Alan Ilagan

Until an oppression is lifted, you never realize how much it’s been weighing you down. If all your life you’ve been told you are not as good as someone because you are gay – either literally or symbolically – if that’s all you’ve ever known, when the realization comes that you are as good, that you are equal… it’s a big deal. That’s what I’m going through now as New York State becomes the sixth state in the nation to make gay marriage legal.

It feels different when it’s your own rights that are being decided – and when the right decision is made, it feels a little overwhelming. The majority of people won’t ever know what that feels like (that’s why they’re the majority). But for the minority of us who have been denied certain basic human rights – to anyone for that matter who’s been hated or discriminated against for being different – being granted the acknowledgment that we are equal is a big thing. I hate to say that it validates us, because we have always been valid, but in a way that’s what it feels like.

It says we are human.

It says we are worthy.

It says we deserve our love.

As I sit here writing this, with tears once again welling up in my eyes, I am simultaneously touched, saddened, emboldened, and exhilarated that I get to live in this great state, in this great country – where so much is wrong, but where so much can be made right.

I have to admit, until we received it, I never realized how much it bothered me, and how much it worked to silence me. Last night, as we passed people on the way to the gay bars where we were going to celebrate, I walked proudly down the street. It used to be that I would cower a bit and hasten my pace, hoping they wouldn’t notice my white pants or flamboyant shirt. I used to keep my head down and avoid eye contact, remembering moments when someone would shout “fag” at me. Not tonight. I walked with head held high, daring someone to say it. Tonight I felt liberated.

How sad that it was that way, and I wish I’d had that same belief in myself for all these years, but I didn’t. Because no matter how well I carried myself, no matter how confidently I may have come across, internally I never really felt it. That’s what a society that treats you as less than equal has the power to do. It is soul-crushing – it is a stamping-out of one’s spirit, a trampling of one’s heart.

Over the years I put up many barriers and a lot of armor to deal with all my doubts and feelings of inadequacy – a wardrobe to impress, a wit to charm, a nonchalant arrogance and aloofness that was meant to read as ‘I don’t care what you think of me, I’m just as good as you’ but I never, ever truly believed it.

This morning, as the sun begins to peek out from behind a bank of clouds, I’m starting to believe.

It happens almost every year – whether it’s a Pride Parade in Albany, Boston, or Rochester  – I get a little teary-eyed. If there weren’t a ton of people around me, I’d probably let out a torrent. Instead, I keep it mostly inside, and on a rainy year like this no one notices a few extra drops on my face.

I can’t fully explain it. Part of it is the simple act of marching – the collective energy and efforts of a group of people who have, at some point in our lives, been marginalized and hated – if not specifically or individually then as a whole – all together and in unison.

Part of it is the various groups – the Youth Group, the Gay Fathers, the Dykes on Bikes – each one of them is moving in their own right, each one has a tale to tell, of hurt and hope, of triumph and tragedy, of life and death.

And part of it is simply the sea of smiling faces – friends, families, and complete strangers, all coming together in celebration and commemoration.

For all these reasons, I always feel overcome at various parts of the parade, and it never fails to elicit a few heartfelt tears from an otherwise-stone heart. Such was the case as I stood under a concrete eve near Shreve, Crump, & Low, watching the Boston Gay Pride Parade move slowly by in the rain. From the giddy drag queens to the dancing go-go-guys, from the Trolleys of gay octogenarians to the little rainbow-flag-waving child – everyone was joyful and happy, despite the non-stop rain and a chilly breeze. Even the leather-masked men were all smiles through their harnesses.

I still believe that if you think of someone at their happiest – when they’re smiling or laughing or finding joy in the world – you can never really be mad at them. You can’t hate someone’s happiness. More importantly, you can’t hate someone’s love.

Whenever I try to understand the reasons for attacking gay marriage, I can’t get beyond the fact that it is, at its core, an attack on love. And how can anyone be hated for loving? That kind of hatred is something I cannot access, cannot fathom. That kind of hatred doesn’t make sense to my head or heart. And on that rainy day in Massachusetts, in the city where Andy and I were married – just a few blocks from the Boson Public Garden – there was nothing but love around me. In that safety, in that warmth, in that relief, I cried out of joy and hope for what the world could - and should – be.

They held hands as they hurried along Boylston Street. One was slightly taller than the other, and a little less fidgety. The sky was getting darker – it was about to rain – but they had a parade to attend. I watched them, following a bit behind and furtively catching a few photos. It’s not every day that I get to see two guys holding hands while walking down a public street. (I get looks for wearing plaid pants in downtown Albany – I can’t imagine the scene if I strolled down Pearl Street hand-in-hand with my husband. Insert unsaid Albany slag-off here.) Luckily, this was Boston – and this was Gay Pride – and no one even cared.

Their hands intertwined, then released, idly slapping one another’s knuckles, then rejoining their fingers again. They looked like two guys excited to see a parade, to take part in the day. Maybe it was the first flush of giddy love, when you’re not really sure where anything is headed but you can’t help hoping. Maybe they were just friends, joining hands in solidarity for the day. Or maybe they were married – in Massachusetts that’s legal. Whatever the case, it was good to see.

A rainy weekend in Boston was no match for the soul-nourishing company of good friends. JoJo, Wally, and Caro stopped over for a few drinks before we headed to the Buttery.

After trying out the Lavender Lady the night prior, on this evening I went with the Ruby Slipper. God knows I love a grapefruit.

Filling in for Amazeballs Ali (who had too much of a good time at the Gay Pride Parade) was the waitress at the Buttery. Thanks for putting up with us.

We closed out the evening – and my Boston Gay Pride experience (more on that later) at the bar at Tremont 647. Though the rain poured down, our spirits soared.

It’s not easy being gay. It’s easy for me to think it is, because when you surround yourself with good, open-minded, accepting people it’s easy to think that’s the way the world is, but periodically – on the news, on the street, or in the office – I’m reminded that we are still different. We are still ‘other’.

Much like any minority, being openly gay opens you up for feeling different. For anyone who’s ever felt different, for anyone who’s ever been pointed at or whispered about, for anyone who’s had a dream about being in public and suddenly realizing you have no clothes on – imagine that feeling ALL THE TIME. If you’ve ever felt uncomfortable in a gay bar, imagine that feeling EVERYWHERE.

This world is a straight world. Every restaurant is a straight restaurant. Every office is a straight office. Every bus, train, or plane is a straight bus, train, or plane. Heterosexuality is the default setting – wide-ranging, far-reaching, accepted and commonplace. Homosexuality is the exception to the rule.
Every so often I feel it – the weight of it – the burden of being different. It’s a cumulative thing, built up year after year, little by little, whispered word by whispered word – and the effects are mostly deleterious. A fatigue, a vague mistrust, a twinge of paranoia that eventually – and always – turns out badly. You have to be careful with what you do with it. Too easily does it turn against the very people who are there to help you – too easily does it turn you against yourself.

Over the years, as I’ve grown into myself and become more genuinely confident in who I am, this battle fatigue has become more manageable, and I’ve been less affected by it. But it has taken years, and the war rages on in lands beyond my backyard.

If I seem too sensitive at times, if I come off as prickly – stop and think where I’m coming from, and where I’ve been. If you spend your life in a world largely foreign to you, where 97 percent of where you are and what you do is the opposite of your nature, what would you feel? How well would you cope if you had to wake up every day in a gay world? How would you feel if those seven awkward minutes in which you shared a quick drink with me in a gay bar turned into seventy years?

That’s what it’s like when I wake up every morning, go into work, walk around downtown for lunch, go out to dinner, the movies, a show (well, maybe not a show…) and all the other things we do on a daily basis. As accepting as most of my friends are, it’s still there. There’s still the burden. There’s still the difference. And until you’ve been there, you can never know. You can sympathize, you can relate, you can support and you can love, but you can never fully know.

I guess this is my roundabout way of saying that there’s still a need for Gay Pride. As comfortable and as proud as I am to be a gay man, there’s still a glimmer of doubt, still a shred of uncertainty I feel whenever someone attacks marriage equality, calls someone a faggot, or kills a gay person. That doubt and uncertainty is what they want me to feel. That’s how you stifle a group of people, that’s how you silence those who are different. And though I’ve learned to embrace being different, there will always be a cost to it. All the rainbows in the world can’t fix that, no matter how pretty.

For the past few years I have faithfully attended Albany’s Gay Pride Celebration. Granted, as it usually falls on the hottest and most humid day of the year, I don’t always stay very long, but Andy and I usually get to see the parade and make a quick trip past the tent tables. This time around, I’m stepping out on Albany.

Next week Albany will celebrate this year’s Pride Festival, but there’s a good chance I won’t be there, as I have plans in Boston (I’m having a small cocktail gathering for some dear friends). As luck would have it, (or not have it as the years have proven), Boston’s Pride Celebration coincides with Albany’s, almost to the day (I think theirs is on Saturday). Which means I may be at Boston Pride this year, marking a return to the place where I first went to a Gay Pride Celebration.

It was in the 90’s, and though openly gay for a while, I hadn’t brought myself to attend a Pride Parade. I thought I was above and beyond it. I thought it didn’t matter. I thought it was a silly exercise that had less and less meaning as the years went on. I was wrong on all accounts.

As I stood there watching the parade go by, seeing gay people and their families and friends openly and proudly celebrating who they were, I became incredibly moved. It didn’t matter that we were finally being recognized as equal human beings – it was a commemoration of all that we had come from, all that we had fought for, and all that there was still left to do.

Even if and when we have full equality, there will still be a reason and a meaning to a Gay Pride Parade. Because no matter what happens, no matter how good it may get, we must always remember.

Today from 5 to 9 PM I’ll be hosting 1st Friday at the Romaine Brooks Gallery (sorry for the short notice – blame it on vacation back-up). The featured exhibition is the annual Pride Show – a group show featuring various artists – and all of them are pretty impressive. Here’s the roster:

Sebastien Barre
Bennett Campbell
Kevin Miller
Antoine Rivera
Thomasa Dwyer Nielsen
John J. Bosko

This is one of my favorite Pride Shows. Some years we’re so low on entries I have to come up with creative ways to fill the space, but this time we had just enough work for a great show. Be sure to check out the complete line-up of Albany Pride Events here.