I'm 64-years-old, and I've seen this country go through more moods than a chameleon on a rainbow. I grew up in the swingin' '60s and '70s, when peace signs were flashed more than a trucker's headlights, and let me tell you, we had our share of battles to fight and victories to win. Civil rights, women's rights—these weren't just headlines; they were our lives.
Now, here I am, a grumpy old fart, and I've got something to say about the world today. I'm all for living your truth—it's a free country after all. Well... for the moment anyway. Hell, I've got friends who are gayer than a Maypole dance and that's just fine for them. But lately, I've been feeling like a bingo hall in the middle of Vegas—outdated, a bit overwhelmed, and struggling to keep up with the flashing lights.
Everywhere you look, there's a parade or protest for something. "We're here, we're queer," they chant. And I think to myself, "Yeah, I got the memo the first couple hundred times." Look, I get civil rights. I watched as folks fought tooth and nail for them. But it feels like you can't swing a cat without hitting some flyer about the next rally or parade. And it's not just the LGBTQ crowd—everyone's shouting so damn loudly about rights that you can't hear yourself think.
I'm not trying to stomp on anybody's rhinestones. People should be celebrated and in charge of their own destiny; love who you want, be who you want, that's the real American way. But wondering why we can't let a quiet Tuesday afternoon stay a quiet Tuesday afternoon doesn't make me the villain. Sometimes it's just about craving a little normalcy in a world revved up on making every single thing headline news.
Is it too much to ask for a "normal person pride parade"? A day where we all just sit and enjoy a cold one, not because we belong to any particular group, but just because we're neighbors, friends, and fellow citizens? I'm talking about a shared moment that’s not because we’re making a statement, but just because we exist and that's worth a decent nod.
I ponder; if we straight folk marched down Main Street, would it rattle the cages? Would it be seen as a counter-protest or just another Tuesday? And what's "normal" anyway? Normal's in the eye of the beholder, I suppose. And that's another rub—everyone's pointing fingers about what's acceptable these days. You can't hold a door or crack a joke without a tribunal deciding if it's commendable or condemnable.
Take it from an old-timer though: tolerating each other's differences is what I was taught was the "normal" way. And sure, we’ve got room to grow. Those friends of mine, the ones whose parades I could do without? They've faced the ringer, no doubt about it. Back in the day, being in the closet meant something way different than finding your winter coat. All I'm saying is, can't we reach a place of mutual respect without needing a marching band to prove it?
Now, let's touch on folks needing money for one thing or another. Government funds for surgeries and therapies—I get it, life’s a hard road and even harder when you feel you're in the wrong skin. But I come from a time when you saved up for what you needed, didn’t just reach into Uncle Sam’s pocket. Accountability has to mean something still, right?
This is me, asking for a pinch less fanfare and a dash quieter understanding. A moment where being “loud and proud” might mean just being comfortable and content. I guess even this weathered old coot can find middle ground... somewhere between the parade floats and the porch swing.
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