Young Love

It was the end of summer, and the tiny piece of fluff yipping at my dog yanked at a leash held by a girl whose hand was held by another girl, and as they pulled away toward an obscure corner of the park, I realized I was witnessing young love.

I found myself craning my neck to look.

I found myself wincing at my obnoxious, kneejerk voyeurism.

I found myself ignoring this wince and inching around the trees with the surreptitiousness of a circus elephant, craving confirmation in the form of – yes, there they were, on the edge of the flat field – unmistakably kissing.

I was thrilled. I was like a bird watcher whose binoculars sight a rare warbler doing the cha-cha. Not only had I not seen any young lovers kissing in the park all summer – where were they?! – but I was irresistably awed by what struck me as that certain kind of courage  that shakes up daily routines and changes worlds. Love, the revolutionary, marching quietly and defiantly in my park.

I have to explain that my possible nosy prurience has its origins in memory, in another park 18 years ago on the other side of the continent not far from the Pacific Ocean where I spent my first two years in high school.

My best friend, Heather, was seen kissing a girl in a park by a gang of other girls from the Colonia area – literally across the town tracks. The girl left, and the gang confronted Heather. Beat the shit out of her. Broke her glasses. Left her knocked out in the grass.

Heather lied about it the next day, about needing new glasses, about the bruises. She mentioned a bike accident. Only years later did she tell me what really happened. What she had hidden, out of fear.

Now I’m an old lady with my dog and my kids in my neighborhood park, and when I see two girls in the daylight holding hands, I can’t help wanting to let out an encouraging cheer, shake their hands, tell them I’m proud. And then I want to pat everyone else’s backs, too – the muscular basketball players, the gossiping gradeschoolers lounging on the benches – I want to thank them for letting the girls be.

I want to lay down in the grass and be glad, and I want to weep for the past, even though it doesn’t exist anymore.

I want to protect all lovers walking in parks. I want to become their patron saint  who is also a superhero, leaping out from behind peeing statues to rescue the tender hearted from the aggression of the unloved. I want the park to surge and teem with happy kissing.

It’s winter now; I’ve been saving this story for several months. I wonder if the girls are still together or not. And how is their dog. Is Charlottesville a welcoming place to sexual minority youth? I have no idea.

I wonder about the Colonia gang. What happened to them.

And of course, the memories of my own moments of daring come: the perfect contemplation as the new year approaches, as I wish for the courage to be myself despite the possible ramifications, which is what is meant, I think, by following your bliss.

It is not easy, but it is true. May we all be like young love, upright and uncowed by convention. May we cheer each other on.

And let each other be.