Junetary

Can anyone's cause become everyone's cause? Or will it eventually be no one's cause?

"That's the end to another month of pride," the tall figure in the dayglo orange wig declared as he was followed by various other figures in very similar attire. 

"Didn't seem as fun this year," a person in a bright blue gown stated upon removing the green wig. 

"Really?" commented the former wearer of the purpole wig now adorning the nearby headstand. "I thought things were much more lively this go around." 

"Well," a droll delivery began in the speaker's direction, "were you even sober for any amount of time in the past month?" 

This remark was followed by deep-throated laughter and statements of "he wasn't sober last week with those other two fellas," and so on. 

"Oh, I guess I'll put this away until next year," one person said after slipping off the sequined blue dress, leaving all aspects of physical anatomy visible to anyone who looked. A hand slapped the derrierre as the figure walked by. 

The unclothed person protested, insisting upon respect toward individual boundaries. More laughter from others. The offensive party in a shimmering violet gown had moved on. 

Seeking to change the subject, another disrobed body neatly folding up the previously adorned emerald gown inquired to the first person. 

"You figure it will be another year before you wear yours?" the tattooed figure asked, a newly lit cigarette bobbing up and down between crimson red lips. "I imagine I'll be waring this one in another month." 

"A month?" a third figure gently holding the previously owned black satin garment across one arm also spoke up, "I figure I'll be wearing this baby by the end of the week."

And still the group in one form or another laughed. Numerous barely clothed figures sat in front of mirrors removing all forms of colored buildup from faces. Flirtations followed with completely disrobed figures entering shower stalls together. Whoops and hollers likewise followed. 

The person who was slapped on the bare buttock now wore a robe and also sat in front of a mirror, cleansing off moderate amounts of all sorts of coatings upon the cheekbones, chins and forehead. Attempts were made to keep the offending violet gown in sight, but once the garment had been removed from the body, the victim wasn't sure which buff physique had enacted the insulting gesture. 

"You're not still mad, are you, Jeffrey?" a nearby person asked. 

"Well," Jeffrey spoke, wiping at the eyebrows, "I think I'm just glad to see this month come to an end."

"It hasn't been that bad."

Jeffrey paused, then continued, "other things have happened. Behavior from people elsewhere, parking spaces, cashier at the market. For some reason this month seemed more difficult." 

"Well," the other figure spoke, "we know there are still those who harbor hatred toward us for who we are." 

Jeffrey started to speak, then stopped and looked at the figure beside him. He hesitated a split-second, then began again. 

"Do you not understand?" he started. "A cashier, a teller at the bank. For all I knew, they could have been out and proud, too. It was still everyday issues that have been trying, and as I said, more trying than usual. Then to be relieved to get out of that dress and have someone man-handle me like that." 

 With those words, Jeffrey looked around at people still mulling about in celebratory attire, gradually removing the costumery and warpaint as well. Not seeing any hint of the person who struck him, he turned back to the mirror. 

"Sounds to me like you liked it," the other person said. Jeffrey stopped and stared at him. 

"Go away," he said to him. The person slowly rose upon the high heel pumps and was just about to turn away to depart.  

"And then to have to listen to how our month of recognition has to pay some retribution to field hands who feel they didn't get paid enough for their labor really does diminish our focus." 

The other fellow hesitated. 

"What?" 

Jeffrey began brushing at his hair. 

"That farm hand day this same month," he said with absolute crass. He stopped brushing. 

"Excuse me, I think we were here first!" 

Jeffrey continued brushing his hair. 

"You mean the slaves?" the other person inquired. 

Jeffrey guffawed, then repeated, "slaves. Oh, don't believe that for one minute. They were enjoying those whips and chains. talk about kinky!" he said with a chuckle. 

Jeffrey continued brushing at his hair. The other fellow stood in silence. 

"Jeffrey," he finally said quietly, "that day is for when the American slaves learned they were free." 

Jeffrey slapped his hand on the table and looked the other person. 

"Oh, come on," he said. "Do you believe that? When have you never known a black person to know what they have access to? They practically live for finding out what is theirs. Face it, you're not black, your Mexican. That's not quite the same, but black people always know when they have something, including not enough payment for field labor." 

The other fellow turned and looked at his own reflection, still fully coiffured. Slowly the silken glove reached up to remove the ebony wig and placed it upon the table before the mirror. Then the same gloved hands reached up and removed the sparkling jewelry. 

Unprovoked, Jeffrey proceeded. 

"No one wants to say anything, but everyone knows the day is actually in recognition of little songstress June Terry, who sang in the movies and upon her sudden death, it was learned she was really a man. That's the true meaning behind Junetary. It's even recognizing her name. I don't know why everyone has allowed the fallacy about it being the farm worker day to continue." 

The other person stared in the mirror to see several melanin figures had heard Jeffrey's words and now approached him. 

"Excuse me," one of them said in a very deep voice and still wearing the yellow mini-skirt. 

Jeffrey turned to look at the bronze form and the usual exchange occurred. Jeffrey tried to be witty and talk his way out of the situation, only to find himself screaming for help for others in the crowd, but the gathering was still rather fifty-fifty in regards to race, so attempts to come to Jeffrey's aid by others was met with immediate opposition still by those who disapproved of what he had said. 

The verbal confrontation was predictably loud and unpleasantly boisterous. Jeffrey fought like a demon out of control and was met with similar ferocity. 

The person to whom Jeffrey spoke to sought to make for the nearest exit, carrying the high heels in the left hand. A couple of individuals decided otherwise and even seeing the figure's obvious Hispanic origin, that this was the initiator of the dialogue with Jeffrey prevented any departure here as well. 

One figure did escape, so to speak. As the commotion took place inside the dwelling and there was conflict and discourse escalating outside, the small diminutive figure made his way further from the location and pondered the events as they happened. 

He didn't hesitate and eventually stop until he was well away from the chaos. He sat on the edge of the small wall circling the park, placing his bag in his lap. A police car drove by, with no lights flashing. He sat, appearing completely innocent. He gave a slight chuckle as he did so. 

He was just about to stand when he became aware of another figure with him, setting out of his sight, staring at him with a look of longing. The second figure barely moved, but seemed to be motioning toward his crotch. 

Having been instructed and learned quite a while ago how to handle persons such as these, the first fellow produced the blade with a sudden click, fully intending to use it to drive away the unwanted person. 

The loud pop followed by shocked reactions took place instead and, at such close range, the knife fell to the sidewalk, the person who had been holding it soon followed. bright sunshine was visible as the dying form stared upward into the sky, hearing the footsteps slowly make their way further and further away in the distance. His hearing was starting to go, and all he saw was the brightness, unable to hear persons mulling about as to what to do or what must have happened, but fortunately there was a call for an ambulance. 

"Always happens this time of year," was spoken by one quiet voice, getting fainter and fainter. 

No one really knew about the blade, which had fallen away, but the small bag held in the other hand had fallen open, revealing the carefully rolled up volet gown stored within.