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“Puff,” somebody called out.
“Bender,” said another.
“Bummer!”
“Dyke!”
“Fag!”
“Fudgepacker!” This one elicited a few awkward laughs, and precipitated a cacophony of the silliest, stupidest slang that Will had been hearing since primary school.
Shirtlifter! Nancy boy! Pansy! Limp wrist! Flamer! Willy woofter! Fairy!
“Fairy!” At Faye’s interjection, the crowd fell silent again. “Imagine thinking that calling somebody a fairy was an insult,” she said. “Fairies used to be feared and revered. People would make offerings to them to appease their moods, and heaven forbid if you were to meet one at a crossroads. The word ‘homophobia’ supposedly means they’re afraid of us, but I think they’ve forgotten who they’re dealing with. They’re trying to push us back into the margins, throwing grains of rice on the ground so the fae will be distracted and forget what we’re owed. Talking about us like we’re not real, so we waste our precious time on this earth arguing for our own existence, proving how good and meek and mild we can be.
“I have spent the better part of fifty years being the bigger person,” Faye continued. “And let me tell you something: I am bloody sick and tired of it. Going high when they go low. Trying to fool myself into thinking that if we’re nice enough, and quiet enough, and don’t rub it in people’s faces too much, contort our gay asses into knots so that they are not made remotely uncomfortable, then maybe, just maybe, they’ll stop hating us. So that something as simple as holding hands won’t be the reason I end up in hospital or on a slab. Or worse: with eggshell in my wig.”
“You’ve got to lead with love,” said Gaia.
“I don’t love those cunts!” yelled Will. “I love us.”
“Yes, bitch!” Tammy howled, waggling ten dangerously pointy nails in hearty agreement.
“Too bloody right, sweetheart,” Faye boomed into the megaphone. “Now we’re going to make our way through this city and share our fabulousness with the world. We’re going to prove that no matter how much they try, they can’t scare us into hiding. We’re going to march, or should I say mince, right up to those ugly little souls and let them know that the library is now, and will forever stay, OPEN!”
“Yes!” Will screamed, and he heard everyone around him do the same. “Yes!!”
Tammy mounted a portable speaker onto her broad shoulder, and with a yell of “Let’s go, girls!” they departed.
Will would later wonder what the rest of Birmingham thought when they saw this small army of goddesses stomping and sashaying from Hurst Street all the way up to Centenary Square, stopping traffic as they went. “I Am What I Am” blared from Tammy’s speaker; it could just as well have been “Ride of the Valkyries.”
They arrived in front of the library a little before one, and Will didn’t recognize any of the homophobic protestors individually—how could he, the sea of ill-fitting jeans and waterproof jackets that they were—but the awkward phrasing of the placards was proof enough. This was the same group of people who had been staging that horrible display the last time. The ones who had tried to humiliate Faye.
The queens shimmied in single file between the protestors and the library; then Julie Madly Deeply and Auntie Dot split off from the group and headed inside for that day’s story time. The rest of them would stay here, a sequined line of defense between the Rainbow Room and the hatred outside.
“You make me sick,” one of the sign holders shouted.
“You should be ashamed of yourselves,” another sneered.
“Guys, guys, calm down, it’s all right!” Tammy called out to them. “All is well!”
“Why is she trying to reason with them?” Jordan asked, but Will, who had got ready for many a Pride brunch with Tammy before, broke into a grin.
“Have you heard the good news?” Tammy bellowed. “Praise be! The Vengabus! It cometh!”
Right on cue, the sound of honking blared from the speaker at such a volume that Will wondered how many of them would have full use of their ears by the end of the day.
“We. Like. To party,” the queens all chanted in unison, and Will joined in like a knight pledging allegiance to crown and country. Some of the protestors still wore that generic mask of outrage and disgust, but as the queens broke out one ’90s banger after another—with accompanying dance routines—more and more of them began to look, well, baffled.
That was the thing about queer joy. So much of it was so inherently, deeply silly. Will pranced and jumped around to “5, 6, 7, 8” and “Wannabe” with Faye and Tammy and Gaia and so many others and felt impossibly grateful for this unhinged sisterhood he had been welcomed into. And sad for anyone who didn’t have this, either because they couldn’t reach it, or because they’d rejected it outright. This was their community, their family, at its dumbest and its mightiest, and Will’s heart could almost burst at the glory of being right here in the middle of it all. It was the best time he could remember having since a certain actor left town, and Will could tell he wasn’t the only one having fun: Some of the kids arriving at the library with their parents were so enraptured by the pantomime taking place outside that they didn’t want to go inside for story time.
Leave it to the far right to get all book-burny about the concept of fun. Frankly, Will thought, anybody who felt even remotely threatened by a bunch of gays doing the “YMCA” was a fucking idiot.
Story time was almost over by the time the cops showed up. Whoever called them had probably been hoping they’d show up in riot gear with batons and water cannons to disperse the deviants. As it was, Will almost pitied the pair of bobbies who approached the queens mid-cancan.
“Hello, Officers,” Tammy purred. “What can we do you for?”
“We received word that there was a violent protest occurring in the square,” one of them said.
