“Unfortunately, poetry is not born in noise, in crowds, or on a bus.”
It was Pride here in Victoria recently and I had a couple of experiences that brought home to me the importance of belonging and the curious contrasting nature of “community”.
Each year on Canada Day, the Pride Society hosts a “drag ball” game as a kick off to Pride week. This is where I had realization number one. It was a crowd of about 500 – not huge, but significant for our town. As I walked around and greeted the people I knew, I had a flashback to when I was 17 years old and newly “out”, sneaking into the Queen’s Head Cabaret, way back in 1979. It was there, for the first time as an adult that I felt I belonged. Men danced with men and I could hold my boyfriend’s hand or even kiss him with impunity.
I was home.
The ball game gave me that same sense. Here I was in a crowd, but I was part of the crowd – it reflected me and in me it was reflected. The ball game itself was irrelevant to the experience. Here there were gay men, lesbians, bi, trans and straight people and lots of dogs all enjoying a warm summer day as “family”. There was no sense of separation on that day.
Flip forward a week to the Pride Parade. I walked in the parade with the HIV groups – doing my usual “gender fuck” clown drag. In Victoria the parade is growing each year and while I’ve been in and out of it, I have a good time being some other character and blending into the Wonderland world that happens once every year.
The crowd on the route was spontaneous and fabulous! I don’t think I’ve had that many pictures snapped of me at any given time, and certainly never in my “boy” clothes. Just plain “Michael” isn’t as interesting as “Sugar Sprinkles” – my drag persona who is far more outgoing and outlandish than I’ll ever be (left) .
The floats and dancing boys all landed at a local park and the crowds poured in. I estimated about 10,000 people were at the Festival: again, it’s growing here every year and that’s great. But the park is where I had the second experience and it wasn’t so special.
I was not a part of this “community”. This place was foreign to me. I was simply one more person on a field full of people. I saw very few people I knew and a sense of disconnection set in. And don’t get me wrong, it was a huge success – Pride Societies generally float from year to year hoping that they make enough money to put the spectacle on again the following year. And that’s not the point of this. I’m happy the event is growing in popularity and that more people are coming out. But here on this field, there were only lines of people waiting to buy over-priced food, or lines of people waiting in line to use the porta-potties, or streams of people moving from tent to tent to see what wares were for sale (and, of course the ever packed beer garden).
There were lots of people but there seemed to me to be no participation.
That, I think is what separates crowds from community.
Communities are not necessarily defined by their numbers, but more by their ability to ensure that all members have the opportunity to participate. Participation isn’t just about showing up, it’s about belonging and meaning.
In drag, I could participate in the spectacle of Pride. I could be outrageous for an hour or so and not be “me”. But that’s not sustainable. Once I put on my boy clothes I ceased to belong to the spectacle and melted into sameness. I wasn’t special anymore. I had no sense of belonging to the swarm.
Living with HIV is like being hidden in a crowd. Where we have the chance to be in intimate connection with other people living with HIV we can sense our belonging-ness. But then we go home and blend into the blandness of everyday life, wondering where and when we will have the chance to “fit in” again. We aren’t in drag capturing the attention of a crowd, we aren’t anything other than living in our skins, unless we choose to be outrageous, and then we risk being attacked by the flying monkeys – all those people who don’t want us to exist alongside them.
And so, we wander down the Yellow Brick Road, collecting the odd people who become our family, our community, we tell our stories to each other and we search together for the way home…