Living On Three Continents: Pride Day
Susan Siddeley is a spectator at Toronto's annual Gay Pride Parade.
Whenever I hear the word ‘gay’, I feel the resonant, tenor voice of Mario Lanza unfurling up the darkened aisles and around the plush seats of the Plaza Cinema in Hudderfield. Whether soldier, prince or lover, he is singing of golden days when he was young and gay. Mum is sitting beside me, sucking on a pear drop, bristling with anticipation and pleasure.
In Toronto, a few Sundays ago, I joined the crowds pressing through the downtown core to watch the annual Gay Pride Parade. As I hurried along, not wanting to miss an opportunity for some ‘gaiety’, I felt the familiar pang of excitement, even though the air was hot and humid and it was right after lunch.
Slated to begin at 2.00pm, the first floats didn’t pass by me, riskily perched on a low wall, until nearly 3.00pm. All along Yonge Street, thousands of people hung on trees, lampposts and out of second-storey windows, patiently waiting for a glimpse of the spectacle.
Half expecting strains of ‘Drink, Drink, Drink’ and ‘Beloved’ to erupt through the massed bodies, and eyes peeled for raised steins and waving swords, I heard only clapping and whistling and saw only rainbow flags, as the mayor, troupes of police and various public officials appeared leading the show. Apart from a few water guns carried by thoughtful watchers helping keep the parade cool, there were no fighting arms.
Despite heat and poor balance, I hung to my precious ledge, wide-eyed, as float after sponsored float filled with feather-wrapped dancers, spandex-molded gymnasts, and gossamer-winged fairies, and interspersed with noisy bikers, rolled by.
Eventually, I fell off the wall, but managed to trail the action to Church Street, heart of ‘gay’ village, where I drew breath in the shade of Del Newbigging’s statue of Alexander Wood (1772 – 1844). This recently erected monument honours a militia officer, businessman and J.P. one of the first persons to buy land in this section of downtown. According to the monument’s inscription, soon after this, the area became known as ‘Molly’s Bush’ because of the homosexual men (Mollys), who hung out there. Despite a fierce scandal in which he was accused of actually inspecting the tackle of a suspect wanted for molesting women, Alexander Wood survived, and is remembered today for his pioneering spirit, as founder of this special village. The bronze figure on the pedestal is staring ahead, frock coat swirling, top hat and cane in hand, undaunted - set to take on anything.
Walking away from the jamboree, past music stations, ethnic food stalls, and afternoon strollers, I came upon a pair of sparrows chasing around the lower branches of a curbside tree. When one puffed his dark, shiny bib, spread his speckled wings and reared over the other, I realized that even the birds had taken up the celebration. A proper pair they were - nothing like the black budgies of my smoke-filled childhood - gay as a beer garden in spring.
