Though a seasoned urban walker, I was not precisely prepared for the query posed by a pan-handler yesterday. There I was, walking along Michigan Avenue, minding my own business, taking in the sights, watching people, and thinking; thinking about the art I just saw, whether I should walk through Millennium Park or just along, and where I should have a late lunch, early dinner.
Though a seasoned urban walker, I was still taken aback a bit by the guy's question. A stumbling, stammering (it was clear what previous donations financed) Q & A later indicated that he wasn't so much interested in my sexuality, well, actually he was (as he'd admitted to looking for a soul mate, ostensibly to entice me to consider . . . ?) but he hadn't presumed I was a lesbian. He was looking to determine if I, the feminist he apparently had presumed me to be, would be amenable to giving him, a man, a donation.
At least that's what I surmised from the bits and pieces I could understand, for as I say, the back and forth wasn't exactly lucid. He walked with me for a block or two, our disconnect arriving just as he began asking about my church affiliation.
The seasoned urban walker continued south down Michigan Avenue, still thinking about where I might take in a meal. I began to chuckle about the various people who'd approached me, the snippets of conversations I heard and those I participated in. I began pondering the relationship between lesbians and feminists and vice versa.
Then of course I returned to thinking about being into women . . .