By John Corvino
Sister Julie was not your typical-looking nun. She was young and pretty, and she wore bold floral-print dresses – quite different from the staid brown habits with black veils the Franciscan nuns of my grade school had worn. One of my favorite professors (of theology) in college, she later became a friend, though we have long since fallen out of touch.
I thought of her recently during a conversation about gay pride parades, of all things. A student of mine asked, "What do you think of the outlandish displays at gay pride parades?"
"Actually, I quite enjoy them."
"But don't you think they hurt the movement?"
"Maybe. But I still enjoy them."
To be frank, I don't get to pride parades much anymore. There's only so much "we're here, we're queer" one can handle in a lifetime. But during my coming-out years, when I was in my early 20s, they were very important to me. There's nothing quite like marching down Fifth Avenue in New York surrounded by thousands upon thousands of gay people, in every shape and size. After years of isolation, I finally knew that I wasn't alone.
It was around that time that Sister Julie befriended me, and while she never accompanied me to a gay pride parade (though she might have, had I asked), she was one of my most valuable supporters during a crucial time.
I remember one conversation we shared about a certain crush I had, on a guy named Neil. Like most of my early crushes, Neil was straight (I simply didn't know many gay people), and while I knew it would never go anywhere, I found myself pining over him like the stereotypical lovesick schoolgirl. I would even ride my bicycle back and forth in front of his house, hoping he would appear. (He once came to the door in his underpants to get the mail – an image that will forever be burned into my memory.)
I explained all of this to Julie – we dropped the formality of "Sister" early on – including my frustration at my own foolish behavior. "I'm behaving like a child," I whined.
"So you are," she answered. Before I could protest, she explained further, "Look, John: when it comes to relationships, you ARE a child. This is all very new to you. While your friends in grade school were beginning to explore the daunting territory of dating, you were running from your own feelings. Now you've confronted them – to your credit – and so you're experiencing some new things. Be patient with yourself."
I don't know how a nun ever became so marvelously insightful about such things. I do know that the kindness in her calm blue eyes felt like a gift from God at that moment. "Be patient with yourself."
What does any of this have to do with gay pride parades? Someone once quipped, "There's a time and a place for everything. It's called college." The point is that we get the wild stuff out of our system when we're relatively young. Except that some of us don't. Some of us have closets to deal with.
If some people's behavior when they come out of the closet seems … well, juvenile – it's because it is. And that shouldn't surprise us much. Nor should it surprise us that when people are forced to hide a key aspect of themselves for much of their day-to-day lives, they need an opportunity to let their hair down. Straight people do it, too: it's called college, and after college it's called Mardi Gras. Gay people often do it at pride parades.
Besides, much of what people complain about at gay pride parades is not really outlandish or juvenile at all. I can understand why people would prefer not to see people take the streets in jockstraps or nipple clamps (though there are far worse things for children to see – like Mel Gibson movies). But I can't understand why people get worked up over drag queens. They're fun! Enjoy them. And if you don't enjoy them, enjoy one of the countless other contingents present: diversity is one of our strengths.
Yes, the media will always focus on the more "colorful" aspects of the parades – and who can blame them? Me walking down the street in khaki shorts and a T-shirt is just not very interesting. But the way to combat distorted representation is not to discourage colorful expression. The way to combat it is for the so-called "boring" among us to be out and proud in our everyday lives, remembering to be patient with ourselves – and with others. Thanks, Julie.
