For the dear God who loveth us
Made and loveth all.[1]
When the alarm goes off at 5:00 AM on Saturday morning, particularly one in the middle of a four-day weekend, questions of being a little off the rails roll through your head. Coffee and Diet Coke and things come together, focus tightens and the picture sharpens, flashes into view. We had plans. We were marching in the Pride Parade.
Our drive was pleasant, and our walk from the parking lot to the Statehouse was an easy hike. It was cool and dry, giving the day a feeling of a glorious adventure. It had been 90 degrees and humid most of the week, it was easy to believe there was some magic, or something mystical, maybe a higher power, keeping rising temperatures and vicious storms at bay.
We found our group, it was the school district where my wife works, and they gave us shirts, Gahanna Pride shirts. A lion in rainbow colors, that for some reason made me think of Bob Marley.
In my head the song “Get up, Stand up”, played in my head.
“Get up, stand up; stand up for your rights
Get Up, stand up; don’t give up the fight.”
Our “Pride Ambassador” was keen and energetic, welcoming people as they arrived with friendly charm and a casual air. He had a way of making you feel welcome and a part of the “Gahanna Pride.” He was constantly moving through the group, offering sunscreen, water, Pride Flags, a friendly word, checking in the newest arrivals with a disarming smile and a soft, comfortable voice.
We had time. It takes hours to organize 17,000 people into an organized march. The parade was being assembled and staged in a compact mass of color and sound around the corner on High Street. With that much time I decided to have a look.
Up and down the street for at least five blocks were participants. All manner of dress and display, bright, loud colors, and arches of balloons, it looked like chaos. There’s still enough of the anarchist in me I enjoy a little chaos, but as I walked the sidewalk watching the shapes form, coalesce into structure and practical patterns it became clear there was an order and choreography to the movements. Somehow, the pieces were forming into columns and rows, almost as if an unseen hand was moving them into position. I didn’t really see anybody walking through the crowds, megaphone in hand, moving the madness into sanity. But it happened. It really seemed everybody was just happy to be there and were willing to accept the right of everybody else to be there.
Music blared from speakers mounted on floats for blocks, from Broad Street to Fulton Street, lined up three across. It was catharsis, people were out in the open, mixing and mingling, and laughing, dancing, with an abandon that bordered on intoxication. Something more powerful than alcohol was at work, freedom. For one day they could be themselves and to hell with those who would judge them.
I was delighted to find that our starting spot was in front of the statehouse, where HB61 is rocketing through chambers. It is a bill designed to keep transgender male athletes from competing in women’s sports. I’m sure there is a provision to keep females from competing with males but it’s mostly an afterthought. The men in the General Assembly aren’t worried about women winning, anything. They make that clear.
I looked around our little group of fifty, my wife introduced me to several people, and pointed out the others. There were several board members, the district superintendent, some administrators, and school principals, Gahanna Pride royalty. We were small fraction of the total marchers.
We got the signal and started inching along. I wasn’t sure what to expect, I’ve never been in a parade before.
For the first several blocks it seemed standard, routine, people waving and thanking us for giving candy to their children. At each block the route became more restricted, the crowds got bigger and pushed out into the street. And somehow, the organizers, who seemed to be able to maintain an almost invisible presence, pushed the columns from three to one, one long, homogenous mass of happy, proud people, every race, every size, shape, nationality, all walking together.
As the route narrowed and the crowds blossomed, things got louder, more participatory. There was a feeling of shared family. It was raucous and wild and ebullient. It became more welcoming and grateful.
“Thank you, thank you for what you’re doing.” Rang from the crowd, “Happy Pride Day,” we yelled back, war whoops and flags waving. It was a call and response, organic and spontaneous. It might have been perfected over the years, but nobody wrote it down, they didn’t need to practice, it flowed from the need for recognition, the hunger for validation, it was Pride.
I felt a undeniable sense of belonging. Nobody was there to see me, nobody knew or cared who I was. But they were happy I was there. I kind of understood what Jerry Garcia meant when he talked about the audience being as important as the band. I felt the energy, it washed over me in ways that I didn’t understand. I didn’t need to, so I didn’t bother to try.
When it was over, I understood, the rainbow has colors for everyone. They don’t care who I am or what I believe. All they want is the same consideration.
[1] Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
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