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NON F ICT ION
PRIDE By Patricia Martin
The day came when I was ready to step forward and claim my identity as the parent of a transgender youth. It was the day of the Chicago Pride Parade, June 2016. I woke early and made a sign to carry. The sign was a riff on the I heart NY logo. I wrote with giant magic markers: I (heart) my trans child. I colored the heart in with rainbow colors. A little corny, I thought. But it was my last sheet of poster board; it would have to do. Texting one of the members of my trans-parent support group, I let her know I was heading to the meet up spot. I stuffed a backpack full of sunscreen and water bottles and burbled my way to the car. By the time I arrived, people were lined up waiting to march. It was still morning, but the heat was already bearing down. Everywhere I looked was an explosion of color. Floats were festooned with rainbow archways made of balloons. Flashy dancers, drill teams, men wearing stilettos and lace corsets — it was like being backstage at a Tim Burton send up of Vegas. I’d promised my friend, Kit, that I’d find her. Swimming past men in hoop-skirted ball gowns and feather headdresses,
