A Valentine for Orange Man

We were riveted by you as we rode home on BART on Valentine's Day. You gave us color therapy and laughing yoga, made the whole train car laugh. You were way better than a box of chocolates, although perhaps equally nutty.

We couldn't overlook you, a tall muscled man in bright ORANGE nylon piped shorts and matching hoodie, orange translucent knee socks, and your bright orange backpack. The tennis racket's handle stuck out with faded pink tape. You came bopping into the center of our train car, your hood barely containing your oversize earphones and permed poodle hair.

Who wouldn't love you, a tall, athletic secret Asian man. With your zebra skateboard and unbounding energy. You were kung fu-ing, boxing, and jiving all by yourself in the open space by the train doors. The tall talmudic Berkeley cyclist next to you lowered his head to get out of your way or not be laughing in your face. The dressed to the nines daters across the aisle ducked their heads and guffawed into their hands. We all wondered if you were part of the Jamie Kennedy experience or some other hidden camera deal.

My love & I watched you openly, artists appreciating your bravado, brio, and brawn. You did pull ups on the hang-on-don't-fall-over bar, and push ups with your orange butt and too much information in the air. The man in the seat ahead of us held his phone out to capture your solo, but I haven't found you on YouTube yet.

Orange Man, you lit up our night. At West Oakland, my love asked the spirits to watch over you as you picked up your board and exited. You didn't hear when I started the big round of applause as the train sped on. Some might have been laughing at you in judgment. But we felt the relief of being human, together. Appreciating that still, some people know how to let their freak flag fly. Go Orange!

Ruby Slipper Stories

I live in the Castro in the heart of San Francisco, a neighborhood rooted in gay liberation. My heart soars every time I see the pair of small ruby slippers that sparkle in mid air, dangling from the telephone wire crossing my street. No stinky old sneakers for us! Some kind person with good aim rocketed them there last year.

The ruby slippers remind us in the age of increasing gentrification: honor the soul of this place. Remember refuge and belonging. Never give up the freedom to live out loud. Make room for others’ authenticity. Enjoy the humble magic in being who you truly are. Those we lost to AIDS, our too young Ancestors, say there’s no time to waste.

We need stories like water, like air. The Wizard of Oz and The Red Shoes both tell the tale of the soul’s longing for an authentic life. You’ve never seen the Wizard of Oz until you’ve seen it in the grand Castro Theater, among costumed audience members who shout out their favorite lines. Who doesn’t identify with Dorothy’s desperate search for home? In The Red Shoes the poor little girl ‘rescued’ by the rich old lady desires only her tattered handmade slippers. She becomes obsessed trying to recapture what came from her own heart and soul.

There’s no place like home. I’ve found it here among my Tales of the City diversified family. I’ve also found my heart, my mind, and my courage. I even work in the neighborhood, where director Gus Van Sant and team are filming Harvey Milk’s story. He was the first openly gay city supervisor, who was later assassinated along with Mayor George Moscone in 1978. A new generation of people, for whom sexual identity is not a big deal, need to know that this current openness came from a continuing long struggle to transcend fear. We need Harvey’s story and his guiding wisdom as an Ancestor, to keep inviting people to be who they are.