On June 29, 2008, you wandered into a closed-off Yonge Street and you did not know any better, thinking that you were just going to have hot Starbuck’s. Instead, it suddenly started raining men (literally) and you wondered: have I stumbled into a circus parade whose theme encompasses whips, leather, body glitter, and an idea that has somehow became an adage on that day: “Wear As Little As Possible”?
Chances are: you have never gotten lost and have never “accidentally” gone into such grave situation during which you have found yourself staring at a muscle-bound man’s gyrating ultra-smooth bubble butt that was somehow unaffected by the streams of sweat that were running all over his body, and during which you have asked yourself, “Gee, I wonder if he sprinkles his bum with baby powder?” Though I doubt that is the only type of proposition that you have in mind. So no, one does not stumble into such an event without even a semblance of clue and willingness on one’s part.
Indeed, the annual Pride Parade, part of Toronto’s Pride Week, is as well known as the CN Tower, the symbolic structure of Toronto that represents many things, one of which, especially in this case, is the penis. The Pride Parade draws thousands of people, and more likely than not, you are one of them and have come to admire, oogle, and sometimes if you’re brave and enthusiastic enough, to march in the parade, or more accurately, to prance around on a float courtesy of Trojan condoms, dancing to ABBA/Madonna/Cher or unknown Euro trash music.
Sounds scandalously fun! But there are lingering questions, amidst the plethora of colour and throbbing catchy music, asked especially by conservatives and most heterosexuals: “Why is it such a necessity to have naked men in the parade? Aren’t there any kids around? And if them queers want to be accepted so bad, aren’t they just going to alienate most people with their lewd, obnoxious and amoral behaviours?” These are pointed and even offensive questions, but nonetheless credible enough to warrant answers; and even the LGBT community should ask itself before pulling down its pants and hoisting its thongs with full-powered water guns: “What is the true meaning of Pride?”
The Pride Parade was the result of the incident that involved police raiding bathhouses and arresting close to about three hundred men back in 1981. It symbolized liberation from prejudice, unqual rights and freedoms, and rampant homophobia. Now it seems to have evolved into a crass commercialization that is as meaningless as a cheap one night stand with a good looking but empty headed gym bunny. Time seems to have corroded its meaning, and people flock to it without even really knowing what it is truly about. And it is not just the Pride Parade here in Toronto, but every other Pride in all other places: the rainbow has taken a form of globalization.
A Torontonian couple for over 15 years named Jeff and Matthew, both UofT alumni, watched the Pride on the sidelines, each seeming to be in a state of complacency. Many times, Matthew would tenderly pat Jeff’s back, a gesture that is so simple yet heartbreakingly sweet. When asked if Pride Parade brings out the worst out of people – the superficiality, the obnoxiousness, the cattiness, in other words – Jeff succinctly says, “You take it for what it is.” Which is a bit of a cop-out; there really is no answer to what Pride is for everyone. Somehow this led to another question that is arbitrary at first glance, but significant in many ways: “Define unadulterated and pure love.” To which Matthew answers, “You’ll know it once you get there,” with surprising unpretentiousness. The answer is direct and not sugar coated, though it seems yet another cop-out reply in order to avoid sounding philosophical in answer to such a multifaceted question.
Desmond, Jeff and Matthew’s friend, when asked why he came to Pride Parade in the first place, bravely answered with what could be a no-holds-barred reply that should be not uncommon to other Pride attendees, “To admire the men and to get laid.” There it is: words that did not hide anything, words that serve their purpose, to reveal. Yet, nothing surprising there. To become slutty after the marching of Ginch Gonch-wearing drummer boys is almost requisite. After all, flesh is out for display, and nothing could stop two consenting adults.
So what is Pride? Over the years, people have taken advantage of or abused the pride of being who you are, and turned it into utterly insufferable arrogance. The little chicken that could has transformed to an over-preening peacock. The once clever and endearing play-on pun, “We’re here, we’re queer.” has now become a slogan worthy of being used as a chant during a territorial invasion: “We’re here, we’re queer; Deal with it.”
To go back to what Jeff said, “You take it for what it is.”
Indeed, one should take it for what it is.
Pride Parade is a conundrum: it is an illusion, neither a good one nor a bad one. You take it for what it is, and its definition entirely hinges upon what you make of it. It appears to be a grand garish party. It is a disco ball out on the streets, where the dance floors have replaced the dirty gravel. From a fiscal point of view, as a non-profit event, it really does bring out the big bucks: thousands of people from different countries come to Toronto just for the parade. So it is great for the economy. The more scandalous, the better to draw in the big crowd (sex does sell, after all), although contrary to the opinions of the majority, Pride seems to get tamer and tamer every year. For someone looking for action, Pride provides plenty of eye candy, and if lucky, maybe more than the visuals. From the viewpoint of the lonely, the cynical and the disillusioned, however, it is an utterly meaningless display of rotten apples made to look new again. And, of course, the bible-thumper’s verdict: sinner’s paradise.
For those who have yet to come out of the closet and experience Pride for the first time, it is a wonderment, a ray of light, a day of revelation that states to a confused and frustrated Mississauga boy, “Honey, it’s not just you!” For the experienced and world-weary, who have foregone real expectations, disillusionment could finally be taking its toll. For the novice, the virgin, the lost: never underestimate it. Pride truly could be a savior to a suicidal 15-year-old kid or a safe haven for the one who got disowned by the parents. Thus, because no matter what stance one takes, Pride still retains its real meaning, albeit in an understated and quiet way, one just needs to be more observant in the most unlikely places: couples like Jeff and Matthew are able to enjoy a full day once a year during which they are able to wrap their arms around each other and show affection to one another without a single trace of worry, shame and guilt. Pride is not necessarily found in the tight and hard torso of a go-go dancer nor does it manifest during a remix version of Madonna’s “Hung Up”. It is seen underneath the glittering and shining surface: the faithful lover standing by his boyfriend, regardless of the temptations around him; the couple who are holding hands under the tree and peacefully looking on at the noisome crowd; a burly hairy big man in leather chaps tenderly petting a kitten; the teenager who finally confronts his mother, “Mom, I’m, you know…”
Pride is neither Dante’s Inferno nor Dante’s Paradise. Pride in its essence is life itself, only camouflaged behind brilliant coatings of rainbow colours once a year: the beauty and the ugliness, all exaggerated to their maximum effects, all fabulous in its intricacies. It is rather misleading, but I suppose it is our own damn fault: we queers are easily distracted by shiny, flashy objects.
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