a poem for South Carolina Pride, 3 September 2016
Here at the corner of Lady and Main,
I’m thinking about a First Lady—
not the former First Lady who may
become the first, but the first
First Lady, the one this street’s named for,
her husband,Washington, a block away.
And I’m thinking about Kenny Rogers,
or maybe Lionel Richey, who wrote
the song—Lady, for so many years
I thought I’d never find you—and after
so many years of marching around
this city and state, we found the place,
Lady and Main,and we’re here, we’re queer,
and we’re ready, I think, for a party.
Here at the corner of Lady and Main
I’m thinking about where and when
we live. Ten years ago and a block
behind me, a bunch of men decided
to put an amendment on the ballot
for that November, and they would fight
to the bitterest end to keep our love
illegal. That March, a group of students
stuck black tape across their mouths
in a room of legislators who liked
to talk about us but not to listen.
Ten years ago this very week,
a rich white guy complained when our
campaign included anti-racist
training. He said that he would cancel
his fundraiser and cut off his donations
to the cause, if we made race
a part of what we do. We did,
we worked hard, and lost the vote,
but still we won, and still the work’s not done.
Here at the corner of Lady and Main,
I’m humming Lionel Richie, but maybe
also a little Lady Marmalade,
since I’m sure there are some
voulez-vous couchez avec moi
conversations out there in the street,
as there should be on a gorgeous day like today.
Here at the corner of Lady and Main,
I’m thinking about where we live.
Main is straight, stops at the statehouse.
There’s a wig shop or two, a few
places to eat, and the only theatre
in town that shows that queer film
you really wanted to see, and Main
may lean and swerve around as you head
up north and out of town, but here
it’s a street that’s very straight
that begins and ends at the state.
Stand here at the corner of Lady
and Main and you can’t help but think
about gender and race, whose story
gets told, whose stories don’t, here
on a street that stops at a monument
to men who died fighting for a lie
they’d been told, that black bodies
only matter when they’re bought and sold.
Here at the corner of Lady and Main,
I’m thinking it’s nice that Lady runs
athwart, across, she runs at odds
to Main, reminds us there are other
places to go, other ways to live
than those dictated a block away.
She lingers by the river, heads over
to Waverly, the city’s first suburb,
a home to black artists and activists.
Lady reminds us of place and time,
one end rooted in a history of civil
rights, the other ending at the river
that keeps sweeping by, gone
before you can hold it in your hand.
She keeps a little distance between
herself and that big copper dome
that kept out blacks too long, doesn’t
welcome many women, and has never
seen an open queer of any gender
or color take a seat at the table.
Here at the corner of Lady and Main,
I remember when I was growing up,
in church, we talked about the kingdom,
about living in this world but living
for another at the same time.
It’s like living in two worlds at once.
A few years ago at Charlotte Pride,
there at the corner of Tryon and Trade,
three people in a row stopped by
the South Carolina table to say
that they were the only gay in Gaffney.
They had to go to Charlotte to be free.
There were at least three queers in Gaffney
who didn’t know each other, couldn’t
see each other. They had to go
somewhere else to see what was possible.
So here at the corner of Lady and Main,
look around,and see what’s possible.
Live what is possible, love
who you want to love, and be kind
to one another. Sometimes we’re not
that kind to one another. There is no
somewhere over a rainbow, somewhere
a place for us. This is the place.
Put the rainbow here at the corner
of Lady and Main, and make of the here
and now a future—a there and then, not if but when.
