Being gay in Argentina is not an impossible thing, but it is not as accepted in Buenos Aires as it is in New York or San Francisco, two other cities I know well. One person who is a symbol of this for me is my ex-boyfriend, Bruno. He’s a porteño (from Buenos Aires) and we met in Buenos Aires. When I first knew him he was a bit in the closet, at least with his family, but in the discos and with most friends he was more open. After just over a year that I have known him he is now hardly hidden in his sexuality with anyone. It has been a dramatic transformation to witness, and I have friends today from all parts who say the same thing about Bruno, “he’s such a woman.” Well, that is a simplistic remark, but it does indicate something, someone obviously gay standing out in a society that is still not very accepting.

I have a picture of Gaucho Gil hanging over my desk, who is a well-revered fictitious symbol in Argentina, especially to the working class, an adopted saint. I like the picture cause of its duality, a masculine Argentine cowboy with feminine characteristics too. Bruno has roots in a traditional family from the interior of Argentina. I still don’t know these areas, but I have an idea from other experiences and talking with Argentine friends (I plan next month to visit the north of Argentina and I will see more first hand.). It’s very old world. Depending on the context, Bruno can be a macho Latino guy with a protective skin, a very sensitive and expressive artist, or a dramatic fashion queen with a sharp tongue. He is far from being a perfect person, but I love and respect and admire Bruno for who he is. He is like a modern Gauchito Gil to me.

And in the gay Argentina culture in general I see a lot of dualities. A prominent one is between popular catholic values and strong homosexual urges. How these are resolved varies from person to person, but what I do see one predominant theme. In the discos, guys of all ages are very open sexually, hedonistic and even aggressive. At home and in the streets they disappear. You very rarely see a pair of boys or girls kissing in public (well on the lips that is because everyone here kisses on the cheeks).

Clyde and me, stopping traffic on Avenida 9 de Julio

So with this experience I set out to the gay pride parade of Buenos Aires yesterday. My memories of marches in New York and San Francisco are of events more social than political, so this parade being smaller I expected even less. Ironically enough (or maybe appropriately enough) the person who first told me about the march, a teenage woman, couldn’t make it because of family obligations. But by then I knew of enough friends who were going that I would hardly be alone. Plus I live close enough to the center that I could bring my dog Clyde, a charmer of all. With 10,000 participating, the crowd was not massive but large enough that having a cell phone was essential. I was text messaging friends in one hand and handling my dog in the other. Of all the people it seemed apparent that Bruno would not be coming. He was with his family in the suburbs and was watching the coverage on TV which was highlighting anti-gay protesters and police, looking very scary and violent. He said he didn’t want to come because of that. I told him that was just hype and urged him to come regardless.

When I arrived in Plaza de Mayo in front of the Casa Rosada (more known to the queers here for where Madonna appeared on the balcony, not Evita). It also happens to be where the current president of Argentina, Nestor Kirchner, conducts his business. It was a lively scene with music and boys and girls and dogs frolicking. There was no sign of anything untoward except for some gray clouds in the sky and a line of police off in the corner by a church, which must have been what they showed on TV. I was a little annoyed that the mix of music between a truck from a popular gay disco and a live performance was discordant. But we were here because of discordance: remember what happened at the Stonewall bar in Manhattan before the first gay pride march?

Well the parade, which had already been rescheduled twice to avoid the weekends of George Bush’s visit to Argentina and another for the most popular electronic music festival of the year. (Queers like to dance in case you didn’t know already.) Also it was scheduled for 6pm, typical for Argentina, because everything here occurs later. And one hour later, the march proceeded up Avenida de Mayo, toward Plaza de Congreso, the home of the national government. I lost contact with all my friends at this point, but with Clyde in one hand I jumped in to help carry the long rainbow banner for a while. Although hardly big enough to serve as a patch to the corresponding flags in NYC or SF, it was an impressive-enough length. I never had the chance to carry a banner in SF or NYC so this was a good opportunity. I jumped in and the help was needed. The few people carrying the banner could hardly keep it from dragging on the ground. Yes there were two trucks from a popular disco blasting music for the marchers to dance to, but there was no Absolut float, nor Quilmes (the Budweiser of Argentina), nor Banana Republic, nor politicos, nor gay firemen or police like in gay marches in the US. But there were communists and batteries of drums and people handing out free condoms, and everyone was feeling very gay.

Christiano and Bruno, in Plaza Congreso

While I was manning the rainbow banner Christiano arrived, he’s my closest friend here. He is a Brazilian journalist and sometimes we don’t agree on things (for luck we have distinct tastes in men, thus there’s no competition). He was complaining about how this march was nothing compared to the gay pride marches in Sao Paolo. Well, like many arguments we have, neither convinced the other, but I did realize that for me this march was the most significant gay march I have ever attended, and I have gone to nearly one a year for the past 10 years. It was better because it is not NYC. It is still not in the mainstream, the march here has real meaning because there is not much acceptance of gays in Argentina. And what I saw on the streets, the interaction between passerbyers and the marchers was moving. With a history of political turmoil and the current economic crisis, protests are common in Argentina. But the reaction by the passerbyers was not the jaded notice given to the usual piquerteros, they were either intrigued or offended, whatever the situation there was real feeling. And the march was truly a march of the people, not of the official organizations and sponsors. Anyone, even my dog Clyde, was welcome. And everyone took note of my maricon dog with the pink scarf (borrowed from Bruno naturally). We danced in Plaza de Mayo, We danced in Avenida de Mayo, we danced in the middle of Avenida 9 de Julio (the widest avenue in the world), and it ended with everyone dancing in front of the House of Congress. Boys kissed boys on the lips, girls kissed girls on the lips, and Bruno did finally arrive.