I love sleeping in late. My freshman roommates at Burr used to stand at the foot of my bed torturing me with, “Rise and shine. And give God the glory, glory. Rise and shine…”
I hated them.
So, when Callie woke me up one Saturday morning asking me to trudge all the way to DuPont Circle to see the Gay Pride Parade, I told her to f*ck off. Unfortunately, she had a backup.
To cover liquor costs that summer, Callie and I rented out the second room and sometimes living room floor to friends who only needed a place to stay for a week or up to a month. Kate, a friend from Burr, was the first renter.
That Saturday Kate and Callie didn’t torture me with Sunday school songs but instead bounced up and down on my bed.
Eventually promised fancy coffee, I surrendered.
For years I lived in midtown Atlanta, and I can tell you that pride parades have gotten so much better since the ‘90s.
They now rival those on Main Street Disney and are infinitely more enjoyable because everyone is loaded on something. No stroller parking though.
I don’t mean to imply that this parade wasn’t faaaabulous. Because it was. I think.
Unfortunately, the crowd was several people deep. Callie and Kate blamed me for not getting there earlier so we could get good spots and reneged their offer to pay for fancy coffee.
That was my first gay pride parade. Somehow, my pride rivaled its participants as I patted myself on the back for getting out of bed to see it.
I managed to make a celebration whose participants face day to day unjustifiable prejudice and make it all about me.
I’m not proud.