The way they tried to do in the last centuri…

photos © 2019 the author I don’t go to Pride much anymore. I started taking in the parade many years ago when it was just a bunch of queens whooping it up on Christopher Street — no floats, no soundtrucks, just an occasional Marilyn Monroe impersonator crawling on the hood of a convertible. I watched it grow, at first as full of defiance as of joy (my God, in front of St. Pat’s you could feel the rage like infrared waves); then, as treatments improved and the movement’s power grew, a celebration that everyone in New York wanted to be part of. I approved, but I also felt that it was, like the Village Halloween Parade, Wigstock, and Summerstage, one of the things that in my grumpy middle age I was over.

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