Archive for August, 2014

Charlotte Pride Fest was in full swing on the 8 blocks surrounding our store this past Saturday, August 16. It was, of course, a festival atmosphere. There were plenty of colorful characters milling around (literally and figuratively). Early on I passed a young man in naught but rainbow striped briefs and very fuzzy, very pink boots. Rainbow-colored signs and articles of clothing formed the the backdrop of a crowded Tryon Street.

But along with the festivities came the religious protesters. There were Christian protesters preaching about perversity, judgment and repentance. Wherever those preached, I also saw other protesters holding signs with affirming slogans and messages of acceptance. The tension was palpable. I watched as passersby tried to make sense of these spontaneous clusters of opposing activists.

I saw one such scene while on delivery at Third and College. A preacher decried the perversity of homosexuality in the solemnest tone, his voice projecting from a surprisingly loud and clear P.A. system. I could understand every word from a half-block in either direction. The man looked like an older Christian Bale, if Christian Bale were a Texan car salesman. He was dressed in a long-sleeve button-down shirt and slacks. He wore a horseshoe mustache and slicked-back hair. He paced back and forth and spoke with a clear, penetrating diction. He and two or three other men stood in a tight pack. After a few moments waiting at the light, the preacher stopped and an old fashioned gospel song played from the speakers, filling the intersection.

On the same corner was a group of four or five women, all holding hand-drawn signs. One sign had a rainbow-colored fish and the words “God loves gays.” Another had a message citing a bible verse. The women milled about and talked to strangers.

I talked to both groups of protesters later. The women gave me a sticker advertising the site christiangayok.com. One of the men named Tom Barry described himself as a bible-believing Christian and claimed no affiliation with any particular organization. He did, however, mention the organization Operation Save America. I found the organization’s website, and on it a pamphlet entitled “Homosexuality vs. Christianity: Should We Build Bridges or Storm the Gates?” The pamphlet does not recommend building bridges.

Beverly and Donna, together 22 years and married

I saw similar scenes in other spots throughout Pride Fest. Fundamentalist Christian preachers shouted about sin, perversion, repentance and judgment. protesters with gay Christian organizations crowded around them with handmade signs and spoke to festival attendees one-on-one. I couldn’t help being drawn in by these moments. They were a mixture of excitement, horror, absurdity and drama. I wondered how much these scenes, as polarized as they were, revealed the cultural realities relating to homosexuality in the wider Charlotte community.

None of the protesters were violent. The preaching kind were the minority, outnumbered by the other Christian demonstrators. All of the protesters as a group were themselves a drop in the bucket, a tiny fraction of the tight-packed mass of humanity spreading over the pavement in every direction. Most of the festival goers were carefree, there for the good time, and only stopped momentarily to indulge their curiosity before moving on. I wondered about the large, invisible populations of Charlotte who either don’t care what gays do or disagree with homosexuality on a moral basis, but in ways that are respectful of human dignity.

I tried to take some video of one of the prostestor clusters, but alas, most of what I captured was sheer confusion. In this video, for example, there are two protesters with shofars, one in support of gay religious freedom and one speaking out against homosexuality. I struggled to focus on one speaker at a time, but the clip gives a sense of what it was like to be there.

The tension of the day came to a head for me later, when I had the chance to speak with Flip Benham, former director of Operation Save America, and one of the street preachers with him, Curtis Fennison. I began to take Curtis’ photo and ask him about his religious stance against homosexuality. Meanwhile, a man walked up, observed Mr. Fennison talking to me and began expressing his disgust at Fennison’s message. The man then turned to me and began berating me for supporting biggotted hatred.

Curtis Fennison, of Operation Save America, with his shofar

I found myself following after the man, trying to explain that I was reporting, trying to capture multiple perspectives. The man was visibly upset and described having been taunted and verbally abused all day. It took several minutes of explaining, but eventually the man calmed down. He looked at me and asked, “You mean you’re on our side? You don’t hate me?” “No, I don’t hate you,” I said, at which point he gave me a hug. I felt compelled to apologize again for the confusion, although he still seemed distressed. Eventually I walked away, still feeling awful. My roommate and coworker, Mickey, told me that he saw a preacher make a gay man cry. It was disheartening to see such hate, even in isolated incidents, and to see the hate flying in multiple directions.

