Sweet Like Sugar by Wayne Hoffman

with friends and greeting strangers with outstretched hands, cooing at babies cowering in strollers and kissing each other on the lips—men and women alike. “Are we going in the right direction?” someone asked. “Honey, we’re all going to the same place,” came the answer.
    Many passengers carried placards. I strained to get a look. I saw “equal” signs, pink triangles, small rainbow flags. But I couldn’t read the words. One man standing a few feet away had a sign tucked under his arm at his side; I cocked my head to try to make out the words. He looked down and noticed me. He held the sign up for me: a pink triangle with the slogan “Silence = Death.” I nodded, but didn’t understand what it meant.
    The teachers looked uneasy, their eyes watchful of the crowd. The other boys were punching one another and whispering dirty jokes. The girls were the only ones chatting with the other passengers, in typically ballsy fashion.
    â€œI totally love your earrings,” Shira Epstein said to a woman standing nearby.
    â€œThanks, I made them myself,” the woman replied. And the ice was broken.
    â€œSo, um, where’s everyone going?” Shira asked next.
    â€œToday’s the March on Washington,” the woman answered, as the woman next to her turned to see who was asking.
    Shira looked back blankly.
    â€œThe March on Washington for Lesbian and Gay Rights,” the woman’s friend clarified.
    â€œOh,” said Shira. “Cool.” She flashed a smile, which was returned in kind. The girl next to Shira giggled, but Shira elbowed her and mumbled, “Shut up.”
    A gay march. First I’d heard of it. And the first time I’d ever seen so many gay people in person. I started scanning the men to see what they looked like.
    My eyes grazed over a cluster of middle-aged men with moustaches and bald heads, half a dozen young black guys in khaki shorts and white tennis shoes, one man in a military uniform, a couple carrying a pair of dachshunds with matching rainbow collars. Then my eyes came to rest on one guy, perhaps twenty, wearing a Cornell T-shirt. His dark hair was short and curly, his face freshly shaven, bushy eyebrows capping the retro sixties glasses balanced on his prominent nose.
    He looked happy. He was among friends, seemed at home in his own skin. Another man a few feet away turned around and caught his eye. “Buck!” he called, and the Cornell guy turned to face him. So, his name was Buck. His eyes lit up, his arms reached out, and the two men kissed. On the lips. Not briefly. I was staring. So were my classmates. Even the boys stopped punching one another.
    My teacher muttered to herself, “Oh, really, this is too much.”
    Mr. Bleyer looked over and cleared his throat loudly: “Ahem!”
    The kisser opened his eyes, pulled away from Buck, and said, “We’ve got an audience.”
    Buck looked over at our group, smiled weakly, then whispered loud enough for us to hear: “So let them watch if they want.”
    I turned away, pretending to stare out the window, but he caught my eye in the reflection. Revelation was instant, unspoken, traveling on invisible radio waves.
    Buck turned back to the kisser and said, “Some of them should be taking notes.”
    Some of us were.
    We transferred at Metro Center to the orange line, grabbing buddies to stay together. We arrived at the museum to find a completely different crowd waiting: suits instead of T-shirts, solemnly quiet, no signs.
    Mr. Bleyer had our tickets ready, and as we walked into the museum, each of us was handed a card representing an actual victim of the Holocaust. We would follow our real-life victim through the events that unfolded for him or her, as the timeline of the Holocaust progressed in the exhibit. I got Ruth, a Jewish woman from Vienna. My classmates followed a Catholic priest from Krakow, a Jewish banker from Paris, a Gypsy