Alarming Female

I arrive at the Salt Palace, already running late, and decide my best option is to park in the parking garage–who knows how late TRAX runs; this isn’t New York–at the south end of the two blocks this convention center spans. I see dozens of teenagers in prom attire, but as they are all hetero couples I’m guessing they’re here for the other prom being held here tonight.

Once inside, I’m pulled into the stream of teens heading north in this cavernous building. I feel odd traveling alone in this group, but I’m invisible to them. They, like so many salmon, are blindly following their spawning instincts. Eventually we reach a sign that reads “Queer Prom, Room 355″ along with information regarding their prom, and many of them snicker derisively. Later I learn the Queer Prom signs were defaced with the word “fag,” and I wonder why the management of this behemoth couldn’t have put the two groups a little farther apart.

I’m assigned to the photo table, and the first thing I realize as I sit here is that I should have brought my knitting. Things are going pretty slowly so far, and I TOTALLY could be knitting. Lace, even.

By 9:15 the photographer, and I, are a little more busy, but it’s still not too bad. I think that after another hour I’ll be able to switch posts; I’d like to go inside and see the dancing.

My friend’s son, who recently came out to his parents, introduces me to his date. Some of the youth from our school’s Gay-Straight Alliance pop over to say a quick “hi” and give a hug. The cool thing about working the photo table is that I get to talk to so many of the kids–inside the ballroom they don’t have any reason to talk to the adults.

Work at the photo table is steady, so it isn’t until 11:30 that I’m able to take a few minutes to step inside the ballroom and watch the crowd. The sound system, which is currently pumping out “YMCA” to a frenzied crowd, is MC’d by several local “celebrities”–drag queens dressed to the nines. Their wisecracks and jokes have a theme–love yourself, you are beautiful the way you are, keep yourself safe–if I wasn’t smiling so broadly I’d be crying. One of the MC’s says,

Five years ago, when I was 15, I never saw this many fifteen-year-old gay boys in one place. It’s awesome! You’re awesome!

Eight hundred teens–lesbian, gay, straight, queer, transgender, bisexual–are expected to attend this year, the fourth annual Queer Prom. I don’t know what the final count is, but it’s a full house.

I’ve attended a few high school proms in my day, and this one has much in common with all the rest. The teens are self-conscious, giddy, and sweet. Some are dressed in tuxedos, some in sweeping taffeta confections, some in jeans and t-shirts. There are emotional meltdowns; there always are at Prom.

Yet there is a difference, too. I overhear one girl say, “my sister is calling me–where should I tell her I am?” with a slight edge of panic in her voice. A young man, wearing a purple formal gown and an up-do, is signing a question to one of the chaperons. A young woman in a tuxedo cajoles her less confident date into prom photos. Some of the photos are of two nervous, smiling girls in prom dresses, some are of two boys in matching tuxedos. Many teens pull an entire group of twelve into the photo, hamming it up for the camera.

All of them are beautiful.