2009 SF Dyke March

Tons and tons, no, hoards and hoards, no, gaggles, groups, pods, packs, and a plethora of dykes, lezzies, newby-dykes, tranny-dykes, mod-lez', old, wide, squat, tiny, lean, butch, femme, andro, sporty, mulleted, buzzed, wavy'd, permed, dyed, bespectacled, wheelchaired, caned, walkered, and of course, motorcycled dykes hovered, sat, strolled, gazed, walked, sauntered, scammed, pawed, scoured, moshed, humped, and ambled the grounds in and around San Francisco's Dolores Park.

The 39th Annual Dyke March kicked off with a rally sporting notions of dyke equality, funky music, and, among other notables, the scratchy-voiced, kick-ass keynote speaker Sharon Gless (famed for her role as Christine Cagney in Cagney & Lacey, bit parts in Nip/Tuck, and of course as Debbie Novotny, the smart-mouthed mom in Queer as Folk). She's in a new low-budget film, Hannah Free which closed out the film fest. Yea for her doing a lez part and being proud of it to boot!.

I missed 98% of that rally, opting to arrive later and wander the grounds, absorbing all the estrogen and lezzie aura in the air. Man, it was AWESOME. I realized, near the end of the Dyke March -- which started (typically) late, wound its way down 18th Street to Valencia, Valencia to 16th, then west on 16th to Castro towards the magnificent party and gargantuan disco ball -- that I could have easily made myself into one of those iconic rock stars and had the burly, bare-chested chix who were whooping nearby hoist me up over their shoulders and let the crowd of female fingers just pass me along over the heads of the 40,000 hot & hollering lez-positive women that filled 16th. It was that kind of night. Absolutely remarkable.

So awesome it was, that I actually Missed the dyke drama just a mere first-down measure from my feet. I happened to be in line for a scummy port-a-potty, and, beyond my vision, perhaps a few steps farther down the line, a pair of prickly dykes got into fisticuffs with each other. Haven't been witness to a good 'you slept w/my girlfriend' fight in soooo long. Lunging for each other, fists flying, long hair snarling and getting yanked, kicking, cussing, all while each person's little posse attempted to unsuccessfully pry these angry pheromone-laden women apart. Like angry magnets they were, just when the iron ore seemed to be far enough from its attractant, the raging, jealous energy sucked them back together in a fiery, female, snarling fight. But for the lack of folding chairs and monstrous & bald security personnel that are oft found on stage, Jerry Springer would have been proud. The two feral females ultimately stomped off in opposite directions with their cadres, both tomato faced and tearful. One of them, fists still clenched, was screaming at her good pals, "Goddammit, I just fucking love her so much I could kill her!" Aaah, now that's good dyke drama love. Nearly a sonnet.

Alas, it was all-chik energy from curb to curb, corner to corner with boys, women, tourists, heteros & homos on the sides, cheering from their windows, dancing on the rooftops, applauding from fire escapes, and beeping their horns while stuck in their cars because of our traffic stopping busts and shouts. Of course, there were quite a few men in the crowd of marchers too, which makes me wonder why since it's a lezzie thing and dudes can hang on the edges to support. Still, the air was sizzling, with melodious, lavender-laden, alto soprano tones and ear-thumping decibel levels from the revving D.o.B. motorcycles, political statement megaphones, Sistah Boom's percussive poundings, and the feet stomping, hip-grinding pulsating rhythms of Madonna, Pink, and Sister Sledge blaring from upper floor apartments.

Because of the sunshiney, 80 degree day, skin shone throughout. Bare arms dangled and pulsed to the beats, draped around wifely shoulders, or clenched the muscles as the wrists cocked the throttle on their Harleys. Breasts of all shapes, sizes, and adornments flopped to and fro for Dyke Freedom. Some women were so bold to actually place Human Rights campaign stickers on their nipples. I suppose because of the higher temperature and sweat-bead factor, peeling them off wouldn't hurt as much as they normally would, but still. I can think of less painful ways to be slightly modest, and even make a tiny political message. Nonetheless, bare butts, breasts, and a smattering of all-nude women (and quite a few nude men in the Castro) staked their claim to the message: we're dykes, we're sexy, fun, shapely, and ready to take on the world - one march at a time!

What impressed me this year moreso than most other years was the number of younger women present at the march. By younger, I mean 18+ year olds who are aware, participating in and celebrating their lives, their sexual explorations and identities. Some were a bit shy, hiding behind or clinging to their female pals while nursing drinks and gazing at passing cuties. Others hung onto their gal pals, making out or dancing to the music that filled the air. Still, others blew whistles, pounded bongos, and hoisted pink cardboard/black markered Dyke Equality signs overhead to establish their political perspectives on the ridiculous inequalities that surround them, or us. The youth are here and boy oh boy do they share a strong voice to be heard.

When it comes down to it, though, the crowd consisted of women from all parts of the U.S. and abroad. Women from Fresno, Salt Lake City, Tampa, NYC, Buffalo, Austin, Calgary, Toronto, Paris, Sydney, Tokyo, and even my hometown of Portland, Oregon danced, drank, and celebrated their lezzie-dom one way or another. We were senior citizens, midlifers, teenagers, 20-and 30-somethings, and the somewhere-in-betweeners. We sported shoulder length, Prince Valiant, shaves, mullets, short-sporty (that'd be "my" hairstyle), and spiked hair of all natural and unnatural colors.

Most of all, though, we were there in sync, laughing, dancing, cheering, and having some of that fab female camraderie that is oft found at this event (besides the dyke drama brawl mentioned earlier).
Of course we, the multi-thousand group of us, the Wake, Caravan, Herd, Intrigue, Colony, Drove, Peck, Kettle, Bevy, Cohorts, Fold, Farrow, Memory, Wisdom, Tower, Pandemonium, and Pride (peacocks, how appropos!) poured our fab energy into the Pink Saturday festivities in the Castro afterward.

Honestly, considering how well we put on a party, it's quite obvious it's great to be gay (or GLBTQ, if you will). It's even better to have a strong community of friends, comrades, colleagues, and acquaintances (both gay & straight) who accept & support us. Gay (GLBTQ) Pride week is our pre-holiday week warming up to the big shebang celebration on the weekend. The difference being that unlike the standard end-of-year holiday season, I didn't spend a ton of cash but I did have a fucking great time scanning the crowd for chiks, whooping, dancing, oogling, flirting, and celebrating with my peops.

Check it out! A tiny taste (not as much skin as I'd like: my battery was dying) of the 2009 SF Dyke March (by yours truly):
http://www.mydeo.com/videorequest.asp?XID=28518&CID=272721