Sunday afternoons seem to be a good time to reflect on the week. To be blunt most of this week would have been smoother if I had been walking through the gates of hell. Several key tools in my life died, including my mom's scooter and my laptop. In case you are wondering, both are expensive to resusitate. However, yesterday was a breath of fresh air.

For the first time in my life, I went to the gay pride parade and festival. It was sooo much fun. Granted, every time a few thousand folks gather, a few nut jobs show their colors. Overall, it was delightful. I rushed us to arrive early enough to get a "good seat" for the parade. On the grand scheme of things, the parade was pitiful. Yet, it took me back to my childhood, where on the last Saturday in September we would get up early and rush to downtown Hephzibah to watch the "Country Fair" parade. After the parade, every southern gospel group, clogging troup, and belly-dancing accordion player would perform as old friends ate meat-on-a-stick and shouted, "hey, it's good to see you. How is your moma and them?' The two parades were eeriely similar.

I often try to forget the days in that tiny community where racial slurs were as common as hay bales. However, so much of who I am grew out of the traditions and communal nature of the rural south. I attended an all white, private, independent, Baptist elementary school where the Bible was used as science text, but today I have a knowledge and love of scripture that nourishes my weary soul. A church youth leader once told a group of us that black people were different and should be treated accordingly, but at that moment I learned that sometimes you have to stand up and walk out. I walked in pro-life fundraisers with other church youth, but today I know the power of coming together for a common cause. This same community taught me the value of showing up when folks were ill or had experienced a death in the family. My mother put a funeral ham in the freezer every time that they went on sale, and I thought that every child did homework in the break room of the local funeral home.

Looking back, the community I experienced at the gay pride festival is the much the same as the community that I experienced as a youth. We need each other, we like to eat and play together, we want someone to watch out for the 'crazies' and show up at funerals, but most of all we want someone to know our name and ask about our moma and them.