A Saturday night at Clark Park promises you will run into an ex, an ex-friend, a situationship or a paramour from the polycule that failed. Somehow I always end up there one way or another and thankfully this Saturday I was in luck, for the most part, up until the very end when the friend I dragged along saw an ex-friend of ours and ex-roommate of hers.

Anyway, the bowl of the park was packed with so many dykes and I admit I loved to see it despite the apprehension that hums under the chest when you stand in a crowd that mirrors your own longing. The bowl burst with that kind of charge only a queer fundraiser can hold, messy and hodgepodge, like a warm hug full of tension, you pick which kind of tension you like.

ScissorsPHL had called us together for a Gen Z–themed event to help a lesbian flee the country, and I showed up in solidarity, dressed like the patchwork of a thousand small rebellions. My classic leather moto jacket from Texas and the trusty black pants I’ve worn around the world, to concerts, events, and other gay activities, the ones with holes worn thin with time, were covered in self-sewn patches: “Clean Energy,” “Plant Seeds Not Bombs,” “Land Back,” and a few fresh Sinister Wisdom patches I’d ironed and stitched on before heading out. Thank you, Julie.

I tucked the rest of my stickers and patches into my pocket to hand out to cuties at the event because what’s a queer gathering without a little exchange of art and resistance. The space was pure lesbian performance energy, boisterous, tender, beautifully unhinged. Lesbians selling art, some in collars, others with blankets and chairs, most of us plopped right on the grass.

The night’s theme was a “Lesbian Performance Contest,” a challenge to whoever could embody the most performative lesbian-dyke essence. My favorites? A drag king who stripped and shook ass for a roaring crowd of about 150 lesbians, a hot femme with a backpack full of goodies, books, smokes, and the trusty strap, and the one that really got me hollering, a spunky butch who peeled off her shirt, dropped to the grass, and banged out a set of push-ups like it was the gayest bootcamp on earth (raise your hand if you too, have a fetish for women in uniform...)

I didn’t know whether I wanted to show her up or wrestle her right then and there. I enjoy a dirty pup and some beefy arms like no other, so you know I was cheering from the front, half laughing, half swooning.

The air felt like kinship, vibrant and joyful and defiant. We were all there for a cause, yes, but also to remember what it feels like to be together, to be seen, to be loud, to love every minute of it.

Sometimes it can be hard to reenter spaces like these and stay loud and proud. No matter the age, finding and building community is always a kind of labor, a journey of trial and error, a curation of boundaries and a widening toward new needs. I write this as proof to myself that I’ve done it and I will continue to persist. You can too, in action and in spirit, for our queer futures.

I love us,

Mel

P.S. If you’re in Philly swing by Marsha's on South Street! The First women-owned queer sports bar in the city, I was there opening night and wooweee is it a much needed vibe, hope I find my wife there!