Years ago I had a quaint dream, full of intensity, of which I remember virtually nothing except for crowds spilling into the streets, shouting “Rainbow! Rainbow!”
I thought of it today, taken by surprise as I walked into the gym under the television screens that I always say I hate. On every one something like the video on this page was playing live, only without the sound.
I still have my sign from the 1993 Gay Rights march, my late and ex husband identifying ourselves as “straight married suburban squares” promoting the acceptance of “domestic partnerships.” On account we figured that was all the country would see in our lifetimes. Leapfrogged right over that sucker, didn’t we?
Crying at weddings is traditional so I front-loaded a few sniffles there in front of the parallel pin stack leg press.
2. Old Beaux
I have alluded occasionally to my Nazi Ex. He was primed to become an ex on numerous counts, thirty-some years back, but finding out he had joined one of the country’s assorted white power groups was the last straw. He was one of the ones that the shooter in last week’s murder spree derided as “all talk,” but I have wondered glumly, off and on, what sort of damage he was doing with his above-average IQ and linguistic skills.
The news from Charleston made me go questing on Google again.
He got married last year. To a black lady.
I guess I have to call him my ex-Nazi ex now. I’ll never know when he got over it or what grace stole up on him, but it makes me wonder who the Charleston shooter would be in twenty years if he hadn’t been able to get his hands on that gun.
At least one person eventually walked away from insanity.