What I Learned at Pride Parade
I just wanted to get a sandwich, but ended up in the happiest place on Earth: West Village on Pride Day. As I walked down seventh avenue to try the famous “Italian Special” sub at Faicco’s, a 20-minute trip turned into nearly two hours. Crowds of people of all genders, colors, religions and backgrounds swarmed the Village. Men doused in glitter and women with rainbow stickers covering their nipples (and some with no stickers) walked past me, and I realized I had come to this party severely underdressed (or some would say “overdressed”). I was wearing my yellow hat that read “Finance” on it, gym shorts, a tan shirt from Cos and dark green Birkenstocks. Everywhere I detoured, I ended up face to face with an NYPD fence and more colors than I thought existed. I decided the sandwich could wait and I’d just stand there and join the parade.
To be honest, I thought it was strange to see people dressed like this. When do we ever see a man wrapped in metal chains and a star-studded leather tighty-whitey in the office? When do we see women with their tits out on the street? When do we see 13-inch boots become the new Stan Smiths? Or more fishnets than the Sea of Japan? I looked so bland. If life had a dress code, it’d be more like Pride attire I think: bare and bold.
Curiosity sucked me in, then happiness engulfed me. Everywhere my head turned, I encountered people who had overcome a battle some of us will never endure. A skinny young kid with a snake around his neck smiled as his friends took pics. He looked so vulnerably happy, as if the answers to all his troubles were already in that grin. I saw a man lift his dog up as the crowd cheered at its rainbow-colored cape (I don’t think the dog knew what was going on, or that it was gay maybe?) Usually we hear cheers for points scored or when the magician finishes his trick, but I learned that in the parade people cheer for the common thread in humanity: love. A man walks by and waves. Roars erupt. A group of friends run together. Flags wave in frantic motion. An old woman with a curved back makes her way across seventh. Cue in loud music and screams.
The rowdiest area was right outside the Stonewall Inn, a gay bar in West Village known for launching the gay rights movement in 1969. I looked up at a middle-aged man who was yelling the same phrase over and over again as he passed the crowd on a moving platform.
“This is where it all started!” He screamed as he pointed both index fingers toward the ground. The veins in his neck were bulging and the crowd cheered louder than the fans at Kevin Durant’s game six against the Bucks. Those six words and the energy around me summed up how important this day is for the entire world. Coming from a predominantly white fraternity at Ohio State, I could easily be seen as an outsider, but what Pride taught me is there’s no such thing as an outsider. That’s the point: there is no difference. There just is. It’s crazy to think people have to fight so hard, and even die, to just be.
I actually ended up getting my sandwich. I was able to squeeze past the crowd to get to Faicco’s. I tried making it back the same way but it was too late. NYPD closed the path and I felt like a lost hiker trying to cross a river at high tide. I decided to stand and watch again. This time I saw more.
Not everyone was happy. There were people taking advantage of the parade, selling rainbow flags, hand fans that read “Make Me Cum Again” and shirts that said “Eat Puss, It’s Organic.” One man sat there with sad, tired eyes, as if he was waiting for his own Stonewall moment that would rid him of abusive memories. I hope he sold a few shirts to drunk kids. As I peered over to the other side of the sealed street, I saw a lanky man with a shirt that read “Trans Rights Are Human Rights” and a blonde with a white t-shirt and shorts, both cuffed at the ends. They leaned on the fence looking uncomfortable and anxious.
I don’t want to assume, but there were probably many others in this crowd dipping their toes in the water and unable to release their truths yet. I was seeing humanity in its purest form. People fully tapped into their wells of identity, people struggling to scream what many people wore on their shirts: “I’m Gay. Get Over It” and people pushing this euphoric happiness to new heights.
I think we could all learn something from Pride Day. Maybe what lies on the other side of speaking up for what you believe in, or maybe just to support each other because that’s how we get better, and even more importantly: happy. And in this world, it’s never been more important to find the crevice where happiness lies.
I just had to carry a sandwich to my apartment. But most of the gay community has to carry stuff much heavier than that. The last thing I saw before heading home was an old man dressed in a light pink dress DJing on the street. He pointed to me and smiled as the crowd gleaned with glory (and glitter). I nodded my head and looked around, seeing God’s perfection in every stroke of humanity.
I wrote this because I am intrigued by those who can be themselves. And those that are tough enough to find happiness in such a short life. Whoever you love, you don’t have to explain shit. We’ll all be dead in 100 years anyway. Might as well run naked!
