My First NYC Pride March
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My First NYC Pride March
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Not sure why I had stayed away from marching in a Pride Parade for so long; decades, to be honest. Perhaps because I've never been a joiner, especially regarding huge and seemingly impersonal festivities. Never able to appreciate what I had always felt was a forced levity within the Pride juggernaut. But I'd been a member of NYC's Gay Center for a number of years, and had become active in certain programs. When my fellow Center members asked me to sign up as a participant representing the Center, I was hesitant. Again, not sure why. Told them, in successive years, that I was otherwise occupied. But in the end -- the year was 2009 -- I agreed, with considerable reluctance, and signed up.
Though there was great anticipation at the Center, great enthusiasm among everyone, I felt an outlier. Couldn't rouse myself to gather any real emotional energy. In fact, I was regretting having signed up and was looking for a way to duck showing up.
But show up I did, dreading the next several hours.
Dreading.
Still remember, eight years later, the morning I arrived at the gathering spot, the west 30s, off Fifth. The mood euphoric, the energy palpable, electric. I still remember slipping into a Gay Center T-shirt, gathering around the float, the crowds lining Fifth Avenue, cheering. And I felt an emotional smack, an immediate high. All my skepticism--, hell, cynicism, evaporated. Disappeared. Went south.
I was loving it, everything about it. Marching and gripping and shaking hands with onlookers, kissing and hugging and banging high-fives. There I was, me, who so long had stayed far from Pride festivities, there I was reveling in the noise and happiness and crowds.
I was reveling in Pride, gayness. My Pride. My gayness. At the explosive gayness all around me. At the sheer thrill of being a part of saluting and honoring and demonstrating to NYC--, nay, to the world, showcasing my very own glorious Pride in being out, open and GAY!
The day was long, and so was the night. Into the wee wee wee hours. My only regret about that day was that it had taken me so many years to take part in NYC's Pride March.
Haven't missed one since.
Though there was great anticipation at the Center, great enthusiasm among everyone, I felt an outlier. Couldn't rouse myself to gather any real emotional energy. In fact, I was regretting having signed up and was looking for a way to duck showing up.
But show up I did, dreading the next several hours.
Dreading.
Still remember, eight years later, the morning I arrived at the gathering spot, the west 30s, off Fifth. The mood euphoric, the energy palpable, electric. I still remember slipping into a Gay Center T-shirt, gathering around the float, the crowds lining Fifth Avenue, cheering. And I felt an emotional smack, an immediate high. All my skepticism--, hell, cynicism, evaporated. Disappeared. Went south.
I was loving it, everything about it. Marching and gripping and shaking hands with onlookers, kissing and hugging and banging high-fives. There I was, me, who so long had stayed far from Pride festivities, there I was reveling in the noise and happiness and crowds.
I was reveling in Pride, gayness. My Pride. My gayness. At the explosive gayness all around me. At the sheer thrill of being a part of saluting and honoring and demonstrating to NYC--, nay, to the world, showcasing my very own glorious Pride in being out, open and GAY!
The day was long, and so was the night. Into the wee wee wee hours. My only regret about that day was that it had taken me so many years to take part in NYC's Pride March.
Haven't missed one since.