If you were in New York City this Sunday past you know that it was the annual NYC Pride March — some call it a parade, and I suppose it is, now, but it’s a reminder of the Stonewall riots and the march of protest that took place the following year. And every year, it seems, I struggle with an internal battle over whether to go or not. It’s a little silly when I think about it. My reasoning usually has more to do with the fact that New York seems to have a parade every time someone drops their hat, so by the time Pride comes around I’m a bit tired of pushing through crowds and taking an hour to walk from 5th avenue over to 7th in search of a decent watering hole. This year, I admit, it had more to do with the fact that I’m single, and, as I told Fifi, I feel like it doesn’t matter whether I’m gay or straight because nobody loves me anyway, sadface, what a travesty is my life. (Wompwomp, Hi, my name is Eeyore I don’t believe we’ve met.)
Well. Thank goodness for small miracles — and for Eddie. Every time I turn my moping face in Eddie’s direction, he gives me an appropriately consoling pat on the back, and then helps me find my bootstraps by which to yank myself back into my cheery
old young self. This time, he invited me to march. So, yes. I went from wanting to run away to Jersey to being smack dab in the middle of the damn thing. And I had a fantastic time.
I discovered, as I danced my way down 5th Ave to the W.Village, that it is infinitely more gratifying to be in the march, than to watch it. Partially because you get to have all of New York City’s eyes on you — but mostly because you’re part of the movement. It’s a movement toward equality, toward showing love for your neighbor because of who they are, toward celebrating being human. It’s celebrating love. And what’s not to love about that?
Some images of the day: