Proud

This past weekend, I visited friend in Minneapolis.  His birthday was this past week, the big 2-5, so the object of the weekend was celebratory.  A party was planned, beer was bought, dip was made. It was amazing dip made by yours truly that included several dairy products and half a beer. I'll zap you the recipe if your craving some taste-bud goodness.  Something that I thought was inconsequential was the fact that this weekend was Pride weekend; Pride is based on a march in New York in 1969 after a riot at a gay bar called Stonewall Inn resulted from a police raid. Since then, New York, Minneapolis, Chicago and several other cities celebrate Pride every summer.  The only reason why I know about this entire weekend is completely based on Mountain and Lucky, two of my friends, who are extremely supportive of LGBT rights. Lucky, whose birthday we celebrated, is gay. Mountain is his closest friend. They love each other dearly.

The Pride parade was extremely different than I expected. There weren't thousands of drag queens. Though, there were a few. There weren't naked men everywhere. The naked ones were wearing barrels. They weren't throwing condoms from the floats. They handed them out from a booth in the park. My friend was dressed as a leprechaun for one of the floats. Mountain called him the "ambassador for rainbows." We arrived late and didn't stay for the end. Once Lucky passed by, we wiped our brows of sweat and began a jaunt through the park filled with booths and tents of companies that supported Pride. I got pens from Wal-Greens, a bracelet from Best Buy, and coupons for a local restaurant.  I even had my first celebrity sitting: the comedian, Ant, walked right by me. Mountain took a picture of the back of his head.

Here's the kicker. I was sad. I pitied these people. WHY? These people weren't helpless; they stood up for themselves, their friends, their families just to be treated equally. The pity I felt resulted from the fact that any gay, lesbian, bisexual, or transgendered person shouldn't have to walk down a street defending who they are. There shouldn't have been a riot in New York in 1969. They shouldn't need people to look up to like Harvey Milk. Just like blacks needed MLK. Or women Susan B. Anthony. It sickens me that we need these examples to earn rights. Rights that should be given freely, without prejudice, without feeling ashamed, without argument.

I hate the thought of labels. Yes, sometimes they work well as identifiers. I am white. I'm female. I'm 24. I am American. But a label is just another line to cross, another wall that keeps us in and others out. We shouldn't have to describe ourselves in a way that outcasts others.

I worked for the census this past year. One of the questions I was required to ask was about race. One night, returning a phone call from a household where earlier I left a note, I asked this question.

"How would you classify your race?"

"Human Being."

This struck a deep chord with me. Why do we need to distinguish ourselves? What point does it serve? Isn't this how animosity is fueled? By keeping us in these distinct groups, we keep ourselves from evolving, from reaching out across that line to create unity among all. This is something they shouldn't have to work at.

It should just be.

After the parade, Mountain had tears in her eyes. When asked why, she said, "I'm just so...Proud."