The first time I heard it, I was the same age as these kids. It’s a song about what it feels like when we manifest our truest, fullest and freest selves. That is why I see “Philadelphia Freedom” not simply as a gay anthem, but a pride anthem. It’s done by showing up, even when the court isn’t ready for us. We still have a lot of work to do, but equality isn’t achieved simply by playing the game. Without Elton John, there is no Lil Nas X. Without Billie Jean King, there is no Megan Rapinoe. Of course, no one caught the rest of the words, but Billie Jean was right when she said it’s the feeling of freedom people hear in the song that matters most. When the first bars rang out and Elton sang, “I used to be a rolling stone, you know/If the cause was right,” I didn’t know what would happen next. The problem wasn’t that I didn’t look like my kids’ mom - it was that I didn’t look like anyone’s mom. Strangers would often stop us on the street to tell us how cute our kids were, then look at me and ask quizzically, “Are you the … ? ” Things only got worse when we moved to a short-term rental in a suburb in Westchester County, N.Y., where we were the only visible two-mom family. It seemed like progress - but when we had kids, things changed. Rainbow flags went mainstream, even corporate. In 1999, my girlfriend and I had a commitment ceremony in Washington, then a Massachusetts marriage in 2004 and a Connecticut civil union in 2007, which was eventually recognized as marriage in every state. “Gayborhoods” sprang up in cities and towns across America. Celebrities became self-declared queer icons. Within the space of a few years, the world appeared to be catching up. I started to hear “Philadelphia Freedom” differently, letting myself experience the song as the wink it was intended to be. Billie Jean was taking ownership of her identity. We held hands, danced and flirted with strangers. We joined AIDS activists for a “die-in” in front of the White House to memorialize those lost to the government’s inaction on the pandemic. for the 1993 March on Washington, where we were joined by a million leather daddies, drag queens, dykes on bikes, teachers, farmers, parents and kids. We took classes in gender theory, queer cinema and representations of AIDS. There it was so cool to be queer that even the straight kids tried it. Outing was the opposite of pride, but at least the closet doors began to budge.Īfter I graduated, I landed at Hampshire College, a tiny experimental school in western Massachusetts that felt like an upside-down world.
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The unspoken code was “don’t ask, don’t tell.” Then came AIDS and the outing of closeted musicians, movie stars and politicians. High school was an exercise in camouflage and self-erasure. Throughout my teens, the same rule applied to Queen, Culture Club, Judas Priest and Frankie Goes to Hollywood. But if you noticed any of that, someone would inevitably call you out: “What are you - gay?”
Yes, the man singing about how freedom “took him knee-high to a man” wears glittery suits, sequined hats and bedazzled eyewear - and calls himself Captain Fantastic. Yes, there are over-the-top flutes, horns and strings. I was a 6-year-old working-class tomboy when I first heard “Philadelphia Freedom.” It figured prominently into the city’s 1976 Bicentennial celebration, then later at parades, sporting events, pretty much every occasion that called for civic pride. But it took me decades to understand that the song wasn’t really about tennis, or Philadelphia - which is why it came to resonate so much more with me. He wrote the song with Bernie Taupin in 1975 for Billie Jean King, drawing inspiration from her pioneering mixed-gender tennis team, the Philadelphia Freedoms, with a melody that nodded to the great Philly soul sounds of Gamble and Huff. When most people think of “Philadelphia Freedom,” a single refrain comes to mind: “I lo-o-ove you/Yes I do!” They’re hard-pressed to remember the rest of the words, because as with many of Elton John’s songs, the lyrics are kind of oblique.