It started out with the Transgender March Friday night. I saw a bunch of the usuals, as well as a lot of new faces. This was the first year I haven’t talked, nor volunteered to help. I figured I would just participate this year.
I’m going to be fairly honest here. The Transgender March is a great idea. The people putting it together do a fantastic job. They are out there making it happen for the rest of us that don’t. One of the problems I see, however, is there is a totally different tone between the Dyke March (which I will chat about later) and the Transgender March.
The Dyke March is a celebration. The Transgender March might be, but it seems more like a child barely staying afloat in a pool...grasping for air...fighting to simply keep her head above water. It feels like the organizers are fighting...fighting for their survival...fighting to be heard. It doesn’t feel like they are celebrating...they are out to say, we’re here...fuck you.
They also made political statements. I don’t know...perhaps the Dyke March was once like that, but it no longer is.
The Dyke March was the following night. I hung out with friends and teammates, and just had a good time. The march was slightly longer, and there was way more nudity, but there was far less in the way of feeling like an oppressed group.
For Pride, I helped work a margarita booth, then volunteered at the TGSF booth since they didn’t have enough people to staff both the float, margarita booth, and the TGSF booth. I spent a few hours hanging out there, saying hello to other people related to the transgender world, and handing out flyers I helped put together a few years ago. It was actually pretty cool, and some of the music from the Transgender Stage wasn’t too bad, either.
This is where things get interesting.
I was standing there when a young woman walks up to me. I look at her for a second until I realize she’s the daughter of one of my teammates...teammates that I have never told.
Her mom’s are standing a few steps away.
We say our hello’s.
One of them looks at the Transgender San Francisco sign in the booth I am standing in front of.
They don’t say anything. Neither do I.
We say our good-byes, and they head to watch the Transgender stage. I stay there.
Honestly, I have no idea if they know or not, or if this will make them ask questions. I can only be me.
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