Beyond Homework, by Julie Wold Peterson, 2002

One foot stepping tenderly on the arm of the bus seat, I cautiously moved the other in place across the aisle. I shifted my hand to the top of the next seat. "Oops. Excuse me. Just trying to get past." Then I swung my back foot forward. In this way, slowly and clumsily I made my way to the dreaded bus bathroom, trying to not fall on the students who were asleep in the center aisle.

It was late April 1993. A completely packed bus traveled 18 hours straight from Luther College in Decorah, Iowa, to Washington, D.C. Earlier the bus was buzzing with the energies of people who had planned for this weekend for several months. We talked, watched Prince in Purple Rain, and eventually slept. After midnight we arrived at Christ Lutheran Church in D.C., amazed by their not-so-typical black and white sign in the front lawn. The newly placed letters read, "Welcome Marchers for Gay Rights." We tried to sleep some more on the church floors, anxious for the next day.

How did I land here? My friend Brian had come out to me in the fall. More students were gaining confidence to do the same. Conversations began. I felt connected to my friends and their struggle. Perhaps it was my belief in rooting for the underdog; perhaps, my experiences in the church, school, and theater. When my friends and I heard of the March on Washington, we were quick to join. We wanted to learn more, understand, and be a part of change.

The day was so filled. I still can only comprehend it in bits and pieces. At one park, we went around to various booths, learning about organizations across the country. It was there that we ran into a few topless women. Yes, there was quite a sense of liberation and freedom that day. Many people had recently jumped out of the closet, and some, I guess, just forgot to take their clothes with them. One woman with whom we talked had her nipples pierced. Jeff, the soccer player I never would have suspected to join us (thank God for shattered stereotypes), decided to admit our obvious distraction. "Did it hurt?" he asked.

I remember congregating on the Lawn, the Washington monument rising above us. More stereotypes fell as an Abe Lincoln on stilts walked by. He carried a sign, "Straight (and Tall) Republicans for Civil Rights." Though the television coverage found the drag queens and the leather-clad lesbians, I watched two seventy-something men holding hands, two women with their young daughter, my friend Jon, wrapped in the protective comfort of the large rainbow flag.

The AIDS quilt was, of course, amazing. I felt a bit ashamed at first, as if eavesdropping on the funeral of a stranger. I soon learned that I did know those memorialized in that fabric. Brian stopped to write a response on the large AIDS Project banner. I could not find the words, but that is also why I was marching that day.

Eventually we organized ourselves, thousands pouring into the streets. The student groups were marching together. It was a bit of a delicious thrill to walk in the March on Washington. Onward through the famed city's streets, I chanted with the group, "We're here, we're queer, we're not doing our homework." Our feet slowed a bit as we rounded a comer and saw the expected protesters. Their posters reminded us of the promises of  hell and damnation for homosexuals. After passing the protesters, though I was sure they also condemned me to one of their many levels of hell, I wanted to turn to Brian, gently asking, "Did it hurt?" Hopefully, if only for a little while, it did not.

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