Lila

From the weather to the pace to the shades of skin to the food, Montana is world's away from San Francisco. I knew that, but still, I was caught off guard by how closed an open-minded town like Bozeman might be. There are no men holding hands, or women kissing in the alcoves of storefronts.
But I know quite a few men and women who'd like to do both of those things.

In San Francisco,  we shared our house with a lesbian couple, went to gay weddings, and explained civil rights to Stella as we admired at the giant pink triangle placed atop Twin Peaks during Gay Pride week, framed perfectly through our living room window.

Last week during my staff retreat, a colleague told his story of coming out, and of paying the consequences - nearly two decades of being outcast from his family. This is a man so full of heart and generosity, and patience.

For these and many other reasons, I was really excited when I learned that Montana's Pride celebration was happening in Bozeman this year. Just the banner flying over Main street was a pretty big deal.

And so on Saturday morning, Stella, Zoey and I headed down to the parade with our friends to take in all that it had to offer, and, perhaps more importantly, to dish a little love out.

The parade was bigger than I thought, and there was a lot of flare - music, outfits, exposed skin and joy - but there was also a lot of solemnity: churches singing about acceptance, families walking with their children, people holding signs about how Jesus didn't preach hatred. Their bravery was palpable.

I sobbed my way through the whole thing and felt sheepish to admit how emotional I was, only to discover that my friend was crying her eyes out too.

The rally at the library wasn't huge, but had all the requisite "I believe in miracles" kind of songs played loud over a crackling sound system, and the energy was high. The kids got tired and hungry so we headed home for some playing in the sprinkler and the pond, but not before my friend and I made plans to head to the drag show in the evening.

In the still-warm evening air, we walked to the student union for the show, which was for all the out-of-town performers. (The 'Made in Montana' drag show occurred the night before.) The music was loud, the drinks were stiff, the queens delivered, and I was completely distracted by this kid sitting in front of us, so totally uncomfortable in his fishnet stockings, strappy heels, shorts that could have fit on my pinky, and bra that just couldn't quite stay in place. His unfortunate wig was askew, and his eyes had this mixture of thrill and terror playing out in them. I could have been his mother, which might explain why I felt so protective of his brave, nascent spirit.

During one of the more amazing performances, I walked over to him and asked him if he wanted to dance up by the stage. "Yes, but there's no way," he mumbled.

"Come on, you're so beautiful, let's go," I responded. With that, he put his cool, pin-thin hand in mine and up we went to dance our hearts out to Whitney Houston.

"What's your name?" I asked.

It took him a bit. "Lila."

"Will I see you again next year?" he asked.

"Yes. Should I look for you on stage?"

"Maybe," he responded.

I sure hope so.