One’s first pride should be a day of celebration, but it can often be overshadowed by the apprehension of being seen. It’s hard to explain, but let me try.
Twenty five years in the making, my first pride took a bit to realize. Before you say anything, let me preempt you, this isn’t a sappy coming out story. I wanted to start here because it’s where I began to be who I really am.
This day was to be different. It began as any other, I awoke and headed towards the city but with a lightness in my heart. Looking around the train there were the usual suspects, but also a hint of whimsy. A young girl, nervously flitting with a strand of pink ribbon tied in her hair, gazing expectantly at her mothers. A young man where his “just tight enough” jeans still crisp from the local designer boutique’s shelves. The light smell of coconut from the pre-applied sunscreen covering the normally stale air of the monotone N train. Yes, today was different.
I emerged from the train to a bright mid morning in our island, my feet barely touching the stairs as I bounded lightly into the rays of the sun. My backpack strapped tightly on my shoulders, I deftly navigated the crowds of brightly dressed gangs of young men and women chattering among each other like songbirds. I turned down a narrow sidestreet to avoid the large crowds and arrived at our sun drenched meeting place. The corner was lined with revelers donned in flower leas and beads, carrying cameras and water bottles to ward the heat and capture the feeling around them.
I spot my guide in all things gay across the street, on the other side of a police barricade. Always holding us down! Luckily, they were allowing pedestrian traffic through the parade a bit down the block, at a wide intersection, so we were able to communicate well enough through hand signals. From across the street, I could see a proud gleam in his eye as he saw me at my first pride, being able to celebrate the history of the “tribe” openly and with all of our gay brothers and sisters (mostly sisters).
After he finally crosses the street we hug for a moment and briefly catch up, noting the fact that I was on time for once. He kisses me on both cheeks as is his custom--not only is he gay, but Italian--it’s to be expected. “You made it!” he exclaimed, shrieking a little to be heard over the crowd. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I replied. “ah, WIN,” as he calls me, “fashionably late as always.” I look down at my watch, “What! It’s within 15 minutes, Kyle, this is New York, anything within 15 minutes is on time!”
He chuckles as we both share a moment of understanding and turn towards the parade. Nothing would be able to put a damper on our day. On this day, more than any other, we would present ourselves to the world without shame and remember the struggles that it took for us to arrive at this point. Mutual friends begin to arrive shortly afterward, growing our crew with their smiling faces. Straight, gay, man woman, bi trans, all representations of the tribe represented within our group… at the time the importance was beyond me.
I couldn’t help but think that the sunscreen I had worn was running in the sweat of the activity and heat of the sun, that it would stain my white t-shirt – and with that I chuckled to myself in my own concern. Kyle looked over and saw my laughing to myself with a puzzled look, but I smiled at him to signify that nothing was wrong and I was merely in my own little world. We both laughed and looked on to the parade.
Suddenly, a shadow passed over and just as I got past the concern of my t-shirt, the sky opened up into a complete and sudden downpour, drenching everything and sending the gays scattering for the nearby cover of a building’s scaffolding.
Within minutes, though, the clouds lifted and the sun returned. For me, it seemed almost too perfect. The rain washed away any apprehension I had left.
The parade continued, with those brave boys in bikini briefs all to happy to remain on their floats. As I looked around, I knew what it felt like to live.
