Things to Miss
Back home in Eau Claire, I go through the motions. I wake up, eat my cereal, bike to work, and admittedly perform the bare minimum as to not over-exert myself each eight-hour shift. It’s normal, and normal is so boring suddenly. I felt regularly overwhelmed by the sheer number of stimuli in San Francisco, and during our last few moments I remember thinking how I couldn’t wait to get back to a slower-paced city. Now, I think I’m realizing that I need some of that fast-paced pressurized punch that comes from the bustling Castro district.
What are the things I miss? Pigeon pedestrians / being able to get away with neglecting crosswalk signals / good Indian food / snug multicolored houses with hexagonal bay windows / sun-bleached pride flags billowing from lamp posts, so commonplace and worn you cannot differentiate between a trans and a lesbian flag / event posters scrapbooked across mailboxes advertising block parties, erotic performances, and art galleries / commonplace zine collections in bookstores with everything you need to know about protester’s rights / warm summer sun divorced from sticky Wisconsin humidity / nervous conversations with creatives wearing matching industry passes / crying next to my cohort friends as I watch queer films that change something about me as a person—in my soul? My brain?
One July weekend, I drive back to my quieter Minnesota hometown. My folks gush with the pride of a good ally (tears prick the corners of my eyes as I think about the progress we’ve made together); they ask for every detail of our two-week immersion—I oblige with glee. My mother mentions in passing how it has been a while since I’ve looked this happy, and it stops me in my tracks. I actually agree; every time I recount the June journey, my cup fills back up, overflowing with adoration and gratitude.
The following reunion with extended family is where things get stale. There’s a stiffness that’s subtle, but still starkly different from the car ride with my parents. No one asks where I was, why I left, or what I learned. Greedily, I corner aunts and uncles, practically pulling teeth for engagement. Those that do find the interest need a certain level of…censorship. I pitch up my voice when giving my timeline, voice cracking as I tread carefully. The rainbow colored hot-button topics jump from each photo in my camera roll; hastily, I snatch the phone back and scroll to the more standard streets and fire escapes so as not to offend. It gets to the point where I clock myself doing this, and it feels so lame. As I story-tell, I omit some of my favorite parts of the immersion, the things that bring tears to my eyes because I am so happy to have experienced them!
What are the things I miss? I speak not of the overwhelming power of the crowd at the trans march—so big that we stand still like stopped traffic as marchers squeeze into the streets. I neglect to mention the rainbow-decorated breakfast Kallie made for everyone on the morning of Pride, muttering something to my grandfather about “a nice homemade meal together to celebrate our last day in the city.” I even miss the most important part of Frameline’s description when telling family friends about my experience attending a film festival—the queerness.
The things I miss in my debrief aren’t done out of shame, I’m incredibly proud of being in this cohort and everything we’re doing/experiencing. It’s difficult to be so in love with the work you do and not be able to share it all with the people you love, too. I’m so lucky to not have to be afraid of violence or being disowned for doing the work I do, being the way I am, but there’s still a lot of fear, you know? In California, it was so easy to exist and participate because we were in a historically queer hot spot during the peak of Pride month. It feels like a different planet back home, and admittedly that means diluting myself and missing things to be more palatable and fit in with the family dynamic I’ve grown up in. I wonder if they’ll read this blog post and think I’m upset or angry; I wouldn’t say that I am. It’s tough with different generations coming from wildly different walks of life. I don’t know why I choose to miss the things in my retelling that I miss the most.
