Virgin Dyke March

At the tender age of 54, I went to my first dyke march this year. As my BFF would say, it was heaven on a biscuit.  For starters, you'll note this pic is from Eileen Myles's Instagram. In real life, I was standing right next to the lovely lady wearing this t-shirt, looking at Eileen Myles as she took this pic  and thinking, damn--she looks even better in person than she did when she was hanging out with Cherry Jones on Transparent. That was right after Cherry Jones hung out with the 20 year olds in the hot tub...but I digress.

I went to the march with my friends Nancy and Kate (of the purple protest shirt). This was old hat for them—a yearly protest/celebration with dear old friends, mini-reunions, and war stories. For me, it was an initiation ceremony—another rite of passage along the late blooming path.   There I was, smack in the middle of a big, messy dyke bazaar--grey-haired hippies, young studs (with studs), dapper dons, lipstick wonders, babes in Toyland. In between chatting with folks, I walked silently, taking it in. I thought about what the protest meant when it started and what it still means today for the many women brutalized by hatred and discrimination because they've been brave enough to live out loud.

Once again I find myself grateful to all of the dykes who made it possible to walk in a joyous, peaceful protest.  Thank you, women warriors.