I actually put on Ani Difranco (who I never really listen to anymore) for this entry--I needed a little grrrrl power, I suppose.

Ahem. Now that's more like it.

They must not have realized how big we are. That's the only explanation I like. They must not have realized how loud and proud and strong we are. Because if they had--and they didn't--but if they had, this would be a different story.

Tuesday. Dusk. A calm magenta was spreading itself out over the San Francisco Bay, echoed back over the water to the east ahead of us. It seemed to have been painted there just for us, just for the breeze that didn't have a chill to it, just in time for me to put my head on her shoulder and the third inning to start.

At first, I ignored it. Shoved it out of my mind--reached for her hand. We teased ourselves with our food debate (it's becoming our custom, you see)--garlic fries and hot dogs or tapas after we leave? We are in love and we are watching baseball and I have no other cares in the world. We left the last game commenting on the difference we feel attending Giant's games; not so many lingering stares or snickering strangers. We live in San Francisco and we San Franciscans are larger than life, larger than hate. There is room our sea for all kinds of fish and we like it that way.

Damn ears. I hear it again and employ another sensor, this time my eyes, to shoot daggers in the direction of their, "That's so gay's" and their "He's a fucking queer's." I am powerful. I can fight fire with my eyes. Quiver in hand, hairs on the back of my neck standing sentinel, I turn back to the game, back on the four of them, close enough that their ankles graze my hair from time to time.

"Gotta watch what you say about queers around here," the first of four fires fiercely. "You never know who might throw you a dirty look."

"Yeah," his sarcastic companion replies, "I noticed that. Actually, I prefer the word 'faggot' or 'dyke' to queer."

They begin to spit more words in our direction for our benefit. I watch the pink of the sky bleed to red. My heart races. My body signals me into heightened awareness.

And then Gina, "Shut the fuck up."

"What? I don't know what you're talking about."

And then Gina is loud and brave and in their faces and other than the occasional, expected insult, they have no response, no excuse, no defense, but to play dumb to our faces and spit more fire when our backs are turned.

"What the fuck," from the leader of the pack nodding toward my love, "She looks like a guy anyway. I didn't even know you were dykes. I thought she was a dude."

Grit. Restrain. Boil. Rage.

"Honey, I need to go. I don't want to sit here anymore." And she agrees.

Away from the quartet, we are angry, disappointed, indignant. We are big and loud and proud and strong. I am, secretly, afraid, sad, defeated. Part of me wants to crumble in a ball and cry, another wants to beat the living shit out of those assholes, a third wants to find the middle ground.

"I want to find security. That's bullshit. It's not okay," she says. And I agree.

The cops could have and do not repeat the harassment. They listen. They explain their limitations and offer what they can: They will go talk to them, but they need us to show the way. I've been crying now and want to leave. I am tired of being strong all the time. But I am anxious to follow through. Gina and I both agree we have no problem with this one. We'll identify the guys for the police. And we do. We watch as the police talk to them, one by one. We watch as one of the men mouths, "Fuck you. Fuck you, dyke," while out of the officers' view.

The cops return to tell us their version. They don't believe them and G and I know the truth anyway. They offer to make them return to apologize.

Gina jumps on it. I am not so sure. I had not seen what she saw--not known the perfection of that entire section of people watching the police take them down to where we are standing and forcing them to blurt out their (albeit insincere) apologies.

We left with restored faith in SFPD, with disbelief in the idiotic nature of some people and their complete lack of awareness, their total sense of entitlement and lack of regard for the freedom of other folks to simply sit and enjoy a ball game in a hate free environment. We left ourselves, in love, intact. And we ended our evening on dinner and commiseration and laughter. At the end of it all, I saw my girlfriend in a new light, an even brighter light--and our love was stronger for our shared battle.

So let those bastards think they have the upper hand. They must not have realized how loud and proud and strong we are.

May 30, 2002