The Rainbow Staircase

[blimix]

The Rainbow Staircase

L'esprit d'escalier is killing me. I'll get to that.

Capital Pride was easily the best festival that I've been to. Sleep deprivation and the distraction of a busy, anxious mind had not kept me from enjoying it. The people were happy, energetic, and friendly, recognizing each other as supportive and empowering allies. Parade watchers and participants alike stopped to pet my friends' reptiles: Three Argentine black and white tegus and one yellow rat snake. (Chameleons are too antisocial for parades, so they stayed home.) Organizations concerned with social justice, such as In Our Own Voices and the Satanists, alternated with shows of rainbow capitalism. Employees marched with pride flags and TD Bank shirts, so that the bank could pretend to care about people even while it stays invested in the Dakota Access Pipeline. I could tell the difference in the cheers, though the show of support was still loudly welcomed. I ran up to one of the women with a "Free Mom Hugs" sign, and got a mom hug.

The police cruiser, halfway through the parade, did not draw cheers, nor did it intend to. They did not so much as fly a rainbow ribbon. Pride started when New York City police raided the Stonewall Inn, a haven where same-sex couples could dance together. Two transgender women of color, Marsha P. Johnson and Sylvia Rivera, instigated the crowds inside and out to fight back. The Stonewall Riot, and subsequent Pride events, have encouraged LGBT+ folks to band together, to protest police brutality, and to protect each other from hate crimes. The police cruiser in the parade was a show of force, brazenly defiant of civil rights. Any officers who were genuine allies could have lent support by attending out of uniform. Indeed, a lone protester marched behind the cruiser with a sign reading, "Take Off Your Uniforms". I nearly blew out my lungs shouting my approval of her sign.

My wife and I walked toward the festival in the park to meet a couple: One trans woman and her nonbinary wife. They had together learned new ideas about gender and sexuality when the latter's husband had become their wife.

Off to the side, away from the main crowd, was the second or third topless woman we had seen that day. She was the only one who had not painted over her nipples, and was also the only person we had seen who was standing and talking with a police officer. I glanced away, not wanting to subject anyone to the Male Gaze on this day of all days. But then I looked back. Did she need help? Was the officer harassing her? This had happened to a friend of mine, even though toplessness has been legal in New York State since 1992. The tone of the conversation seemed reasonable, though I couldn't make out the words. She didn't seem to need help. She looked at me, and watched me watching her. Nobody is a mind reader, and I wouldn't want to be thought leering, so I looked away and kept up with my wife as we entered the park.

Near the fountain, we met some men clad in fetish gear. Somehow, the leather made me think, “bikers,” even though there was nothing even slightly protective about these garments. My wife made decent conversation. All I contributed was, “You know you’re getting sunburned, right?” Sometimes people don’t notice until it’s too late, but yes, he knew.

We found our friends, who were too hot for hugs. Another friend tackle-hugged me from the Mothers Demand Action table. Still another, whom I hadn't seen in years, found me and caught up for a few minutes. I marveled at the luck of seeing her there, before remembering that she had married her girlfriend a few years back, and of course she would be at Pride.

One of our friends told me that the "Free Mom Hugs" had been sadly reminiscent of their estranged, bigoted mother. I said, "We're your family now." I realized belatedly that the mom hugs had been meant to comfort people who had been rejected by their parents. The food truck lines were too long, so we walked until we found good, cheap food on Lark Street.

I posted later on social media, to briefly say that my first Pride event had been wonderful in all ways.

By morning, sleep had freshened my mind. I remembered the topless woman talking to the police officer. There was no way in hell that she had attended the Pride parade and festival to talk to the police. If she had been engrossed in conversation, she wouldn't have been looking at me. She had likely been stuck, seeking an out, and looking to me for help, since I had noticed. My overstimulated, overwrought, and sleep deprived brain had failed to process the situation correctly. It had followed a too-simple rule, "Don't stare," down the path to bystander apathy.

In the shower, I started thinking about what I could have done. That's where you replay every conversation the way it should have gone, right? The first thought was unwise: "Do you need help? Well, the officer who harassed my friend for being topless caused a protest and a huge embarrassment for the Troy police department a couple of years ago. I'm sure you don't want that, officer. We'll all be on our way now."

The next thought was more consistent with what I've read about stopping harassment. "Hon, wait, she needs help. Pretend to know her. Don't engage with the cop. Hey! It's great to see you here! How've you been? Brian and Steph are waiting for us at the food trucks. Do you want to come with us? They'd love to see you!" This became the scenario that I wanted to enact, after going back in time one day.

The French call it "l'esprit d'escalier". I call it the "spirit of the staircase," because my wife was horrified the one time I attempted to pronounce it. It's when you think of the perfect response too late, when you're already on the stairway out.

I so desperately want to fix my screwup, to be the person I know I could have been if I'd been thinking faster and more clearly, or if I'd had any practice at all. But we don't start out good at things. Any skill worth learning is built on a mountain of failures. Each time I kick myself for it can be a reminder, so that I can recognize the situation and act in time. Next time.