To be Young Again

Last Saturday Mirs and I met several of our friends for First Saturday at Brooklyn Museum.  There was free admission, cheap beer, wine, and food and lesbians and queer girls, boys, and bois alike for as far as the eye could see.  I feel that there are several events and locations that you can find the girls and the First Saturday at Brooklyn Museum was one of them.  Besides the Margret Mead festival at the Museum of Natural History (which opens this week) I’ve never seen so much fascinating art mixed with queers in a long while.  If you’re a single queer girl reading my blog-Attend Margaret Mead this week and next first Saturday in December get your cute queer ass to the Brooklyn Museum, you’re sure to find a special girl there to snuggle up with under the mistletoe.  Promise.

Mirs and I met two groups of gay girls and the two groups did not meet.  It wasn’t that we thought they shouldn’t-it just didn’t work out quite like that.  It’s hard enough keeping a group of 6 or more together but add another six or more girls and you’ve got chaos.   We didn’t end up staying for very long, we’d just visited the Brooklyn Museum the week before and seen the Rock Photos on display on the top floor in the blissful solidarity that is visiting a New York museum mid-week.

My favorite part of the night was right before we left when we visited the 3rd floor and stumbled upon the beginnings of the “dance party.”  When we got there there were children partaking in the vacant space with the DJ spinning.  Children of various races and ages were running to and fro in great happiness.  It was so adorable it made my ovaries hurt-an apparent pain of being 30.  I wanted nothing more than to scoop up one of  those little kids in my arms and kiss and squeeze them. 

There were three girls, in particular, that got me thinking.  One girl was a blondish little thing about 4 years old.  Her parent’s cut her hair into a short bob that fell just below her chin.  She was wearing a corduroy skirt and a long -sleeved shirt, t-strapped shoes and tights.  She walked right up to two other girls, both black with their hair done in braids; one wearing a skirt and the other in a dress, reached out and took a hand in her own and the three of them walked off-new friends.  It’s so easy for children to make friends, isn’t it?  It’s not the only time I’ve witnessed a child approach a stranger child and declare him or her their new best friend.  I was at the playground over the summer and a little girl walked hand-in-hand towards her mother and said to her mother, “This is my new best friend-what’s your name, again?” 

Mirs and I watched the children playing for about a half hour before the dusk turned into night and the lights in the museum went down slightly and the DJ started playing music from the early 80’s.  Little by little the adults started to the dance floor to dance to Prince, Madonna, and Rick James.  Mirs and I danced for a bit and as I looked around I wished that I was like a child.  There were so many interesting-looking gay girls dancing with their partners and what a great opportunity to walk over, say hello and see if I could make a new friend.  We don’t do that, though.  Adults don’t just walk up to one another and spark a conversation in hopes that a life long friendship will be forged.  I’ll be the first to admit that if a random person walked up to me on the street and started chatting me up my hands would immediately go to my purse and I’d step back looking baffled by their conversation. 

Still, in that situation, on that night I wished I had the innocence and precociousness of a child and walked up to a girl with my girl holding my hand and declare them my new friends.

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