I can’t remember when I marched in my first gay pride parade, since there have been a batch.
I always enjoy waiting for the more conservative elements of the gay community
to complain about the drag queens and the leathermen, and about how these folks “hurt our
cause.” I like to picture the ideal, mainstream parade, with neat rows of blonde caucasians
wearing Brooks Brothers suits and carrying matching attache cases with discreet rainbow
stickers.
One of my favorite pride parades occured during the year when my play Jeffrey had moved
for a commercial off-broadway run. The show had a float in the parade, with the cast riding
a bedecked flatbed truck. That was also the year when I met John, who would become my
partner and the love of my life, so it was an especially memorable parade.
Lately the NYC parade has grown younger and more diverse, which is wonderful. Marchers
arrive from all over the world. Since I live near the parade route, my block is
always all parked up, with the cars of marchers from out of town. These marchers will
often push their cars’ seats back and take naps during the day, so the block becomes
like a slumbering gay nursery.
Here’s some Sylvester, because it just wouldn’t be Gay Pride Day without Sylvester.
