Leaning forward against the barrier and peering east, I could see flashing lights, bursts of color, and the twinkle of tinsel glinting in the low-lying western sunlight. Suddenly, I was just a kid again, relishing a good parade. As the natter of snare drums, rattles, and tambourines advanced, anticipation and joy erupted all around. The rhythmic, deep resonance of bass drums heading our way vibrated through the soles of my feet. “Our son is gay,” the wife explained, “and we never once thought or told him that God would hate him or he’d go to hell. Tapping him on the shoulder, I thanked him for sharing an alternate view of Christianity. Even so, I suspected that they justify their hatred by believing they are standing up to the forces of evil in a nation headed for separation from God and imprisonment in an eternal darkness–presumably interrupted only by the glitter and occasional bursts of confetti brought to hell by gays.Įdging up to the parade barricades, I noticed a man in front of me wearing a t-shirt with a rainbow-colored cross and the words, “God is love … is love … is love … is love” on the back. A fringe group of five or six protesters, surrounded by as many cops and tens of thousands of parade-goers, they looked ridiculous. “They’re the Westboro Baptist Church,” another bystander told me. “Yeah,” he replied, “and it causes so much pain.” Flipping his cigarette aside, he ducked away, his bitterness palpable. The fundamentalist Christians were here.Ī young man stood nearby, shaking his head. “God hates fags!” and “Sin and Shame, NOT Pride!” and “Fags Die, God Laughs” blasted other protest signs. “Got AIDS?” it asked in angry red letters. Families with young children, couples holding hands, twinks in colorful Speedos, drag queens, and dogs in tutus-everyone was there, and the welcoming, joyful atmosphere was unmistakable.Ībout half a mile from the grandstand I caught sight of the first sign. Some wore less clothing and more body paint and glitter. Walking down the tree-lined residential avenue where I’d found street parking, I soon encountered obvious parade-goers sporting every sort of rainbow-colored clothing and shoe wear. My walk of a few miles to the grandstand required a lot of tip-toeing, dodging mud puddles, and leaping so as to preserve the pristine whiteness of my Converse sneakers.Ī few days before, as my daughter and I searched for rainbow apparel at a nearby mall, I had joked upon buying an age-appropriate, vertically-striped rainbow shirt at Forever 21, “Oh, I thought this store was called Forever 61.” We had experienced heavy rainfall and flooding in the area only hours before the Pride parade was to begin.

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