The first time I was in a parade was when I was 18 or 19. It was my first summer away from my small hometown, and I agreed to help my friend Chris finish up a float for the bar he worked at, to be in an upcoming parade.
(Back home you see, I was crowned my podunk town’s Lady Spirit, and float-building was one of my gifts.)
Rainbow colors, streamers, and lights went on the Club Paradise float.
“What’s this parade for?” I asked.
“Pride. And tolerance.”
“Sweet! Count me in.”
What small-town girl couldn’t get behind having pride, and tolerating differences? I had no idea this city was so progressive…
“Great—you can ride with us on the float.”
Oh naive, silly, small-town 511Amber.
I had no clue it was a gay pride parade.
We didn’t have those in the boondocks.
It was immediately clear to me that my bumpkin ass wasn’t in Kansas anymore however, as the float rounded the corner and approached the staging area. It was a parking lot, alley and street, filled with wild floats, gorgeous drag queens with feathers and sequins, butchy babes and banners about gay pride. Thousands upon thousands had come out to, well… be out.
“This is a… gay… parade?”
“You know it girl!!”
My mind was blown. I couldn’t hop off, not only was Chris my dear friend, but he was also my ride. Plus, I was here for solidarity, dammit, and everyone was being so nice…
How could I not have seen it?
(Oy!—it took quite a bit of platonic hanging out to realize Chris was the Will to my Grace, not the Harry Connick Jr. I would have gone anywhere with him though, Will or Harry.)
I might not have been gay, but I was loving all the cool out people I was meeting that day. Why not stay and enjoy the ride?
I was the only female on our float, and figured that if I juuust tried to blend and not call attention to myself, I would not only have a great story, but my parents back in Hicksville need not know a thing. Everyone around was so excited and flamboyant, I was sure nobody would notice me.
Sooo wrong.
We were 10 minutes into the parade when we slowed at a corner and sure enough, there was a camera and a reporter for a local news station.
And sure enough, they wanted to talk with me, the sore-thumb girl on the all-boy float.
“So, why are you here today?” Chirped the blonde, suited reporter, leaning in and holding up the mic.
“Uh, I uh, wanted to come out and… support… my f-friends,” I stammered.
At least, I think that’s what I said. Everybody around me cheered and the float lurched ahead, leaving the camera behind. Through the rest of the parade I kept waving and cheering, pleased with myself. I was happy I didn’t punk out and say something lame, like, “no comment,” despite how invisible I wanted to be.
It was a really bizarre experience, to be in a sea of gay people, knowing I was different. As uncomfortable as they may be, moments that give you other-people’s-shoes perspective are priceless.
3 years later, I was in a homecoming parade at my University—the radio station I was a director at had a float. I handed out CDs to kids brave enough to endure the icy cold rain, Bless ‘em.
Lot less controversy, and nobody wanted a soundbite that time. 6 years ago
