I Won’t March, Don’t Ask Me
by Elizabeth Kaeton

For the first time in six years, I won't be marching in this year's NYC Heritage of Pride Parade, Sunday, June 30th. And, it's about time.

No, this is not a diatribe about the parade being an exercise in futility. While I have sometimes questioned my own sanity at the end of the march when I am standing just a little too close to another straphanger on the PATH Train (from NYC back to New Jersey), too exhausted to muster up more than a grin at the almost-bare-breasted lesbian to my left and the purple stiletto-healed drag quean to my right, and notice to my chagrin that I have ruined yet another clergy shirt with ‘sweat rings’, I don't believe that my efforts were futile. I have seen the importance of visibility and the deadly effects of silence. Being 'out and loud' are two of the most powerful weapons we have against homophobia/heterosexism.

And, I've stopped saying that, "Since I'm no longer Missioner of The Oasis (a ministry of the Episcopal Diocese of Newark), I'm not marching because I'm trying to keep a low profile." When I said that, three of my friends fell down laughing, saying, "YOU? Low profile?"

Okay, okay.

Here's why I'm not marching this year: I'm tired. That's all. I need a break. I need to not feel that if I'm not part of the solution I'm part of the problem. I'm still committed to being part of the solution, but I'm doing it in a different way.

Here's why I'm not marching this year: I'm tired. That's all. I need a break. I need to not feel that if I'm not part of the solution I'm part of the problem. I'm still committed to being part of the solution, but I'm doing it in a different way. This year, after years of radical activism and political strategy, I'm participating in the solution by being a rector and pastor who works in a church on Main Street, USA.

This year on Gay Pride Sunday, I'm going to STROLL down Main Street, Chatham NJ, walk into Angie's Diner, and have something to eat at the booth. By now, most everybody there knows me. Angie even knows that the first cup of coffee is regular and everything after that is decaf. My cup is never empty. Some of the patrons at Angie's have even begun to look for me. They'll greet me and ask me questions about certain members of the community who are ill, or just had a baby, or ask what I thought of the elementary school recital. They'll tell me the latest joke and we'll all laugh and laugh.

Just before leaving, someone — usually not a parishioner — will lean real close to my ear and ask if it's okay if they "just drop by" on Monday, or ask if they can "call later today." We'll talk later about a difficult child, or an anxiety about job status, or a concern about a relationship, or the crisis in the Roman Catholic Church.

Just stuff. Normal stuff. The astounding thing is that they trust me with their anxieties about normality. They honor me with the truth of their lives. They delight me with their humor. They touch me with their tears. Imagine that! Well, when you think about it, who better than "Sister Outsider" as Audre Lourde used to say, as companion and guide through the dangerous shoals of the Sea of Normalcy?

Come to think of it, didn't Rosa Parks add the spark to the Civil Rights Movement when she admitted her feet hurt and sat down — even where she wasn't supposed to take a seat?

So, to all my golf-shirted lesbian sisters and leather-clad gay brothers, and all of my wonderful straight allies in the struggle for justice and equality, here are my parting, "double-snap" words as you step off for the Heritage of Pride Parade 2002: You just go on with your sassy selves!

Make ‘em even more uncomfortable when they also see LGBT police, firefighters, teachers, students, nurses, doctors, and — God help ‘em — priests. Most especially, make ‘em sweat when they can't tell who's straight and who's gay.

Be courageously outrageous and bravely bold. Make ‘em deal with it — with their own discomfort about the gift of sexuality and gender. Make ‘em squirm when you rudely point out the blurred lines of the cultural definition of what it means to be male, female and a sexual being. Make ‘em even more uncomfortable when they also see LGBT police, firefighters, teachers, students, nurses, doctors, and — God help ‘em — priests. Most especially, make ‘em sweat when they can't tell who's straight and who's gay.

You do your part and I'll do mine. Just for this year. Next year, I'll be back with you. Promise. I've even got the clergy shirt all picked out.

The Rev. Elizabeth Kaeton is a regular contributor to A Globe of Witnesses. Her monthly column is Another Word for Justice. Elizabeth may be reached by email at EMKaeton@aol.com