The Tale of Two Flags: It's the Third One that Matters

I hesitate to contribute this story in honor of Pride Month given widespread prejudice. I mean to share a story. If it offends the editors or readers, you are welcome to stop reading.

Back when I used to live on Halsted Street in Chicago, my roommates and I would display two large Pride flags outside the bay windows facing the famous street of Halsted at the beginning of June for the month. Over the years, the brilliance of their colors faded from the monthlong sun exposure, perhaps a reflection of our own brilliance.

And then there was the moment when everything changed.

When I moved up to a more conservative neighborhood on the northwest side of the city, I lamented to a friend of mine that I could no longer hang the flags outside my windows without fear of bricks being thrown through windows or being personally attacked.

My personal reputation mattered little in this regard. Many of my ultraconservative neighbors, many of whom actually came to my door urging me to see the(ir) light, had already given up on the believer who was also somehow a heathen.

“But the Bible says . . .”

“Yes, I’m aware,” as I reached out to the mantel to grab a copy of the fully revised fourth edition of The New Oxford Annotated Bible: New Revised Standard Version With the Apocrypha. “But are you aware of the distinct and necessary modifications made between the publication of the Gospel of Mark and the Gospel of Matthew in order to align for the new religion?” That kept them at bay a while.

Then came the Muslims and the Hindus. (I live in a very multicultural neighborhood; the Orthodox Jews to the west feel no need to bother me.) I know too much about their religions for them to have fought back. So, they, too, left me alone.

Given that few can tell whether I’m white, Latin, Mediterranean, Arab, Middle Eastern, South Asian, or some odd combination of the above, I have not had to deal with too much overt homophobia where I live. But again, note what needs to be noted: if I were completely identifiable as one of “their own,” I would not have that luxury.

My friend suggested hanging the Pride flags inside the windows instead. At least that way, I would still somehow be commemorating Pride month. I thought about her suggestion. But the thought of their repeated view only to me would be a constant reminder of the prejudice that persisted just outside those very same windows.

A few days later, a bartender friend of mine who had twenty-year-old photographs of mine (you know, the kind that were actually developed?), said that he would be around to give them back.

It was a gray, bleak, drizzly day in Chicago, and it was also Midsommarfest¹, and the bar at which he worked was within the cordoned-off streets dedicated to the festival. Despite the restrictions on public transportation due to street closures and the terrible weather, I made my way down to pick up the precious photos and maybe partake in some of the festivities.

After picking the photographs up, I decided to leave so as to be able to get home given the limited CTA schedule on a Sunday night, especially with the aforementioned street closures, the weather, and it being late.

And then there was the moment when everything changed.

Sometime between me having to get to the bus stop that would get me closest to home, I was assaulted.

There was no provocation. None of us (two guys, apparently friends, and I) were even facing each other. There was no robbery. There was just, what, fury?

I did not even bother to turn around because no connection had been made to even think that they were talking about me. The same words were uttered a second time. I turned around to see what the commotion was all about when one of them knocked me to the ground.

I only got a semi-good look at his face when he punched me a second time. I am not sure if I saw rage or hatred; I was not in the best position to assess.

I do think I saw two things: something that looked like fear and the thought going through my mind that he was actually beautiful. Then they were gone.

That is the thing with sudden trauma: nothing actually makes sense at the time that it is going on. Not only did I get up thinking, a bit stunned for sure, but feeling like I just needed to get home, it was no big deal. I actually found my way to the bus stop from where I was at and boarded the arriving bus thinking I’d just be going home.

While on the bus, a Latino man of meager means got up from his seat and offered me a bandana, “Para sus ojos.”² It was only then that I looked down and realized I was covered in blood. Time gets fractured in such situations.

Moments later, the bus had come to a stop with ambulance and police lights surrounding the scene, like the disco lights that should have accompanied Pride month and Midsommarfest. It was not until two paramedics came onto the bus and escorted me to the ambulance that I even realized that the fuss was about me.

The large Pride flag that I ended up hanging out my window out of defiance if nothing else, was torn down. I applied the Pride flag button to the backpack that I wear everywhere with no regard. Even the shirt that I wore today had rainbow cuffs. It’s Pride month after all.

And then there was that moment when everything changed.

When I was finally able to make it home from the hospital the following morning, I saw that the bandana given to me was my Pride flag. It neither needed to be hung outside or inside. Rather, it resides on the mantel top above the fireplace. It may be blood soaked, but it is Pride. It is kindness to one’s fellow human being.

¹ Midsommarfest is an annual street festival celebrated in the Andersonville neighborhood of Chicago. One of Chicago’s oldest and largest summer street fests, it originates in the celebration of Andersonville’s Swedish roots, but has more recently come to be seen as kicking off one of the many events that celebrate Pride all month long in Chicago.

² “For your eyes.” (translation from the Spanish my own).