It’s the closest thing to a high holy day for me these days, not that this is saying much.  I don’t have much use for the concept of holiness anymore, with its haughty sense of untouchability, distance and separateness.  Are you apt to swear by “all that is holy”?  Name-dropping of the highest order, IMO.  Perhaps we ought to swear by more verifiable commodities like the greenness of grass, the jerk in accounting or Amazon Prime.™ But I digress…

The (un)holiday to which I refer is, of course, Pride, which also stretches the definition of holiday by extending for the entire month of June.  Practically speaking, though, it amounts (in Minnesota anyway) to a two-day festival of which the most popular event is a roughly half-mile parade down Hennepin Avenue.  Depending on the mood of the LGBT community and the weather, it can be a raucous affair indeed, drawing hundreds of thousands of people.  In 2013, the parade came on the heels of the legalization of same sex marriage.  I remember stepping out into the street at the end, and being one of a somewhat tall disposition, I was able to look far up and down the street, revealing a sea of people that simply dwarfed the crowd of a large stadium, decked out, for the most part in epic rainbow.  Last year, a similar number gathered, yet palpably in the shadow of Orlando.

This year, clouds and wind better suited for late-April provided a tangible reminder of turbulent times.  Stung by the acquittal of a police officer who gunned down a man for calmly complying with instructions to produce a driver’s license, we were forced to reconsider the role of the police our festivities.  Those of us more recent to the festivities have typically experienced  the police as a benign presence at Pride, marching alongside us and dispensing a seemingly limitless supply of smiles.  Still, we recall that Pride started at Stonewall, a direct result of systematic discrimination and police violence, particularly against transwomen of color.  Polite applause greeted a cadre of protesters claiming to represent Black Lives Matter.  Nevertheless, viewers in my immediate vicinity expressed frustration as the parade stalled for more than 60 minutes.

By the time the parade resumed, I was freezing, despite having layered up.  Dykes on Bikes led the procession as always with a roar, producing the usual response of thunderous applause.  The various flags were next.  As the transgender flag passed by, I saw a chance to warm up.  I walked out into the street, grabbed a handle, and marched the rest of the way to Loring Park.

From then on, it was business as usual, as in Target, Delta, Best Buy, health organizations (including those that still deny transgender benefits) and dozens of churches.  I got my 30,000 steps in.  I ate corn dogs and gyros.  I kissed a daschund.  I kept hoping for some great random conversation, but mostly I just made small talk with the various shopkeepers.  Whether there were more present this year or not, police seemed to be ever present, most of them grinning from ear to ear and many with dogs.  And why not?  Pride is always crawling with canines.  I regret that Scooter did not make the trek this year as he has in the past.  Most of all, I reveled in the annual opportunity to walk around and garner no reaction whatsoever.  Sweet anonymity!

I meant to post this summary before June slipped away, but better late than never.  Belated Happy Pride to my readers, who sometime within the past few months hit my pages for the 10,000th time.  I am honored by your clicks and comments.  I do apologize for the slacking pace of this blog.  Chalk it up to a combination of things–at some point one feels that there is very little to say, and at some point the desire to recount my transitional thinking starts to feel like performance art.  I intend to continue writing, but a growing impulse for privacy is competing with my desire to disclose, slowing me down somewhat.  Until next time…