Rainbows

The rainbow line winds all around the block then back on itself. Multi-coloured flags tied onto thin, excited shoulders. Not just rainbow, but trans, enby, bi, and ones I can’t identify despite being quizzed on them. Mama, let me test you on the gay flags. I always forget the demigirl one. 

And their hair…pink, blue, purple, green. And their outfits. No two alike. There’s no uniform of DMs and little dresses for these kids. Each one is unique, yet still recognizable as part of this tribe of baby queerness. 

They keep running up to other kids in line…I like your outfit, I like yours too. Social confidence overflowing. 

Then they’re all jumping, phones held high, shouting out the words to every song, smiles plastered on faces. Joy pouring out of them.

And I can’t help viewing it all through my forty-something lens. That feeling of being young comes flooding back. Stepping into a concert or a club and your favourite song comes on and you’re with your friends and you grab their hands and you’re all jumping up and down on the dance floor. Joy, possibility, love, excitement. 

I’m at the back with the mums and dads as the kids surge ahead, trying to get as close as possible to the sweet red-haired kid on the stage. He’s wearing big headphones and his skinny legs stick out of baggy shorts. He stops his song to ask someone in the crowd if they’re ok, if they need water.

The joy and the excitement are the same, I have no doubt, but these kids are 

different from us. 

I’m at the back with two other mums, one in a jumpsuit and long brown hair, the other in a black leather jacket and tight little ‘fro. We’ve fucked these kids up in many ways, I’m sure, us 90s teens. But I think we also gave them acceptance, unconditional. To explore who they are. To not fit into neat little boxes.

And maybe I’m congratulating us too much. Maybe it has nothing to do with us. But I look around at them all, all so truly themselves, and I just can’t wait to see what they do next.