Walt, Harvey and Today

I can only imagine (always being so self-conscious and of course narcissistic) how this post will turn out and what others (who do read this, but why?) may think. I just completed C.K. Williams' On Whitman, the textual analysis of the loafer's "Leaves of Grass". My eyes were opened to the fact that he and many, many others prefer Whitman's first 1855 editions of the poems and reject the later editions. My only exposure to Walt is through the death-bed edition and my journey to Camden, New Jersey and a visit to Walt's haunts. I will be reading the 1855 edition before school resumes and compare the two versions.

I love Walt Whitman. His poetry has changed my life, fulfilled it. His song of living and loving life has made me do my best to do the same. I named a child after him. I visited his gravesite. I teach him, even when I shouldn't (what's a history teacher spending time on "Leaves"?). I have not read a thorough biography of the man and wonder if I even need to (yet I'm well read on Bruce, Dylan, Woody and others). Let his words speak for him; let his words define him and help me with my own definings. Every time I open his song, I explore more of myself and want to break out of my shell to learn more of others. Thank you for loafing and inviting and assuming, WW.

The Chronicle published a photograph taken thirty-two years ago this last Friday. One of many, it's simply a man in a t shirt in a car in a parade. And yet, I can't help but smile and reflect upon the short public life of Harvey Milk. I've written about him many a time before and yet to mark his participation in the Pride Parade and what it has meant for so many is vitally important.

Which brings about today. It's Pride Weekend in the city and I know many people who have traveled to participate. I wish I could visit and take my kids to see, if anything, the parade down Market Street. I'm not quite sure I need to see the bondage outfits and the flamboyant entrants; what I wish to see are the countless faces of those who wish to be there, to see and recognize the communal value of the others who have attended for the same reasons. For many, it must be exhilarating; for others, sheer terror. The small but raucous parade and festivity in the Tower District of Fresno turned my attention nearly a decade ago and when I caught wind of people I knew attending it (ESPECIALLY my fellow church-goers), I was thrilled. As I came around in my thinking and values, I saw a deep and important beauty in not the parade, necessarily but the intent behind the parade. Acceptance. Love. Understanding. A sense of peace. For that, I wish I could have gone, to see it, to share in it.

Today marks the fortieth anniversary of the Pride Parade. Quite a history. With that, one can understand why I'm drawn to it, sure. Maybe next year? Maybe never, but I don't need to travel to the city to smile and hope and keep good thoughts for those that do make it.