TO HIDE FROM PRIDE

Don’t let me rain on anyone’s parade. Today is the focal point of Vancouver’s Pride celebrations. It’s the first time time in a number of years that I’ve been here for the occasion. I don’t intentionally flee the city to avoid the festivities, but I certainly never regret missing out.

Happening to be here for once, I’ve been asked a half dozen times if I’m going to the parade. It feels like straight people’s way of saying, Aren’t I hip. I know about the event and I’m comfortable enough to bring it up in conversation. My answer startles them: “No.”

Huh? But you’re gay. It’s what gay people do.

They recover quickly from my potential conversation-killing remark. Invariably they say, “So you don’t like crowds.”

If only I didn’t feel the constant need to be honest, I could just say, “Yes. Awful crowds. Whew,...too much.” Then we could move on and talk about something safer—It’s supposed to be a hot one; thank goodness we don’t have the forest fires (yet); yesterday was Mustard Day.

But crowds aren’t a deal breaker. Don’t mind them, sometimes I even feed off the buzz. And, really, isn’t that supposed to be one of the empowering things about Pride? One massive turnout. Look at all the LGBT folks and all the others tagging along to show support or to at least bask in the sun and join the party. Amazing.

And, truly, it is. I attended my first Pride parade by myself twenty-nine years ago in Los Angeles. I was attending law school in Malibu at a stiflingly religious university where it was rumored that faculty had to sign a statement condemning homosexuality. I spent many a Friday and Saturday fleeing to the bars of West Hollywood as I gradually pieced together some understanding of gay culture: lots of dancing and drinking laced with fear as dutiful companions wheeled in men ravaged by Kaposi’s sarcoma and other AIDS-related afflictions. Confusing times.

I parked my car many, many blocks away from the parade route down Santa Monica Boulevard before squeezing my way into a partially open spot at the corner of Kings Road and settling in for the long procession of floats, banner-clad convertibles and marchers. The spectacle overwhelmed me. Brazilian gays and lesbians, a gay swim team, a gay and lesbian university association (not my university). On and on and on.

I ended up chatting with a small group of female nurses, each sporting a rainbow lei, each straight but regular parade goers. “Always the best!” one of them gushed. Their laughter and their frequent whoops kept me in the moment and held my emotions in check. The sheer numbers on the sidewalks and in the parade overwhelmed me in a good way. Far from hating the crowd, I found affirmation in the masses. For so much of my life, I had felt alone, hating myself for being a societal pariah, wishing there were a way to expunge a basic part of me. I saw parents marching in support of their sons and daughters, an expression of unwavering love, something I couldn’t even dream of regarding my own family. That pride event felt like a giant group hug, a moment of acceptance and relief. Driving back to my new apartment in a bright pink building in the Pacific Palisades, I was far from ready to unhinge the closet door but I held on to the euphoria of temporarily stepping out in broad daylight.

Back then, Pride helped me feel less alone. Today I’m avoiding all-things-Pride to protect myself a crushing sense of isolation and a pervasive feeling of failure. My rainbow Converse shoes will remain in the box and I will try to tell myself that it’s so nice to work out at the gym without having to wait to get on any of the machines. I have a novel I want to finish reading, a New York Times crossword to distract me. Like Christmas and New Year’s which I spend alone, I have to simply survive the day. I am so glad the event exists. Let it bring empowerment and connection to many. It’s just become a party where, instead of fitting in, I feel achingly invisible. Always best for the party pooper to stay home.