JUNE 1.2007
JUStOUt|51
First-Timer Regrets
Escapade of a baby dyke at San Francisco Pride
irsts are easy to remember. My first rock
concert: R.E.M. My first car: my mother’s
old Sunbird. My first crush: my sister’s
friend Kimberly. Sometimes we have firsts
in our lives that, in hindsight, we’d rather
forget. The first Pride parade I attended was 10
years ago in San Francisco. My memory of the
event is bittersweet: 1 was painfully clueless, and it
was so much fun.
F
The Look
While attending my hometown college, 1 dab
bled in the gay and lesbian bars and tried my hand
at romance a couple of times. All of this was done
so far in the closet that I looked like a Jewish Jane
girl-next-door, who would implode before thinking
a lesbian thought. Though my parents lived clear
across town, 1 didn’t think Tucson was big enough
for the four of us: my mom, my dad, my blossoming
sexuality and me. I moved to Berkeley fresh out of
college, looking to be out.
It took me only a few months to realize that the
beautiful brown locks I sported since childhood were
damaging my chances for recognition as a baby dyke
looking for love. No amount of riot grrrl concerts was
going to help me into the out scene. I wasn’t lipstick.
1 wasn’t granola. The hair had to go.
All things gayer than gay, I knew, could be found
in the Castro district of San Francisco. 1 nervously
entered its venerable Nice Cuts and landed in the
chair of Brian, who would turn out to be my first
HIV-positive friend. Brian was sexy—well-built,
well-dressed and just a smidge flamboyant. He always
had boyfriend news to share and was a good sound
ing board for Miss Lonely Heart’s tales of woe. Brian
got me from long to mid-back to shoulder-length to
soft butch in a couple of months’ cuts.
I was flattered when Brian asked me to ride with
him on his motorcycle in the Pride parade. But with
out a proper dyke mentor, I made the mistake of mod
eling my first Pride Day outfit on a cross between
Charlie Chaplain and Patrick Swayze’s character
from The Outsiders. What hurts me now is that I
thought I looked hot in my thrift store man pants
(too baggy), maroon and black striped suspenders
(too expensive) and the all-important white tank top.
1 thought I was fitting in with my new nose piercing
(Saturn’s rings are smaller) and shorn head.
Out of My Mind
BY MALKA GEFFEN
A June morning is San Francisco’s winter, so
1 borrowed a black leather jacket and black combat
boots to keep me warm on the bike and complete my
presentation. 1 imagined my parents’ disapproval for
two aspects of my pending adventure: 1 would partic
ipate in a dangerous “political” parade and ride
a motorcycle without wearing a helmet.
The Feel
The only time I felt at all in danger was when
Brian secured our place in the parade. He told the
registrar, a true butch with a clipboard, that
because I was a dyke, we wanted to ride with the
infamous Dykes on Bikes contingent. She pointed
out that he could let me drive and ride in back, if
we so desired. As this was not an option, Brian
steered us to the back of the “general bikers”
contingent.
Screams were soon audible from further down
Market Street, which meant the parade was mov
ing. Engines (oh, so loud) were revving, and even
without headgear, 1 was feeling confident in my
chauffeur’s skills. But just as we started to creep for
ward, Brian jumped the bike onto the sidewalk,
rode around the rest of the guys on bikes and broke
us smack into the middle of the DOB crowd.
While I don’t think our presence totally under
mined the solidarity and popularity of Dykes on
Bikes, 1 wasn’t comfortable with breaking the
“rules” in my first parade among my new communi
ty. Brian was quick to point out how people along
the route gave us second looks that often turned
to cheer when they realized he was a gay man.
I nonetheless felt awkward for my part in breaking
tradition, which is ironic considering the nature of
the entire venture.
I now think back
on my first Pride with
the tenderness of
a loving parent who
sheepishly embraces
a toddler’s fashion
sense. As I plan for
Portland Pride 2007,
I don’t worry so much
about my style. I’ve
settled into my 30s
with a deeper knowl
edge of who I am,
and that’s something
to be proud of. ©
Staff Writer
M ai KA
GEFFEN has plenty
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