As written up in today’s NYT, the inaugural Lebanon Ohio Pride Festival took place this year on July 20, a sunny Saturday, at the town’s Bicentennial Park and surrounding blocks. Billed as a safe, positive, family-friendly event, it had all the hallmarks of a queer celebration: balloons, rainbow apparel, drag queens. The words “Love always wins” were displayed prominently, written in chalk on the sidewalk. With the energy high and joyful, the event lasted through the afternoon and well into the night, the celebration undeterred even by the presence of a group of protesters.
Lebanon’s a town of about 21,000 nestled between Dayton and Cincinnati. It isn’t shy about its conservative politics and hasn’t always felt welcoming to its queer residents. But James Reynolds who grew up there and Brooke Handley who still lives there dreamt of building a more inclusive community in Lebanon and devised the idea of the Festival. They were delighted with how it turned out.
It felt personal. It felt like community. It inspired some to imagine alternate versions of their childhoods in which their identities were celebrated and cherished. It was a reminder that Pride offers something real to those who need it most. It is permission to explore identity, a reminder that there is community to be made and — at best — a redefinition of home.
Quinton Koger Kidd, below, said: “I consider myself a Christian, a conservative, a Republican. But the Bible says: Jesus came to save, not condemn. We’re saved by grace through faith. Love God. Love your neighbor. Share the good news.”
What a beautiful couple.
We sent Phil out to cover it. He had the best time ever.
Here’s a story of mine about acceptance. I had just met Linda, so this was about 45 years ago. She was living in a postage stamp apartment off Washington Square in the Village and I was in Park Slope. I was riding the subway home after a date. It was very late and I had the car to myself. Then a yuppie-ish white guy got on with fancy glasses and his gym bag. He sat opposite me. Then a Black guy got on, and he was a sight to behold. Chiseled and muscular, tall, dressed brilliantly, and wearing some makeup, even. Hair very sharp-edged. I said to myself, “Sh*t. If I were one percent as cool as this guy, I’d be alright.” He also sat across from me, but more to my left.
After a while, the Black guy took out a cigarette, tapped it on the seat next to him, lit up, and puffed. It was so graceful — like a ballet. Now, you weren’t supposed to smoke on the subway, but the car was mostly empty and well-ventilated, so it didn’t bother me. But the yuppie turned to the Black guy and glared. The Black guy must have sensed it, because he turned and looked back at the white guy. They locked eyes. It became one of those staring contests from third grade. I was watching it all from my seat across the aisle.
Finally, I was surprised to see the Black guy cave first. “Why the hard looks, man?” he asked. The white guy said: “Is this your first time on the subway? Don’t you know you can’t smoke in here?” A strategic blunder because it left the Black guy the opening to say, “This is my first time — is there a sign somewhere?” (As the lawyers say: What’s your authority?)
It put the white guy on the defensive. He started looking all over the car for a No Smoking sign. He pointed to something near my head, but it was the emergency cord. “That’s the emergency cord,” the Black guy said.
Now the white guy was getting a little desperate looking for a sign. As it happened, as I could plainly see from my seat, it said NO SMOKING in big red letters right above the white guy’s head. But he couldn’t see it because he didn’t turn to look directly behind himself. It was hysterical and it took some effort on my part not to burst out laughing.
Finally, the Black guy took pity on the white guy and said, “Look, I’ll just finish this one and stop,” and the white guy was mollified. Happy ending, great scene, and I got this story out of it. I thought to myself, you can spend $150 for a Broadway ticket, but you can’t match the scenes put on by regular New Yorkers every minute of the day.
Years later I was taking a walk and going over the story in my head. And it struck me that the Black guy must have trusted me not to betray him, not to say something like, “Hey the sign’s right there.” I mean, I’m a white guy too. But he must have sensed that between the two of them I’d take his side, at least enough to let it roll. He must have seen some coolness in me — maybe that one percent! I’m very proud of that.
Sticking with the theme of acceptance, this story is by Donna Ledwin and it’s from today’s Met Diary.
Dear Diary:
It was 1980, and I was a student at Fordham. Disco was king, and Studio 54 was the place to be. One Saturday night, although my girlfriends and I knew the odds of getting in were long, we decided to take a shot.
So, decked out in our hottest disco wear, we hopped on a D train in the Bronx and headed into Manhattan to take our chances at getting past the velvet rope. We knew that admission was at the whim of the doorman. How could we convince him we were worthy?
With my long hair pinned up, wearing sparkly earrings, a short black coat with a big fur collar and black, strappy, high-heel sandals, I stood slightly away from the fray and feigned indifference.
It took a while, but at some point, my eyes and the doorman’s met. He pointed my way and beckoned me to come inside.
