Two tequila shots in and anticipating at least two more. It is the second Sunday into June, it is pride month.
On a usual Sunday I become a compliant barista at a coffee shop located inside of a church, and right after, I become a submissive cocktail waitress at a Morracan restaurant in Orange County. To illustrate my American dream, I press decaf espresso for elderly, traditional, Hispanic, Christian women that look me up and down. Never failing to leave me perplexed by what the hell they could possibly be calculating about me in their Godly minds. And might I add, these bags under my eyes along with my dirty tattoos aren’t helping my entrance into heaven with these ladies. Then, at 5pm I manage to paint my face, pretending to enjoy serving Old Fashions to old men with old age beliefs. If you’re wondering why I submit to such glorious work, this is what pays for my outrageously expensive college books. The tips are worth the bullshit. For now. But again- this is an unusual Sunday.
So, I leave work early, rush home, throw on a mesh long-sleeve shirt (showing my nipples of course), douse myself in glitter, and pile a suppressed queer Mormon and our two supporters in my car.
A tequila infused Sunday accompanied by colorful people, dancing rainbows, and banter, unfortunately is a seldom form of freedom that requires an organized event. Which for most of us, only happens once a year.
As a queer, female, woman, living back at home with a firmly religious roof over my head to remind me that, “homosexuality is a perverted sin, but in Christ we can be new creations...”; I leave my job early this Sunday, call out of my night shift, and allow myself to bloom a new creation of Cara at Los Angeles Pride. I freely become me and wait patiently for next June.
This is an unusual Sunday. This is my American dream.
Cara Troutman, Long Beach, California