known each other since we were five. We don’t see one another that often, but usually things go just swimmingly.

On this occasion, I was absolutely awkward. I babbled about all kinds of bizarre shit that no one really cares about; he declared my hair to be an emergency and cut it for me‡. I was trembling from anxiety. Um.

We made strange, stilted conversation until the ladies arrived. Capere’s friend (who knew Lord Darkwinter) had invited us to a bonfire in his yard, set up in an old barbecue. He poured red wine for us, and we sat around the fire chatting comfortably until past three a.m. Realizing this, we jumped back into the car and began the long, long drive back into Tacoma, just beating the sun into town.

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*Apparently RockStar, the brand of energy drink, came out with a variety in hot pink that comes with a tiny straw so that you don’t muss your make-up. Um. Yay?

† It’s a private club, so one can smoke inside. This bothers everyone, and delights me.

‡Darling cuts hair. He used to cut hair naked, but I think that he stopped. At any rate, my hair had needed to be cut for ages, and it really was sort of an emergency.

 

Tagged: Drunk Men With Puppets, Goth Clubs, Lazarus Darkwinter, Miss Ward, Mr. Darling, Ms. Capere, Old Friends, Rambling Nonsense, Seattle, The Mercury