How the March Won Me Over

I'll be the first to admit it -- coming into this march, I was a skeptic.

You see, I'm somewhere between generations. I'm not the activist who's been fighting the good fight since Stonewall, front and center at every call for equality, for Washington to sit up and take notice of our lives -- of our worth.

I'm not even one who really remembers what it was like to be gay during the Clinton years. I mean, I was out for two of them, but admittedly, I spent those years caring more about Deborah Cox and deconstructed jeans than "don't ask, don't tell."

But I've also been doing this gay journalism thing long enough to have seen some political battles won (same-sex marriage in California) and lost (fast-forward five months). I've attended dozens of pride parades all over the country. I've met gay and gay-supportive politicians, and even faced down the Westboro Church contingent a few times. I'm still young, but I'm most definitely not gay youth.

So when Cleve Jones, David Mixner, Robin McGehee, Robin Tyler, and a slew of other tried-and-true, dedicated activists called us all to Washington, I had mixed feelings.

In theory, I thought, this could be amazing. But in practice? Much as I hate to put it out there, I wasn't so sure. After all, Obama was scheduled to be at some golf tournament -- Congress wasn't even in session. And while Washington is just a train ride away for New Yorkers, from Los Angeles, well ... I'd marched up and down the Sunset Strip for my rights in November - and December -- and again in May when the state supreme court voted to uphold Proposition 8. Plus, I'm an editor -- I could cover it from the Advocate offices, right?

Then, suddenly, Congress was in session. And Obama decided the Human Rights Campaign dinner was a better use of his time than teeing off. And Barney Frank, well ... much as I usually enjoy his musings, the whole "complete waste of time" statement pissed me off. It's one thing to wonder if this whole march thing is going to get Washington's attention ... it's another thing to tell the people who have put their blood, sweat, and tears into planning it that their months of work was "pointless."

So I came to Washington. Forty-eight hours before the National Equality March was set to begin, I booked a flight and a hotel. I rallied the writers and reporters and photographers we'd recruited to cover this thing and let them all know I'd be joining them in Washington. As an editor ... writer too. Photographer, IT support in a pinch, and text me, tweet me, call me out on Facebook ... as the weekend jack of all trades, I was officially covering the march.

I just didn't know I'd get so swept up in the emotion of it all.

The kids won me over -- well, they spearheaded it, at least. Not kids inthe literal since ... kids of "the movement."

My 23-year-old coworker andtireless volunteer Boo Jarchow, who worked hour after hour, week afterweek to make this weekend a success. Who went hours on end withoutsleep because she didn't want to miss a thing. Who was so excited aboutevery last thing she took cabs around town, sprinted down streets, andburned out the batteries on both her BlackBerry and her iPhone to makesure there was no event, speech, mixer, or rally in which she didn't feelinvolved. The fivesome of teens from Knoxville, Tenn., who droveeight hours to be a part of history, who were thrilled to find out Iworked for The Advocate and practically tackled me for my ticket to theHRC dinner to see Obama.

They're just some of the many whogave this weekend purpose, and they remind me what it's all about -- abetter future, starting now.

I hadn't lost hope. I wasn'tjaded or bitter. I'd just forgotten what it feels like to standshoulder to shoulder with thousands of your gay brothers and sistersand know that one day, if you scream loud enough and demand to beheard, change happens.

Sure, Obama's speech at the HRC wasn'trevolutionary -- some would even argue it was a colossal failure. He'sstill not talking about marriage ... or Maine ... and "don't ask, don't tell"repeal is still "on its way." But rewind the clock a year. Bushaddressing a crowd at an HRC fund-raiser? The fool probably thinks HRCstands for Hillary Rodham Clinton, and if she were hosting afund-raiser, he wouldn't go to that either. I get the need to pressureour politicians -- to demand more. But sitting there for 20 minuteswhile the president told our community we mean something. I don'tsuggest we let up on our demands for equality, but I'm not going topretend it didn't send chills down my spine.

Today I stood 10 feetfrom David Mixner, who looked on from his wheelchair as thousands ofpeople poured onto the lawn in front of the Capitol building. He toldAdvocate.com, "I told you they would come. Never underestimate thepower of people who want their freedom." Damn ... those are inspiringwords. David was in a hospital bed two months ago.

If hecould make it to the march and speak to the crowd with such passion,why the hell was I such a holdout?

Even Lady Gaga damn nearmoved me to tears. A 23-year-old pop star taking Barney Frank to taskfrom a podium at a national rally for gay rights? We may worshipMadonna and Whitney, Barbara and Bette, but when have any of them takenthe time to prep a speech that they the shouted through a microphonewith the world's media watching in support of gay rights? I appreciate a good diva as much as the next gay, but Gaga went above and beyond this weekend.

As Isit here typing this up, my feet are throbbing from walking -- I'm sleep-deprived, have eaten less this weekend than I have in, well, howlong have I been with my boyfriend? I've typed, I've interviewed folks,I've posted photos, blogged, edited, schmoozed, screamed my lungs out,and, yeah, even a few times, I cried.

But most importantly, I'm damn thankful Icame to Washington. Because doing it all from Los Angeles would havebeen easy, and it would have saved money for travel, but it wouldn'thave given me hope, and it wouldn't have renewed my faith.

"Never underestimate the power of people who want their freedom." Thank you, David ... thank, you kids. I won't. Never again.