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Delivered with Pride

 June is Gay Pride Month. It’s the time to hang rainbow flags, celebrate diversity, equality, love, inclusion and show support for the LGBTQ+ community.

There are parades, parties, memorials and tv programs celebrating the history of gay culture. As indiviuals discuss their coming out process, the question always arises “when did you know you were gay?” 

For some it can be a slow process, questioning where they fall on the spectrum of self-identification. For me there was never a question. I came out at birth holding a ticket to Key West and a rainbow binky. No need to keep my parents guessing.

I knew from the moment the doctor said “the baby is crowning” that I was royalty. The reality smacked me soon after I left the hospital, but a “Gurl” can dream. “Can I get an amen?”

I escaped nine months from my isolation chamber, and didn’t scream or cry. Instead, I sang the 12” Club Version of “I’m Coming Out,” my homage to the diva — Miss Ross. 

The birth canal is not equipped with low level lighting for evacuation, so my first glimpse of the sterile delivery room was overwhelming. Like the effects on a Gremlin, bright light is disastrous. The fluorescents were way too harsh for my skin tone. I put my tiny foot down. There’d be no newborn photo shoot without some lighting diffusion and gels. “I’m not ready for my closeup, Nurse Ratched!” 

Without a doubt, I was 100% gay. No way was I ever going near another female’s nether regions. Like an escapee from Alcatraz, I’d just tunneled my way out. Why would I ever swim back to visit the island?

The doctor seemed friendly and handsome in his form fitting scrubs, until he threw me like a Hail Mary pass to the labor and delivery nurse. Why was I covered in a layer of goop? I’d really have preferred a mud facial mask and some cucumbers on my eyes. The labor process had left me puffy and splotchy. 

I would not allow visitors until I had proper rest and was ready for an official audience. After all, I still believed my home was going to be a castle. After a 40-point inspection, the nurse put me in a scratchy diaper and shoved a knit cap on my head. “Hello!” ‘Someone needs to call in Vidal Sassoon and Halston. I need a haircut and a bespoke onesie.”

When I finally met my Mom, I felt better about my appearance. She definitely was ready for hair and makeup. The old girl had been through hours of my packing and moving out, so I’d have to give her a pass. No demerits for racoon eyes. 

She’d decided not to breast feed which got two snaps up from me. Never let it be said my lips touched a breast. Baby formula is for undiscerning palates. My first meal was me spitting out Enfamil and screaming for a Dirty Martini or Moscow Mule. I needed a baby buzz to survive a night in a plastic bassinet in a room full of screaming infants. 

I had arrived to bring style, art and culture to the world, but I’d have to do it between naps. For some reason babies are supposed to get a lot of rest. But who could sleep? I needed Ray-Bans for my delicate blue eyes. Whoever thought painting the hospital nursery chartreuse was a barbarian. 

Thankfully, a new-born doesn’t have a long stay in the hospital. I was ready to move on to do great things. I refused a swaddle blanket and a bunny rattle. I’d only accept a subscription to Architectural Digest Jr. and a Neiman’s gift certificate. Did I look like I was born yesterday? Oh, wait a minute — I was. 









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