I managed to maintain my poker face.
“I’m here with my two girlfriends,” I said, staring straight in his eyes.
He hesitated, and I started to think I had overplayed my hand.
“OK,” he said. “Them too.”
And in we went.
I don’t remember much about what happened after that, but I was on top of the world for that one night.
The puzzle yesterday picked me up and threw me against the wall. I just couldn’t nail it down. Right off the bat, at 1D, the clue was “Some start-up funding, in brief.” I figured the last five letters could be MONEY, but I had no hope of getting the first two: VC. It stands for venture capital. And that V came from 1A where the clue was “Liquid found in some pens.” A pen like a sty or a writing pen? But the answer was VAPE JUICE. Yikes! I even thought fleetingly of vaping, but juice?
Another bruiser was 19A where the clue was “10-point play.” WTF? I finally thought it could be a word in Scrabble that adds up to ten points. ADIEU seemed to fit, but it’s not worth ten points. The answer turned out to be from Scrabble after all but was Z TILE. Ouch.
44A drove me nuts: “Rapper who shares his name with the 29th U.S. president.” Why didn’t I pay attention more in Social Studies in Seventh grade!!?? Turned out to be WARREN G, as in Harding. D’oh!
Here’s today’s Owl Chatter quiz: Is this the Prez, or the rapper?
How about this one? 16A: “Fast-food order that comes in four shapes: bells, balls, boots and bow ties.” My first guess was MCNOODLES, but no such thing exists. It was just your old MCNUGGETS — Boo!
Two other WOEs for me (what on earth?) were 46D: “Dances in duple time.” Answer: GALOPS. And 30A: “Smallish smart device from Amazon.” Answer: ECHO DOT. Ridiculous.
Would you have gotten 28A? The clue was “‘Coach.’” It finally came to me, mostly via the crosses: ECONOMY. (Get it? Think airplane fares.)
At 51A, “Spurt” was JET, which led Son Volt to post this song:
Took a hike to the Soldier Huts in Jockey Hollow yesterday. Here are Linda and Caity and her five-some, posing not posing for a picture.
This wonderful poem about “the best kind” of love is by Billy Collins. It’s from today’s Writer’s Almanac and is called “Aimless Love.”
This morning as I walked along the lakeshore,
I fell in love with a wren
and later in the day with a mouse
the cat had dropped under the dining room table.
In the shadows of an autumn evening,
I fell for a seamstress
still at her machine in the tailor’s window,
and later for a bowl of broth,
steam rising like smoke from a naval battle.
This is the best kind of love, I thought,
without recompense, without gifts,
or unkind words, without suspicion,
or silence on the telephone.
The love of the chestnut,
the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel.
No lust, no slam of the door—
the love of the miniature orange tree,
the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower,
the highway that cuts across Florida.
No waiting, no huffiness, or rancor—
just a twinge every now and then
for the wren who had built her nest
on a low branch overhanging the water
and for the dead mouse,
still dressed in its light brown suit.
But my heart is always propped up
in a field on its tripod,
ready for the next arrow.
After I carried the mouse by the tail
to a pile of leaves in the woods,
I found myself standing at the bathroom sink
gazing down affectionately at the soap,
so patient and soluble,
so at home in its pale green soap dish.
I could feel myself falling again
as I felt its turning in my wet hands
and caught the scent of lavender and stone.
Posted in the Dull Men’s Club (UK):
Things can get pretty heated at the Club. Alice Ahern asked the following, not realizing it would open quite the can of worms: Why do so many police stations have these glass towers?
Chris Williams noted: Technically a criminal offence to photograph a police station. I’ve seen Youtube and twitter videos of people while walking away being called back by officers coming out of the station asking “You!! Why were you photographing our police station just then?”
A bunch of folks disagreed, and then Simon Page wrote: Thank god so many people here have answered this, with some conviction too. And you are totally, absolutely and annoyingly WRONG. So please don’t post such “technical” garbage based on YouTube without properly researching the law.
Williams replied: here in Cardiff there is a crank who deliberately goes out of his way with his YouTube and Twitter to photograph police cars, police stations and unmarked buildings etc. Every single time his videos feature cops ordering him to delete his footage/hand over his camera.
Page again: For your own safety on this thread Chris, please just delete it! You seem like a nice guy. There are videos out there of Police moaning or insisting on ID but believe us, you are legally entitled to film any emergency worker or depot, station, pig farm etc without hindrance or explanation.
Williams’ final reply: No I will not delete something factually correct despite being shot down by clueless idiots.
Hrrrrrumph!
I’m too upset to continue. See you tomorrow.
The Wellington Files 