There were only two times I ever went to dinner alone with my dad and
the Step Monster, his wife after my ma.
The first time was my twenty-first birthday at
La Majada in Oak Park. It turned out to be pretty anticlimactic after spending
years waiting to drink legally.
The whole meal I was anxious because my softball buddies were waiting
for me at the tavern that sponsored our team. I wolfed down my enchiladas and slammed the first two legal drinks of my life. A couple of La Majada margaritas
and then I got the hell out of there.
The second time was a few years later. Same restaurant, same enchiladas
and the same margaritas.
This time there wasn't a birthday or a celebration. My Oldman and the
Step Monster wanted to talk to me about something serious. The way they looked,
I thought they were going to tell me the dog died or they were selling the
house in Oak Park.
Instead, they told me the Step Monster's oldest son officially came out
of the closet. They were worried because I was the conservative Catholic in the
family and they thought I would become unglued over the news.
I honestly couldn't have given two
shits.
Hell, I knew my stepbrother was gay when we
were kids.
Both of them were floored by how little I cared. Ironically, as the
years passed, it turned out the Step Monster had a much harder time accepting
her son's sexuality than anyone else and she considered herself a big liberal.
That memory brings me to this weekend.
Pride Month reaches its grand finale with the parade through Boystown.
The music, the flamboyance, the politicians and the pageantry.
...and I still
don't give two shits.
If you are attracted to the same sex, have at it. Fall in love. Get your
heart broken. Fight over money. Argue about whose turn it is to do the dishes.
Experience all the same joys and misery that us breeders have.
As long as you are happy and love is involved, good for you. Be gay and
be proud.
It doesn't bother me one bit that June is your month.
To me, June is the beginning of summer. It is when baseball settles into
the meat of the season. It is Ella and Louis singing Porgy and Bess.
It is my grandma's rose garden blooming. It is the one month of the year when
my shadow falls directly beneath my big booty.
What I don't need is the loudest, most extreme part of the gay community
shoved in my face.
Then
again...
I don't need the loudest extreme conservatives
shoving their bullshit in my face either or the loudest far left liberals
shoving theirs.
When you see me, you don't see my Catholicism or my Republican politics
hanging off my sleeve. Because I don't wear them that way.
Sure, I have a Reagan/Bush '84 t-shirt. I have an "eracism"
shirt. I even have a Lynyrd Skynyrd concert shirt with the Confederate flag.
I have another one that says:
Race: Human
Birthplace: Earth
Politics: Freedom
Religion: Love.
Hell, I still own the Confederate flag that hung in my bedroom when I
was a teenager. I also have the Pride flag that I flew from my balcony
overlooking the Divorced Dad District a couple years ago.
In other words...
You probably wouldn't have a clue what I'm all about. I am a gumbo pot
of JumboLove. I don't care if you are Black or Puerto Rican. Jewish or Lutheran.
Straight or gay. Republican or Democrat. Trump or Obama. Bush or Clinton.
I don't hate you more because you are
different than me and I don't love you any less either.
I have another twenty to twenty-five years left on this planet, I would
like to go out believing the Beatles had it right.
"And in the end, the love
you take is equal to the love you make."
So, enjoy your Pride weekend, my gay and
lesbian friends.
… And if your community ever decides to add a couple more letters to the
acronym...
Make it JBL.
Because JumboLove is for everyone.
