In June of 2008, we celebrated my daughter Alice's 16th birthday at the Santa Cruz Pride Parade. We'd enjoyed the parade from the sidelines for years, but until four months ago, Alice was still hidden inside her Boy Suit and in many ways, this was her Coming Out party.
My son Max's girlfriend June took Alice shopping earlier in the week and she skipped out of the house on this particular morning in a flouncy black mini, tall shoes and striped stockings. A little black tank, her favorite hoodie and a smattering of chunky candy jewelry completes the outfit.
Max and June are equally splendid in their attire, June having donned a red party dress with a matching parasol and Max,sporting a bowler, a natty vest and oddly enough, a raccoon tail. On our way out of town, we pick up Samir, a Persian boy who is in Alice's trans-support group. He is inexplicably dressed like a pirate and wearing a delicately-pasted beard which fills out one of the few parts of his face not cluttered with piercings.
My slouchy gray t-shirt and jeans are frowned upon by all.
Alice rides shotgun and therefore Gwen Stefani sings us through the valley, over the mountains and down Highway 17, which dumps us into downtown Santa Cruz with twenty minutes to spare. We may have moved away more than a year ago, but Santa Cruz is still MY town and I prove it by scoring one of the few unregulated parking spaces downtown. The kids spill out of the car and are rushing towards the commotion a block away when Alice turns back.
“How do we get into the parade?” She calls out, stumbling momentarily in her tall shoes.
“Go down to the end of Pacific Avenue and find a group that'll let you join in.”
She grabs Samir's hand and they're off. Max and June head up Cooper St., her parasol bobbing above their heads and his raccoon tail bouncing along behind them. I catch up to them near the Del Mar Theater just as the Dykes On Bikes roll out onto the street to clear the Parade Route. The sound of their engines makes me tear up. It always has.
The motorcycles are followed by the Grand Marshall, roller-derby girls and a pair of seven-foot-tall drag queens. A group of Latin dancers from up at the college put on a hell of a show and then The Women's Alliance for Medical Marijuana (a huge support system for local cancer patients and those living with HIV) rolls onto the scene with my old friend Mario atop the float, shaking his El Salvadorian ass in short shorts and sporting a giant platinum afro wig. I squeal like a delighted child as he throws a string of glittery beads my way.
Things mellow out a bit when the churches take the street, another entrance which makes me teary year after year. We're just a few months out from the election and California's Prop 8 vote so there's a lot of Marriage Equality support in these groups. I let out a big graceless “Woo Hoo” as my friends Tad and Greg pass our corner. Always calm and collected, Tad smiles and waves his “God Is Still Speaking” sign in my direction.
The churches are followed by stilt-walkers, The San Francisco Cheer Team and a smattering of state and local politicians, including the Mayor in a beautifully-restored Woody. A random group of boys in tutus and girls with tiny dogs follow the political crowd and then I hear a blaring bass and look up the street to see an approaching contingent dressed all in red with the exception of one bright green pirate and a girl in a flouncing black mini and striped tights.
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