Terrifyingly Fabulous, or How I got kicked out of Atlanta Gay Pride
I had a lot of fun at the Atlanta Pride Festival today. It was deeply satisfying to see so many wonderful people in an environment where where they can express their love for their chosen partners without society frowning on them simply because their chosen partners happen to be the same gender or sex as they are. It was fun to see people enjoying themselves, expressing themselves, and just being themselves together. There were old people, young people, gay, lesbian, bi, trans, queer, and even straight people coming out in support of equal rights and equal treatment for relationships of all sorts. There were anti-gay protesters near the entrance, and there were pro-gay counter-protesters right there across the street from them. There were police handy in case anyone got rowdy, though nobody did while I was around.
Unfortunately, the fashion police were active inside the festival grounds.
(Note: The day after I wrote this post, Pride and I kissed and made up. Everything’s resoved; all’s well.)
I made my way in past the protesters, left a donation at the door (I got a sticker! Yay!), and wandered around. I listened to the music. I saw the sights. I browsed the merchant booths. I saw old friends and met a few new ones. It was a little cramped, but then I like crowds of people, especially people out in force for such a wonderful cause.
Then, about an hour and a half after I’d arrived, a security guard approached me. I was wearing my long black wool coat just like I always have for the past nine years or so, and it seems that today it had them a little concerned. The fact that I was smiling, boinging, and mostly hanging out with friends apparently escaped their attention, or else they didn’t have the sense to realize that these activities were somewhat counterindicative of any kind of threat. The security guard asked me to justify my coat. I gave her my standard answer. “It holds my stuff, and it goes *whoosh* out behind me when I skip.” I demonstrated the whoosh. She wanted to look at the pockets to make sure I wasn’t carrying anything dangerous. I indulged her curiosity. She seemed satisfied, because she let me go along on my way.
Apparently, though, she was just the first line of defense against Evil Long Black Coats. Because, you see, not five minutes later, when I went inside the building, a Pride volunteer named Jen pulled me discreetly to the side. She asked me again about my coat. She explained that it was very warm out, and that I really didn't need a coat. I concurred that it was very warm out and explained again that my coat holds my stuff and goes *whoosh* behind me, and that the temperature didn't really bother me. She explained that a number of people felt threatened by me in my coat. She asked me to remove it.
I didn’t have anywhere to stash my coat, honestly, and really the very idea that I should have to take it off to please anyone there was pretty ridiculous. I like my coat. It’s grown to be a part of who I am. I declined to remove it, and so she asked me to leave. “Who's asking me to leave,” I asked, “you, or the Atlanta Pride organization?” I figured if she was just personally uncomfortable then she could learn to deal with it, but if she spoke for Pride then I had to comply or risk arrest for trespassing. She replied, “The four thousand people here at the Pride festival are all uncomfortable with you in your coat.” Seriously, she said that. I couldn’t make this stuff up.
Still lacking an answer to that vital question, I pressed her again on whether she was asking me as a private individual or as an official representative of Pride. She said she was asking on behalf of Pride for me to leave. I didn’t seem to have the option of appealing the matter to anyone above volunteer rank, as she had already escorted me to the exit as we were talking. So I left to begin the long Marta trek home. Silly me, only two hours earlier I was worrying about being there late and rushing for the last train out. I guess they solved that problem for me.
I’ve called their office number to try to speak with someone, but of course there’s nobody there right now: they’re all at the festival grounds. I left a message explaining that I had been asked to leave Pride, and I believe it was unjust. I asked them to call me back so we could clear this all up. We’ll see if they do. I still have to decide how far I want to press this issue. My support for GLBTQ rights and the principles behind Pride is very important to me, and the idea that I should be unwelcome because they don’t like my preferred fashion is not just ridiculous to me, but also somewhat offensive. Given the face of acceptance of personal expression that Pride represents to the world, I find it downright unconscionable.
Apparently dressing unconventionally at Pride is acceptable only if the dress in unconventional in a way that’s customary for gay people. Colorful hair? Fabulous! Nothing but a diaper? (I can’t make this stuff up!) Sexy! Long black coat in summer? Dangerous criminal. Smiling and having fun? Probably psychotic.
