Yesterday was Gay Pride Sunday, the final day of a week filled with activities, all which culminate in an parade sponsored by Heritage of Pride. These days it begins on Fifth Avenue at 52nd Street and proceeds south to 8th Street where it continues towards the west side of Manhattan. At Sixth Avenue, the parade veers northwest on Greenwich Avenue for one block then heads southwest through the West Village on Christopher Street. Halfway down the street towards the infamous Stonewall Inn (where all this began), is my street, Waverly Place.
This was to be my first Pride Parade at this address and I was committed to not miss it for anything. Even the Super, along with his wife and two kids, was hitting it big, though his intentions were purely monetary. Apparently, every year he and his homies from the lower (east side) sell waters for a buck. This year was an expanded version of that: a cook - said wide - would also sell skewers; young artists - said kids - would sell painted 'I Love New York' MTA maps; and a driver - said homies - would replenish the goods with a van that only the Super knew how to scheme in and out of the neighborhood throughout the day. By 10AM the 4-foot gay flag was out, by noon the music was pumping from the van, as if to signal, "The BBQ is on!"
At 1:30, when the parade was in full swing, the police had already fined him $250, the selling was off and the invitations had extended beyond close friends. What else was he to do with all that product, I suppose was the thought. The block party, sponsored by our building, was on.
Back to the magnificent parade, the forecast had kept the swelling of the street down to 2 or 3-people deep at most by our building which is around the corner from madness so it was manageable. Calling Waverly home base was literally a blessed affair. Though the view from the roof was fabulous (see above), downstairs was fun and we got it all in. The most memorable moment is a 2PM Silence - the moment along the parade route where everyone recognizes those who have died of AIDS with complete and ominous silence. It is the highlight of that event, my reason for being there, and brings on a tear every year. THIS is what my generation should count on this thing being all about. Recognition is a wonderful thing, but continuing that on with resolution is where the meaning of it all comes for those next in line.
The Super's party went on in the streets as long as the sun was out, and then for some time it continued on the roof. Nothing rained on this parade except more freedom to shine.
Similar to the police sweep over Bourbon Street the midnight after Mardi Gras, fireworks over a Pride Dance that is organized every year on a pier along the Hudson River bring the Heritage of Pride festivities to a close every year. This year, I'd finished before they had begun. I took a Sunday afternoon nap on the couch, in front of a setting sun on what was a gorgeous day. I was awoken by the thunder of the light show over the Pier Dance. The show was beautiful and much fuller than I've seen in years, surely better than the times I've seen them on that over-crowded pier. After the final thunder, it couldn't have been more than 10 minutes before I was cuddled into bed asleep.
This morning, I woke up like any Monday morning when the boss is in town and bounced out the door before 8AM. There he was... hours since I'd seen him last. I looked at my Super and smiled, "We survived." He grinned at me and nodded in agreement with a light chuckle as he watched me bounce away.
And then the day went on...
About 13 hours later, I walked up Waverly from the subway ride home from work and noticed my the building's Super on the stoop smoking a cigarette. I imagined, with so little that gets done in general, that he could have conceivably just sat there all day. "And there's the day," I said to him as he grinned at me and nodded in agreement with a light chuckle.
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