I am at the Dyke March (held at the Bandstand on Boston Commons) Friday evening, June 10, with three friends. I always look forward to the lovely volunteers circulating – like the cigarette sellers of yore – with trays of stickers. In past years they have been florescent rectangles of militancy. This year they are black & white, perhaps reflecting the economic situation. Anyway, the women come by and offer us our pick of identifying labels. Geek Dyke. Bike Dyke. Single. Slut. Butch. I choose “Activist Dyke” and “Anti-Racism Queer” – and that’s about as political as it gets.
Boston has had a Dyke March on the Friday evening before Saturday’s Pride Parade since 1993. It originated from the Lesbian Avengers as a counter to the male-dominated Pride organization. The Dyke March is a funny ole event – a huge contrast with the corporate and church dominated Pride with its company giveaways (carry bags with TJ Maxx logos, sunscreen from a health insurance company, mardi gras beads from banks), big floats, massive retail market and performance stage. The only merchandise on sale here are t-shirts with an unappealing footprint and jockey shorts and briefs with a slogan that is so forgettable that none of us can remember what it is, although we agree the word “rainbow” is involved.
In past years the Dyke March was a stitched-together, chaotic event. Everyone brought something to bang (as in drum, of course), someone led political chants and I believe there were demands. Certainly people circulated leaflets pointing out one activist campaign or another. The lesbians had a political agenda.
No more. Other than support for transgender issues – and there was a large trans presence – and a table staffed by the enduring and essential The Network / La Red (“ending partner abuse in LGBTQ, SM and polyamorous communities”), there is almost no hint that this is anything but a celebratory, sex-positive party event. There are a couple of thank-you speeches and an award-acceptance lecture from a community entrepreneur who spoke about giving “service” to the community. It was entirely out of context – no mention of gay rights or any other rights. Said my friend, “She could have been addressing her church group.” Sitting uncomfortably on the ground, we listen to the great music of the Afro-Caribbean New World Soul band Zili Misik.
Finally we set off to march in a big square of downtown that will end back here at the Boston Commons. The signs are saucy, flirtatious and devoid of political content. In fact many signs are more like personal ads (“I love fisting” and “Femme and Available”) or just plain odd (“You’re queer, but I’m even queerer” and “If Queer Power was a Robot, it Would Rule the World”). Wot?
We do see three women carrying a banner that reads something like: “Dyke Union Organizers: We Will Fuck Your Boss.” I’m not exactly sure what they are saying, but I will generally cheer on a union organizer. Our biggest giggle is for the volunteer security monitors on whose red sashes is written “Discipline Team.”
As always, the motorcycle dykes lead the march, although their contingent seems to be shrinking, and this year the bicyclists – on a variety of quirky elongated or elevated bikes, bring up the rear. In between are an awful lot of infants and toddlers – one wearing a delectable t-shirt: “Queer Spawn” – and lots of hand-holding young women. We catch sight of a small group of Roller Derby dames on skates wearing sparkly hotpants. The majority of marchers – and the crowd is large (last year it was 2,000) – is young, hip and decorative. People seem to stay within their friendship circle – screeching and hugging – and certainly no strangers talk to us (four older women) at all.
I have many thoughts. I wish I had realized when I was in my 20s that, in and of itself, youth is an attractive feature on a person. They all look great – as we did in at that age. But with the intensity of conservative homophobia and the ravages of an economy that is particularly failing the younger and older workers, where are the demands for justice? With a higher education system that is pricing itself out of mass reach, where is the anger? When women’s sexual health is under severe attack, where is the protest?
As we come down Boylston Street we hear a café calling to us. We stop by the side of the road and watch the rest of the march go by, then slip in for salads and lemonade. We have every intention of heading back to the Bandstand. An appealing after-march program is planned, including a speech by Urvashi Vaid and a set by the indie band Mrs. Danvers.
But as we stroll in that direction, the Arlington subway stop suddenly appears in our way. We think about sitting on the damp grass at the Commons, we realize that we’re quite tired, we notice that other older women are slipping down the subway steps and, depleted and a bit disappointed, we submit to temptation and head home.
Tomorrow we will find no media coverage of any sort. When a dozen tea baggers get together to crap on democracy, every news outlet sends a team. When a Congressman sends a blurry photo of his jockey shorts, wars and economic disarray disappear from the front pages. When 2,000 dykes wave signs referencing their own genitals, silence yawns.
The photos are random shots of other Dyke Marches and events.
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