In the parking lot of the Anchorage Senior Center, Donna Summer's 'Hot Stuff' thumped from the back of a pickup truck.
I want some hot stuff, baby, this evenin'
Gotta have some hot stuff
Gonna have some love tonight (hot stuff)
“It ain’t over 'til it’s over, baby!” a woman with big grey hair yelled, her walker decorated with fake flowers.
She was one of a handful of LGBTQ+ elders following Gayle Schuh’s lead in a choreographed dance that involved “lots of hips” and walkers as props.
“It’s the music that’s off!” Schuh, 78, shouted as they struggled to stay in sync.
The dancers are part of the Alaska Rainbow Elders, the grand marshals of this year’s Pride parade.
Schuh’s 83-year-old wife, Julie Schmidt, was inside, chatting with those who, like her, aren’t quite up for the dancing. They’ll ride on the float.
Either way they’ll have fun. But some older members of the LGBTQ+ community, many of whom spent most of their lives closeted, say just walking, or dancing, in a Pride parade is something they never imagined was possible decades earlier, when they were afraid of losing their jobs, their families, maybe even their lives.
That’s how it was nearly fifty years ago, when Schuh and Schmidt met playing softball.
“Typical lesbian story,” Schuh said, and they both laughed.
They moved in together within a couple months. They knew it was something that would last a long time, Schmidt said. They bought a house in suburban Illinois. They were teachers. Their lives were ordinary, Schuh said: lesson planning, walking the dog, camping in the summer, groceries and dinner.
But they were also hiding who they were. That’s how it was for most people of their generation, Schuh said. Coming out was unheard of in the 70s, 80s and 90s, she said.
They got the message that they were an abomination in so many different ways, Schuh said: jokes on TV, government policies, slurs at work. And her dad’s reaction when she told him she was gay.
“He said, 'You'll never have any friends. You'll be miserable all of your life. And when we hang up the phone, don't contact me again. Don't try to call. Don't send me a letter. We are done,’” she said.
It wasn’t until the couple retired and moved to Alaska, nearly 25 years into their relationship, that they started coming out more broadly. At first it was a calculation, Schuh said. They would ask themselves “Is this person safe? Do I have the energy to deal with the consequences?”
There was the time she was at the dentist, in the chair, mouth full of tools. “Oh, you’re new to Alaska,” he said. “Is your husband military?”
“In a split second, you have to decide, are you going to tell this man something extremely personal about yourself and your life?” Schuh said.
That was the last time she had to decide.
“I just looked up and said – once the instruments were gone – I said, ‘No, not military, and my wife's name is Julie.’ And that was just like the dam broke, and I was never back in the closet again,” she said.
It was another 15 years before they got married, in Vancouver, Canada, on their 30th anniversary.
It’s such a relief to just be who they are, say what they want, and not have to watch every word, Schmidt said. It’s not something they imagined was possible when they were younger.
Things were getting a little better in recent years, she said. There were more rainbow flags out in the world. Same sex marriage was legal in more states, more countries. It started to feel easier to be gay. But Schmidt said that’s changed recently. There’s a lot of anti-LGBTQ+ legislation, and public opinion is shifting too.
“It feels like we're moving backward over the last few years,” Schmidt said.
Schuh is worried people will have to start going back in the closet.
“We know how to hide because we've hidden,” she said. “I believe that there are young people who don't know how to hide, and this is going to be painful for them.”
She hopes it doesn’t come to that. She hopes people never have to experience needing to calculate, constantly, who’s safe and who’s not.
That’s why Pride is important, Schmidt said.
It’s about loving who they are, she said, being proud, celebrating it, especially after hiding for so much of their lives.
Especially when you’re in the parade, Schmidt said. It’s a great feeling, a high.
“There are people out there cheering for us,” she said. “People that we know, people that we don't know, allies, friends, people that understand your story."
Schuh sat next to her, holding her hand, nodding in agreement.
