I’m With You: A Moment On Castro Street

From the early 1980s until the early 1990s, my husband and I lived in San Francisco, in a wonderful Victorian cottage near Castro Street. Our little home had the original stained glass window (slightly cracked), a wacky off-kilter cabinet built into the dining room, and no closets. The previous owner had constructed (without a permit) a rickety sunroom where I read articles and wrote papers. I loved every inch of our tiny piece of San Francisco’s architectural history. 

When I stepped into that house, I was in my twenties, entering young adulthood. I shopped at the corner market, a family-owned store the size of our living room. I learned the precise time to show up, just as the baguettes were delivered, still steaming warm in their wrappings. I walked two blocks to a bakery with the finest Irish soda bread I’d ever tasted, a family recipe handed down through generations. Our next door neighbors were an older couple, and we spoke regularly over the picket fence dividing our property, tending our gardens in the San Francisco fog. As I shouldered my way through the ups and downs of psychology grad school, my neighborhood was my sanctuary and I loved my new community.

I also loved Castro Street.

When I had a free hour or two, when I needed to settle down after a monstrous exam, when I wanted to think through a term paper — I’d walk over and explore. The Castro was an area where gay men could stroll holding hands, not needing to pretend they were strangers when they had lived together for years. It was also an area where a woman could walk alone, safe and comfortable. 

One day I found myself on a vibrant block, standing in front of Harvey Milk’s camera store. The Mayor of Castro Street was no longer alive, but his heartbeat was strangely present. I turned still. I breathed deeply, reached out, gently touched the storefront. I realized tears were in my eyes and gave myself a mental shake. Crying in public wasn’t on my color wheel.

I was suddenly aware that a man was standing next to me. He reached out slowly, careful not to startle me, and put his hand on the building next to mine. His hand was large, the color of light caramel. His fingers were long and bony, with a few stray dark hairs. His nails were clipped short. I looked up at him and saw tears in his eyes as well. He said simply, “I’m with you.” 

We stood side by side, looking at our two hands. For just an instant our hands clasped. We smiled quietly and continued walking in opposite directions. I never saw him again. 

Today, decades later, the foundation of my homeland is under attack as we try to maintain our grip on the truths we thought were self evident. LGBTQ+ history now includes Don’t Say Gay, banned books, gender-affirming care blocked, a gag order on discussing same-sex parents in schools, bullying that too many people encourage and enable.

Sometimes the hatred and rage feel insurmountable.

Then I think of Harvey Milk — charismatic, courageous, a trailblazer. He also had a temper, and he’d be furious if I allowed myself to buckle. People’s voices have been taken away, their basic rights denied. So I’m writing my voice.

Going forward, I’ll hold close to my heart, tightly in my open hand, Harvey Milk’s legacy. I’ll remember the proud, harsh, enriched, brutal, beautiful history of the LGBTQ+ community. When I feel overwhelmed, I’ll think of standing outside a modest camera store on Castro Street, of a man’s hand next to mine, two strangers clasping hands in solidarity. I’ll remember the exact timbre of his voice when he said to me, “I’m with you.”

And I’m with you.

*This was first published on Medium, by Prism & Pen.

Defending Normal

It’s hard to defend normal.

The quirks every person carries hidden within — the eccentricities we all display — the oddities we’re barely aware of that cause others to stare and quickly look away. Ironically, in healthy humans, many abnormalities are actually signs of normality. The issue becomes confusing because in our culture, all Normal is not created equal. 

For instance — suppose I put a bright blue streak down the middle of my bushy gray hair. Most likely, people would smile and shake their heads in quiet amusement. Some might find me ridiculous, but others might admire my moxie. 

Suppose a teenager put the same bright blue streak down the middle of her thick brown hair, and gave a speech to support #NeverAgain. Her blue streak might draw an entirely different reaction. For people who disagree with gun control, hunting for a way to discredit that girl — her blue streak would provide the perfect lightning rod. “She’s just a teen pitching a tantrum; I mean, c’mon, look at that blue streak!”

Suppose a gay or lesbian parent put a blue streak in his or her or their hair. For those uncomfortable with same sex moms and dads, an entirely different reaction would rocket to the surface. “Gays and lesbians shouldn’t be parents; I mean, c’mon, look at that blue streak!”

The LGBTQ+ community continues to be under attack, and Oklahoma has now enabled adoptions to be banned if the parents are gay men or lesbian women, single mothers or interfaith couples. To me, the LGBTQ+ spectrum, added to cisgender and straight, is simply the range of normal. But as I said, it’s hard to defend normal. If you’re determined to find quirks in these potential parents, you’ll have no trouble finding them, not because they’re gay or trans or single or bi or straight or interfaith or non binary — but because they’re human. If you’re equally intent on viewing those quirks as flaws, then you’ll disqualify a lot of loving and stable homes. 

We all carry a blue streak of one kind or another, literal or figurative. But a blue streak in a cisgender, straight, white mother of three grown children (my own description) is often assigned a vastly different meaning from that same blue streak in others. If somebody makes you uncomfortable, then suddenly their blue streak is evidence of a character deficit. All blue streaks are not created equal.

If you’re judging parents for being gay men or lesbian women, then I wonder if you’ve actually met LGBTQ+ parents. Do you know them well? Did you have a friendly conversation, or were you digging for evidence of flaws? I do know lesbian parents, gay parents, cis parents, bi parents, trans parents, straight parents, other parents —  we’re all in the community of parents. Would you consider that maybe, possibly, we might share more common ground than you expect?