I hope this can be resolved amicably, and I’m honestly not sure right now how much stink I’m willing to raise if it isn’t. On thing’s for certain, though: I’m now officially too hot for Atlanta’s gay boys.
(Note: The day after I wrote this post, Pride and I kissed and made up. Everything’s resoved; all’s well.)
(LJ Spellchecker Genius of the Day: GLBTQ -> COLBERT)
Unfortunately, the fashion police were active inside the festival grounds.
(Note: The day after I wrote this post, Pride and I kissed and made up. Everything’s resoved; all’s well.)
I made my way in past the protesters, left a donation at the door (I got a sticker! Yay!), and wandered around. I listened to the music. I saw the sights. I browsed the merchant booths. I saw old friends and met a few new ones. It was a little cramped, but then I like crowds of people, especially people out in force for such a wonderful cause.
Then, about an hour and a half after I’d arrived, a security guard approached me. I was wearing my long black wool coat just like I always have for the past nine years or so, and it seems that today it had them a little concerned. The fact that I was smiling, boinging, and mostly hanging out with friends apparently escaped their attention, or else they didn’t have the sense to realize that these activities were somewhat counterindicative of any kind of threat. The security guard asked me to justify my coat. I gave her my standard answer. “It holds my stuff, and it goes *whoosh* out behind me when I skip.” I demonstrated the whoosh. She wanted to look at the pockets to make sure I wasn’t carrying anything dangerous. I indulged her curiosity. She seemed satisfied, because she let me go along on my way.
Apparently, though, she was just the first line of defense against Evil Long Black Coats. Because, you see, not five minutes later, when I went inside the building, a Pride volunteer named Jen pulled me discreetly to the side. She asked me again about my coat. She explained that it was very warm out, and that I really didn't need a coat. I concurred that it was very warm out and explained again that my coat holds my stuff and goes *whoosh* behind me, and that the temperature didn't really bother me. She explained that a number of people felt threatened by me in my coat. She asked me to remove it.
I didn’t have anywhere to stash my coat, honestly, and really the very idea that I should have to take it off to please anyone there was pretty ridiculous. I like my coat. It’s grown to be a part of who I am. I declined to remove it, and so she asked me to leave. “Who's asking me to leave,” I asked, “you, or the Atlanta Pride organization?” I figured if she was just personally uncomfortable then she could learn to deal with it, but if she spoke for Pride then I had to comply or risk arrest for trespassing. She replied, “The four thousand people here at the Pride festival are all uncomfortable with you in your coat.” Seriously, she said that. I couldn’t make this stuff up.
Still lacking an answer to that vital question, I pressed her again on whether she was asking me as a private individual or as an official representative of Pride. She said she was asking on behalf of Pride for me to leave. I didn’t seem to have the option of appealing the matter to anyone above volunteer rank, as she had already escorted me to the exit as we were talking. So I left to begin the long Marta trek home. Silly me, only two hours earlier I was worrying about being there late and rushing for the last train out. I guess they solved that problem for me.
I’ve called their office number to try to speak with someone, but of course there’s nobody there right now: they’re all at the festival grounds. I left a message explaining that I had been asked to leave Pride, and I believe it was unjust. I asked them to call me back so we could clear this all up. We’ll see if they do. I still have to decide how far I want to press this issue. My support for GLBTQ rights and the principles behind Pride is very important to me, and the idea that I should be unwelcome because they don’t like my preferred fashion is not just ridiculous to me, but also somewhat offensive. Given the face of acceptance of personal expression that Pride represents to the world, I find it downright unconscionable.
Apparently dressing unconventionally at Pride is acceptable only if the dress in unconventional in a way that’s customary for gay people. Colorful hair? Fabulous! Nothing but a diaper? (I can’t make this stuff up!) Sexy! Long black coat in summer? Dangerous criminal. Smiling and having fun? Probably psychotic.
I hope this can be resolved amicably, and I’m honestly not sure right now how much stink I’m willing to raise if it isn’t. On thing’s for certain, though: I’m now officially too hot for Atlanta’s gay boys.
(Note: The day after I wrote this post, Pride and I kissed and made up. Everything’s resoved; all’s well.)
(LJ Spellchecker Genius of the Day: GLBTQ -> COLBERT)