Gays in Space

Written by: Grace Young | Illustrations by : Kit | Layout by: Jade Lee, Kit

5. There must be some kind of ironic symbolism in the fact that we ended up with flags in our hands. We, whose identities are so often visualized as banners of bright colors waving freely in the air. As strangers, we found each other on a football field under the hot June sun; as friends, we share in the delight of watching our flags spin in unison, cutting through the crisp October air.

Presenting their program Ad Astra...

Fifty-something awkward teenagers, in red uniforms and wielding musical instruments. Kids transformed by music into a team of astronauts, flying through space. And we, with our lustrous flags, with our white bodysuits, our slicked-back hair. Ready for take-off.

To the stars.

Whatever force of the universe up above brought us all together, it was a small blessing. Because while not all of us can proclaim our identities to the world, now, on this eight-minute voyage through space, we’ve each been given a flag we can wave with pride.

6. A girl stands in the center of a circle. The whole band’s eyes are on her, rings within rings of marchers all in position to begin the show. Everything has been set up: xylophones and microphones, wooden rifles and metal sabres. This is a state of calm, a rare snapshot of the moment just before the space odyssey begins, the intake of breath preceding atmospheric impact.

Her heart is beating inside her astronaut suit bumBUMbumBUMbumBUM because she’s never understood why they chose her to be the first face everyone sees and she doesn’t know

if all her tosses will go well or if she’ll remember the changes to the choreography or if they’ll get a good score. She feels the incessant pump of blood through her veins bumBUMbumBUMbumBUM but instead of letting the rush in her ears drown everything out, she listens to it. And she lets it empower her. Because, as much as her heart is beating from nervous anticipation, it’s also beating from something much more powerful. Something that reinforces itself in her core as she looks at the circle of people that surround her.

Love.

She loves them, every single one of them. The nerdy clarinet players and the brawny drummers and the badass guard girls (and boys). They make her strong. They lift her up, and the show begins. And in that moment, she truly feels like she is on top of the world.

Somebody tell me if there’s a name for a kind of love like that.

7. The thing about being surrounded by a marching band on a giant football field is that, if you’re one of the few people who aren’t using their mouths to make music, you can say things and they won’t be heard. For the color guard, that usually means counting: sets of eight to make sure all our flags and dance moves are coordinated. But sometimes there’s room for a little more creativity.

The end of the first part of the show is marked by a little three note punctuation: da, da, DA! And somewhere along the way—none of us know when—it has become a running joke within the guard to replace our counting with singing, “Gays in SPACE!” Within the mostly queer group, it is a moment of liberation. Our space to be who we are, and say what we want.

But it doesn’t feel like a big display of activism, or a verbal protest of any sort. It’s just fun. And that may be the most important reason to do it: because it makes us smile.

In that moment, we declare to the entire planet who we are, and it’s just like shouting into a vacuum. The blare of the band provides us all with a safe place to test the waters of being out. And while their sound might conceal our words, it certainly doesn’t mean they might as well have never been said.

Performance is usually a deception. A disguise, a charade. But on this journey to the stars, we stand in front of a crowd of strangers, and we proclaim, without fear, ourselves.

8. The drum major’s hands are still, and time is frozen once again: our bodies graceful, powerful statues; our words ringing in our ears; our flags planted in the turf.

Then he counts off, white gloves striking the air. Not with a 3-2-1-blast-off! but rather a 5-6-7-8.

And at once, we are all set into motion again. We strip our flags and disappear to the sideline. The moment of unabashed pride is but fleeting, a comet that soars by faster than the speed of sound. But the feeling it leaves inside our chests as we collapse,out of breath, is one that none of us will soon forget.