Shelby and me

Fortunately, the whole of the event wasn’t totally dominated by the religious tension. I caught up with a coworker and wandered around, introducing myself to the most interesting people I could find and taking their picture. I posed for a photo with a drag queen named Shelby, and I met a self-described “gaytheist” named Justin. Justin held a sign that said, “Ignore the biggots. Nobody invited them.” I asked if he was with a church. “F-ck no!” he laughed. “I’m just a drunk asshole who knows how to use magic markers.” “And glitter, too,” I said, admiring his handiwork. I learned that Justin was with the Charlotte Atheists and Agnostics, although he took his role decidedly unseriously.

Take a look at my Flickr album Humans of Charlotte Pride for a look at the more playful side of Pride.

“Did you see that?!” Corkle yelled. Jonathan McCorkle, or “Corkle,” as he’s known, was shouting into my ear during a show at Snug Harbor. It was the same Scowl Brow show where Jerry crowd surfed. “This is my favorite local band,” he said, “because every time they play it’s a beer shower.” He was soaked.

I met Jonathan when he worked at our store, and he’s been one of my main links to the fixie scene. Jonathan is a member of W.A.R., and he has introduced me to the leaders of his club, Lauren and Greg, as well as several other fixie kids. I’ve seen Jonathan partying in his natural habitat on a number of occasions: jovial and intoxicated at Common Market, the Banktown Brawl bike event and Jerry’s alley cat race, which he won, speech-slurring drunk.

Yesterday I joined him and a couple dozen others for an alley cat at Veteran’s park, hoping to find a story. I arrived just in time to watch a dozen riders gather in the parking lot and set off on a ten-mile race. I sat out; I didn’t have a brakeless fixed-gear bike, the only kind admitted.

Half of the racers were my coworkers. After 20 minutes, John “Mailbox” and Trey came flying down the hill to tie for first at the pavilion finish line. Trey showed off a flat tire he’d ridden on for miles. Jonathan was third. “I’m really drunk,” was his excuse. “I drank a lot before this. Like four beers and two Red Bulls.”

Later, I somehow managed to win a 24-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon in a track stand competition. (Track standing is just balancing, stopped, on a bicycle.) “What am I going to do with this?” I wondered. I was sure my victory was solely due to my being the only rider even close to sober.

I shared my winnings. “Can I grab like two of those?” Jonathan said, reaching into the box. Almost a dozen cans were gone before I left. For hours the crowd of young men caroused, rehashing dramatic moments of the race, shouting over each other, drinking and smoking. Of the 30-person turnout, only five were women.

I was struck by the ease with which everyone got along: skate kids, girlfriends, someone’s mother, black kids and white kids, interacting seamlessly and enthusiastically. They shared a bond deeper than any demographic. They shared alcohol.

Earlier this week, on Monday night, I visited Jonathan’s apartment to record an interview. It was after ten, and we stood outside behind his apartment. “I can’t afford cable so I don’t watch cable,” he told me, pausing to draw on his cigarette. “And there’s a lot more of like a social scene up here. So it kind of makes you lose a little bit of touch with the outside world.”

We were talking about Plaza Midwood, the neighborhood we stood in. I had been picking Jonathan’s brain about Common Market and Charlotte bike culture. We went inside and sat down in his room, surrounded by bike parts hanging on the walls.

I asked about Jonathan’s life philosophy, mentioning Jerry’s and my discussion on the same topic. “What did he say? ‘You drink a lot and party hard and then you die’?” he asked, laughing. “I do a lot of that,” he admitted. No kidding. But what he told me next surprised me.

Jonathan said he’s been on break from a 2-year program in Geospacial Technologies at CPCC. He talked about his interest in map-making, producing a text full of Greek letters and trigonometry. “Man, it’s been a year and a half since I’ve seen any of this stuff,” he said. “I’m starting to forget. Doesn’t help that I smoke weed.”

He said he only had 3 or 4 credits left to complete his program and transfer to Appalachian State. He admitted that getting a degree was mostly a tool to make more money. “I just had to quit going to school so I could work full-time to afford living up here. I wasn’t trying to live with my parents forever. I didn’t have any extra money left over so I just haven’t been back to school.”

I was impressed. Just think, Corkle, the consummate party kid bike punk, a number-crunching, career-oriented academic. Jonathan paused to reflect for a moment. “But I’ve had fun since then!” he added.