Ok, ages ago, I posted a blog about a night when my daughter, Luca, woke up spouting vomit at 3 in the morning. One of the commentarians - hello Emptyman - wrote something about this being part of why they couldn't understand the whole child thing - puke in the middle of your dreams.
This has stuck in my head. Today, me and my four year old, Luca, went to the Gay Rodeo. For those who don't know, there is a thriving queer rodeo scene where the women do the men's things, the men do the women's things, they have drag on steer events and they put BVDs on a goat. Oh, we are a gentle angry people.
Anyhow, as we were leaving the gay Rodeo, moving slowly towards the car, my four year old daughter threw a tizzy in the parking lot. Sobbing, screaming, hysterical that we were leaving the horses. Beyond reason. And all I could think about were the hundreds of gay men in the stands, shirtless and tight-pec'd or hairy chested or just plain sun burned who came to the Rodeo to spike up their testosterone and get laid in a cowboy hat. There they were, their hands potentially already inching towards another weekend cowboy's rearing steed, when my daughter throwns a hissy fit, screaming red faced that she wants to dance with the gay boys and watch the drag queens ride the bulls.
And I remembered Felicia Park Rogers (where are you now, Felicia?)m who said that there are three things the queer movement has to give to the mainstream: sexual liberation, gender liberation, and family liberation. And I hoped the gay men in the stands remembered her, too.
