QUEER

What is queer? An identity, a look, a phase, a lifestyle—or perhaps just the way you love.

I stepped up behind Ryan, leaning in to nibble gently on his ear. A sudden gust of wind whipped through the open flat, carrying the sharp scent of ocean salt and eucalyptus as my mouth trailed down to his neck.

“Someone grab it!” Alain shouted from the kitchen.

A long, billowing strip of bright pink fabric caught the cross-breeze, dancing wildly toward the bay windows.

“I got it!” James yelled, diving out of my bedroom and across the hallway like a drag queen scrambling for a stray five-dollar bill during Donna Summer's “Last Dance.”

“Be right back,” I whispered against Ryan’s neck, giving his firm backside a quick pat before racing toward the stairwell.

I hit the landing just in time to see the loose tail of the fabric snagged on an exterior tree branch, fluttering like a candle in the wind.

“If I jump high enough, I think I can snag it!” I hollered up.

Suddenly, a broom dropped from the third floor, clattering onto the pavement. Then a couch pillow. Then another pillow. Then one of my own cowboy boots came sailing down.

I looked up into the open window. “Aim farther out!” James instructed Alain.

CRACK.

A heavy, resounding THUD rattled the concrete at my feet.

“See? I got it!” Alain yelled down in that thick French accent we all adored.

His heavy brass doorstop was sitting dead center on the sidewalk, pinning the pink fabric securely to the newly cracked pavement.

“Jim!” a voice called out from across 18th Street.

“Brenden!” I shouted back as he jogged across the asphalt and threw his arms around me in a hug. “Where’s Monica?”

“She’s at home,” Brenden said. “I wanted to walk over and see if you guys needed an extra pair of hands.”

“Alain’s upstairs at the machine with Ryan and James sewing the panels together,” I explained.

“Cool. How big is this thing going to be?”

“The base of the triangle is seventy-five feet across, with three-foot-tall block letters,” I said proudly. “If we get the tension right, you’ll be able to read it from five blocks down Castro. We’ll find out soon enough.”

“I’d love to help you hang it,” Brenden offered.

“Man, absolutely. Then we can say the gays and the straights put it up together,” I laughed. “Can you come back around noon?”

“You bet. Mind if I run up and take a look at it now?”

“You never have to ask,” I said.

I watched him bound up the wooden steps, shaking my head. God, I wish he was gay, I muttered under my breath. Then I remembered the three men already inside my flat. Never mind. I couldn't handle a fourth.

I scooped up the fabric, the boot, and the brass doorstop, taking the stairs two at a time.

When I reached the third-floor hallway, the unmistakable sound of communal laughter greeted me—the familiar background chatter of the guys binge-watching Ally McBeal while they worked. The kitchen was painted canary yellow, centered around a turn-of-the-century gas stove and an “updated” refrigerator that still looked like a 1950s metal icebox.

Alain had commandeered the dining table, feeding yard after yard of dyed pink denim through his sewing machine while the fabric snaked down the hallway like a giant ribbon.

“What’s the dark strip along the edge for?” Brenden asked, leaning against the doorframe.

Ryan glanced over his shoulder at Brenden with bedroom eyes. “It’s the reinforced border, silly. That’s where we punch the grommets for the tie-down ropes.”

“Are you talking about the banner border, or your ass?” James quipped without looking up from pinning fabric.

“When are we hauling this monster over?” Brenden asked.

“We told the building manager we’d be there around noon,” I answered.

“Perfect. I’ll see you boys in a couple of hours,” Brenden said, giving Ryan’s rear an affectionate tap on his way out.

“You’re playing with fire, mister!” Ryan yelled after him with a grin.

Once Alain finished the last seam, I punched heavy brass grommets through the reinforced denim border. We rolled the massive triangle into a tight, heavy cylinder, lifting it as one solid piece for the very first time.

“This is way too heavy for just the four of us,” I said, rolling my shoulders. “Take five. I’ll go round up some muscle.”

I ran around the corner to the ACT UP cannabis dispensary, grabbing three guys off their break.

“Alright, everyone,” James called out, positioning us along the roll. “On three. One, two, three—lift!”

We hoisted the rolled triangle onto our shoulders and began the slow march up Market Street toward Castro.

Looking ahead, I could see Steve and Mike leaning over the fourth-floor exterior walkway of the apartment complex directly above the Exxon station, overlooking the intersection where Castro rolls south toward Noe Valley.

We lowered the roll onto the sidewalk, catching our breath.

“I was starting to think you backed out, Jim,” Steve called down with a grin.

“Not a chance,” I shouted back. “I’m sick of seeing more baby strollers on Castro Street than queer people.”

The guys on the sidewalk burst out laughing.

“The building owner is a friend of mine,” Steve explained as we reached the landing. “He gave us permission to keep it up through the evening rush.”

“That’s all we need,” I said.

We hoisted the banner up the narrow stairwells to the fourth-floor rooftop deck.

“Now I see how you keep that ass in shape,” I teased Ryan as he hauled the lead edge ahead of me.

We set the roll down near the railing. I noticed Alain and Mike standing a few feet apart, talking in quiet, hushed tones.

I think that’s the first time they’ve spoken since…

My train of thought was cut short by Steve clapping his hands: “Alright, let’s get this thing over the ledge!”

“Wait!” Alain yelled, waving his hands. “It is not secured! We must tie off the top grommets to the steel railing first!”

Alain, James, Steve, Mike, Ryan, and I lined up along the top edge, securing the heavy nylon ropes to the balustrade. Down on the street below, a crowd of a few hundred people had gathered at the five-way intersection, craning their necks to see what was about to drop.

