Yesterday was a lovely day for the Madison Pride Parade. It was a bit understated, as most things that might be flashy in Madison are–a lot of humbly dressed and kind-looking folks rather than the fireworks of pride that might come with a bigger city–but that’s alright. It was totally sweet and, actually, more than sweet. I was moved to tears. That might be saying more about me than the parade, but it also might be saying something about the parade and what it can mean to witness people moving down the middle of a street together on behalf of desire–a desire for desire, a desire for recognition–and to be a part of that, to be one of those who delight in watching the display.

I really love most parades.

I also want to say a thing about crying at the demonstration for Palestine in Dearborn several weeks ago, how I told my friends that I probably wouldn’t be chanting but they should go further into the crowd to chant, and then at some point, I wanted to chant and also cry and so I did both.

“Show me show me show me how you do that trick the one that makes me scream she said the one that makes me laugh she said,” where those lyrics are usually about romantic love, but “parade” and “demonstration” have so much they want to show and so much that needs to be seen, and I, like the girl in “Just Like Heaven,” want to see more; want for the one who’s done the cart-wheel or played the tuba to show me more, for the men on the steps of Dearborn City Hall to be on one another’s shoulders, wear V-for-Vendetta masks, painted like the Palestinian flag, to show us. And this is to say something about my desire to see others showing themselves when they are asked to carry their erasure.



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