HOTlanta
Suddenly I am obsessed with summer plans! I cannot get my mind to move on. I’m staring at the summer months on the calendar and assigning color coded mental categories.
“Swim in lake” is green. That’s for midsummer. “Ride large roller coaster” is pink. That’s in June. Overwhelmingly, July is all peach because that’s when we’re going to Atlanta for our very first Family Reunion. Which we are very excited about because we get to walk around the house for the next five months shouting “HOTlanta!” You have to say it with a little George Jefferson half neckroll. And sound kind of like you just took a shot of tequila or swallowed a clump of wasabi while you emphasize the HOT in HOTlanta.
Now, as a little background, I am not traditionally such a joiner. My own blood relatives don’t really get together outside funerals (hardly weddings), and those who do amount to a group so small, it can fit on a postage stamp. My wife, from whose family these t-shirt wearing, caravan-riding, hospitality suite-having hotel based events spring each year, moved to the other side of the country to get away from it in the first place.
I guess we’ve softened over the years. It’s hard to have every little moment of your (gay) family life be unbearably confusing to the world at large, so I guess you could say traditions are becoming more important. Also we’re noticing that though within our immediate family we have a smattering of every color of the rainbow, the representation of color in our daily lives is pretty abysmal, save a very Panthers-oriented summer camp* we send our daughter off to each year. In fact it’s pathetic. We want our kid to be able to claim any part of her identity she sees fit and having her yell out “That looks like Grammy!” every time she sees an older black woman on the sidewalk is a little eye opening as to which category of color is lacking. Which is foolish because the family in Hotlanta is just waiting with open arms to be our ambassadors of blackness.
*Note about Panther camp (it is not actually called that): You know what the best part is? She comes back understanding backbeat. That alone is worth schlepping downtown all summer. I swear to god, it’s like the counselors cure her from her “clap on the downbeat, smile and bounce up in the air to music like joyous white people with arms flailing around” influence of Berkeley throughout the school year and get her back home. And she learns about African leaders, goddesses and community heroes, so it’s all good even though she’s also doing questionable military drills while wearing commie-esque matching bandannas. But I digress.
* Note about this poster. This post is sorta 70’s, sorta Bay Area power feminist. And we’re talking about the Panthers.. oooooh I feel Angela Davis coming on! Yes. Hooray! There she is! I used to have two books in my bag at all times. One was Women, Race & Class. The other was Bell Hooks’ Ain’t I a Woman. Sigh.
So what I expect out of this reunion fiasco is the pretty classic interpretation. We show up and check in, spend the weekend wearing a lime green oversize tshirt that states our purpose there. We enjoy buffets, attend optional side activities like a trip to the local museum or waterpark. We do the electric slide with people we would never have otherwise met. I am told the “butt sisters” will be in attendance. Apparently their rear ends are legendary in a bad way, but then again my mother in law has a vengeance for anyone who has the perky butt she always wanted, so I’ll leave their status undetermined for now.
I have no idea how to do the electric slide. I’ve spent my life avoiding it. What can I say.