“Ready!” I shouted, gripping the denim. “On three! One, two, three—DROP IT!”

The four-story inverted pink triangle unfurled against the wind, snapping open against the building facade while guys stationed on the balconies below lunged outward to catch the guide ropes and lash down the corners.

I sprinted down the stairwells, cut across the Exxon driveway, and backed up against the front windows of Twin Peaks Tavern.

Traffic had ground to a dead halt in the intersection. Hundreds of people were standing in the middle of the street, staring up at the building.

I took a deep breath and looked up.

Spanning four stories, in crisp three-foot block letters that mirrored the Hollywood sign, our banner blazed against the San Francisco sky:

KEEP THE CASTRO QUEER

Alain walked up from behind and wrapped his arms around my waist.

“We did it,” I whispered, leaning into him. “Thank you so much. I love you.”

He smiled, kissing my cheek. “Me too.”

We stood shoulder-to-shoulder on the sidewalk, watching the neighborhood erupt into cheers, when Brenden jogged up, grinning ear to ear.

“Sorry I missed the carry-over!” he said.

“No worries—Alain worked his magic ahead of schedule. What do you think?”

“Man, it’s incredible,” Brenden said, staring up at the roofline.

Alain’s longtime friend France arrived with her 35mm camera, snapping rolls of film as she and Alain chatted excitedly in French. Strangers were posing beneath the banner, taking group photos with our message towering behind them.

I looked out over the intersection and smiled.

My chosen family made this mark on the city's history.

The next morning, I ran down the stairs to grab the morning paper. My heart stopped.

Right below the San Francisco Chronicle masthead, dominating the front page, was a full-color photograph of our seventy-five-foot pink triangle.

I bolted back up the stairs, threw open Alain’s bedroom door, and launched myself onto the mattress.

“Frenchie, wake up! Look!” I shouted, waving the paper in his face.

“What?” he groaned, shielding his eyes from the morning light. “What is it?”

“LOOK!”

He rubbed his eyes, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and squinted at the front page. Without a word, he tucked the newspaper under his arm and shuffled into the bathroom.

Brrrrng. Brrrrng.

The desk phone rang loudly. I picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Jim, it’s Monica. Do you have a minute?”

“Hey! Did you see the front page of the Chronicle?” I asked, practically vibrating with excitement.

“That’s why I’m calling,” she said flatly.

The energy dropped immediately. “You sound upset. What’s going on?”

“I just can’t believe you did that,” Monica said, her voice tight. “And I can’t believe what you told the reporter. You’re talking about creating an enclave where only gay people are allowed to live. That’s discriminatory, Jim.”

“Monica, wait—”

“How are you planning on policing who lives here? What kind of test are you going to give people at the neighborhood line?” she demanded.

“Monica, to me, queer isn’t just about who you sleep with. It’s an ethos. It’s a radical sanctuary. It’s a state of mind.”

“Bullshit, Jim. That’s complete bullshit and you know it,” she snapped. “I don’t even know what to say to you right now. I have to go.”

The line went dead.

Alain stepped out of the bathroom and leaned against the kitchen counter. “Who was that?”

“Monica,” I said, sliding a fresh espresso across the table to him. “She’s furious about the banner.”

Alain took a sip, opening the paper across the dining table. I sat across from him, resting my palms against the wood where the sewing machine had been humming only twenty-four hours earlier.

“What are you smiling about?” Alain asked, glancing over the top of the paper.

“Nothing,” I said softly.

“Why was Monica so upset?”

“She thinks the triangle is exclusionary… honestly, I just want to enjoy the victory for one day.”

“Whatever,” Alain shrugged, turning the page.

A few days later, riding the MUNI bus home from work, I spotted a guy boarding at the front doors wearing a fresh white t-shirt. Printed across the chest was a high-resolution photograph of our “Keep the Castro Queer” banner.

I jumped out of my seat, pushed down the aisle, and tapped him on the shoulder.

“That’s me,” I said, pointing at his chest. “That’s my project.”

The guy looked down at his shirt, then back at me, bewildered. “What do you mean?”

“That triangle—my friends and I made that. It’s my creation.”

“No way!” he grinned. “Man, everyone loved that thing. They’re selling shirts, postcards, and posters over at the gift shop right behind Twin Peaks, where the old tattoo parlor used to be.”

“You’re kidding!” I laughed.

I hopped off at the next stop and hurried directly into the shop. Sure enough, rows of t-shirts, hooded sweatshirts, and postcards featuring our four-story triangle were lined up along the front display.

“Holy shit,” I muttered aloud.

A clerk stepped up behind the register. “Can I help you find a size?”

“No—well, yes, I want one—but that’s my triangle!” I exclaimed. “We sewed that in our kitchen!”

The clerk’s posture instantly stiffened, his expression turning guarded. “We took the photograph ourselves. It was hung in a public space, so we have the legal right to sell the image.”

I couldn’t help but laugh at his panic.

“Man, I don’t care about the copyright,” I smiled. “Sell a million of them! I love it!”

I leaned over the counter, gave his cheek a quick kiss, and jogged out the door to race home and tell Alain.

“You should march back down there and demand a ten-percent royalty!” Alain declared after I laid the postcard on the table.

“Gilbert could have copyrighted the Rainbow Flag and made millions, but he refused,” I told him, looking at the image of the pink denim against the gray Victorian building. “He called it his gift to the world. We didn’t hang that banner for money. We did it to wake our neighborhood up before we get priced out and forgotten. I just hope the message sticks.”