The first time I became politically active, I was barely 18. While inquiring about college sponsorship, I stumbled and fell into a closeted (his choice) relationship with a Senate official. (It’s in the book.) Closeted sex scandal notwithstanding, it afforded me a clandestine view of how our government “worked.” Suffice it to say, even after being offered the most lucrative sugar-daddy deal to date, instead I chose freedom, and fled the situation for a less lavish existence: putting myself through school and making my home at the YMCA in New York City.
Several months later, during one of Senate- Official’s visits to New York—me now playing the role of starving art student/twink—following a play one afternoon, he took me to the Plaza Hotel for tea. While gorging myself on finger sandwiches, I learned I’d been replaced by an underage high school boy. With crumbs still stuck to my lips, I emoted a few words of disgust and left in a huff, concluding that all things political reeked of dishonesty.
I didn’t vote for 20 years. Considering what I’d overheard and observed—the underbelly (literally) of Capitol Hill—it all felt like a horrible waste of time. “Why bother? They’re all corrupt,” I thought, and focused on fashion instead.
Thus, I became complacent about my rights. Then came the Bush administration. No longer able to look the other way, I came out of my political closet. I finally got involved. I began to vote. And then, with the implausible passing of Prop. 8, like so many others, I had to do something more and took to the streets in protest. Several marches after the election, along came the downtown protest. Thus, came the protest planning: the conceiving and creating of bigger, bolder signage, the synchronizing with fellow protestor-friends, and— like all things Angeleno—figuring out the commute.
“So what are we gonna do about getting downtown?” I asked my friend Joey, while hot-gluing a canvas stretcher to the back of my massive sign.
“Take the bus.”
“You’re kidding. Right?”
“No,” he casually answered.
“Why? What’s wrong with the bus? It’ll be fun—part of the adventure. Part of the experience.”
There are v-e-r-y few things I can still qualify for as a virgin. But taking the bus in Los Angeles would be one of them. So after we hung up the phone, I got to thinking about riding the bus, about venturing downtown, to another neighborhood, a much less-gay neighborhood. As I glittered the words on my militant sign—”2-4-6-h8te, who are YOU to discriminate?”—visions of altercations with yes-on-Prop.-8-folk began to swim through my head. There is NO way to conceal this massive, sparkly sign, and NO way to take a backseat to my view of the political climate— my rights, I thought.
That got me thinking about the segregation that transpired during my years of public high school: students from less-privileged neighborhoods were bused into my nearly all-white, upper-middle-class high school, students that would eventually become my friends. And that lead to thoughts of Senate-Official and his request to live a hidden life, to maintain a covert relationship. Then of my choice to do the right thing, opt for my freedom versus taking the easy way out. And e-v-e-n-t-u-a-l-l-y, while adding the finishing touches to my sign, I got back to taking my rights on the bus—which lead to thoughts of activist/icon Rosa Parks
It was 53 years ago this month on a bus in Montgomery, Ala., that Rosa Parks refused to obey a driver’s order to give up her seat to a white passenger. Her simple act of resistance created the modern Civil Rights Movement. Period. (I looked it up.)
Now here’s the part where I want to tell you I took the bus and held my massive, glittery sign proudly in front of me, that mayhem ensued and I beat the shit out of everyone who f--ked with me. Not.
Instead, I went with another friend— who willingly drove. The trip was effortless. We got to the rally 15 minutes early and parked across the street. His car had air conditioning, which kept us and our massive, glittery signs hermetically sealed until arrival. The hardest part of the morning-into-afternoon demonstration was the 90-something-degree weather, blanketed by smokey skies (the residue from the raging fires).
Yet surrounded by thousands of people I’d n-e-v-e-r seen, even though I was wilting a little, I’d never felt stronger about my ever-emerging political voice. And while huddled under a massive tree listening to speeches, I realized that, even though I’d given up the daddy-deal of a lifetime for my independence, even though I thought— emphasis on thought—I’d chosen freedom, for years, I’d actually allowed Senate-Official to influence me anyway, letting his covert, selfloathing behavior over-shadow my complete emancipation, my feelings of total equality.
When the march ended that day, as my friend, Kevin, and I began dreaming of massive amounts of iced tea, I was reminded while trudging back to the car of one important lesson: Every action has a cause and effect; every voice counts. And even though I hadn’t gotten all Rosa Parks and taken the bus downtown that day, even though it took me years and an unbearable political climate to become active and get involved, there was no turning back—I’d finally found my voice. No one would ever again allow me to feel anything but equal.
To create healthy change, to grow towards total equality, it’s important to remember we must sometimes leave the comforts of our secure (gay) little bubbles (or closets— thank you, Senate-Official) and proudly extend ourselves, reach out, open our mouths, make glittery signs—perhaps even take the bus to get there. Why? Because when it comes to our liberation, we cannot let other people’s fear hold us back from total equality. And as for this ever-evolving, politically active homo, I may not be Rosa Parks, but I’m a sign of the times. The bus stops queer!
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