SUNDAY IN NEW YORK

This was written following a business trip to New York in June 1993 - before I went fishing in the Catskills. Gay Pride Marches were nothing new - I had lived in Sydney where the largest Gay Mardi Gras Parade takes place each year. But this one was so unexpected.

An overcast morning greeted me as I let the holland blinds rise. Spots of rain, glistening streets. I settled back to read through the several kilos of the New York Sunday Times, with supplements.

Some hours later, with the weather looking marginally brighter, I thought that a short walk through Central Park might help get the stiffness, brought on by an eight hour flight the day before, out of the bones.

The Park looked great, in full summer leaf. Fewer bums than I expected. One of them reckoned I was an easy target and whined for his dime. His heart did not seem to be in it though - maybe it was too early in his day. When I ignored him he muttered after me, "Hey I take Mastercard, Amex and all major cards, you know!". I came across a lovely glade, where the juxtaposition of the looming hotels above the tree line and the tranquillity of the trimmed lawn and neat pond made an interesting photo opportunity. I did not take a shot though. As I positioned myself for the best view, I was saddened to see, floating in the pond the corpse of a crane. What made it worse was the sight of the mate standing mutely on the edge of the pond, staring hopelessly at its partner. I am still disproportionately emotionally moved by such things and I felt I could have wept.

Moving on around the park with the sun now appearing fitfully, I gradually came to realise that there were swarms of gay people about, all moving purposefully towards Fifth Avenue. I had noticed a few T-shirts with gay slogans, a few red ribbons, a few "Boycott Colorado" signs, but what really got me sitting up and taking notice was the jutting codpiece of a well muscled and impeccably groomed blond, whose sheer shorts left little to the imagination, from the rear at least. I knew that there had been big marches in London and Washington, but had not heard anything about one in New York.

 

Rainbow arches of balloons were in place over Fifth Ave when I got there about half an hour before the parade was due to start. All the side streets were packed with people preparing their floats and costumes. Most of the folk were indistinguishable from any of us in the watching crowd, apart from their banners and badges. Others of course were more bizarre, from the transvestites dressed to kill to the bare breasted dykes with obscene slogans written amongst the tattoos on their bodies.

 

Spot on time, the cavalcade started moving, led by the Dykes on Bikes with their Harleys engines roaring - pretty women, ugly women, women fat and thin. Most of them you would not have picked as being "different". The prize for being conspicuous went to one of the older women with her Mohican cut dyed in the rainbow colours of the gay coalition.

Their male counterparts followed and this cavalcade of cycles served as an escort for a small group, smothered in reporters, which had as its kernel June Dinkins, apparently a pollie of some sort. Judging by the rapturous greeting from the crowd, she seemed clearly to have the interests of the gay community on her agenda. Behind her, the leading marching band thumped away and the real parade got going.

Stretched down the Avenue as far as you could see, there were banners and balloons everywhere. As each group swung into the main street from their holding pens on the side, they raised their standards to show who they represented. All had their own acronyms and many had their own logos. The variety was amazing, as was the style of approach and the size of the band of followers.

One of the most militant was WAC - Women Against Something. Wild eyed apostles of their particular creed led the enormous group, banging on metal dustbin lids with wooden mallets, chanting their unintelligible slogans. Behind them was a curious mixture of maiden aunts, one of whom was taking her schnauzer on the march, smartly dressed matrons, nose ringed shaven headed weirdos. Some chatted to each other, some waved to the crowd, others gyrated to the rhythm of the drums.

Behind them came the CCs - Concerned Catholics. A mixed group of well dressed middle class people out for a stroll on a Sunday afternoon - presumably after going to Mass.

Further down the Gay Veterans - hard eyed men, old soldiers, some in the uniform they had been proud to wear - carrying between them an enormous American flag.

And in between and all around a cacophony of sound and colour. Two enormous bare breasted women - middle aged and flabby with their nipples painted an incongruous blue: three bald unshaven transvestites in their skin tight mini skirts and suspenders: a group of Karate For Lesbians going through their strokes: black gays in shining gold costumes with rap music blasting from enormous speakers on the back of their ute. Really too much for the eye to take in and remember.

I had to leave the parade half way through to meet up with Peter. He turned up with a couple of young Aussies, friends of his daughter who only had a couple of hours left of a day and a half stop-over in the city. So what to give them as quick taste of the essence of this magic city. A ride in the Park: a trip to United Nations Plaza: a bite to eat at South Street Seaport.  They chose the last option – food is always a magnet for the young.

The kids were sorry they were not staying longer when they left us lounging in the sun like a couple of old lizards, sipping our margaritas and listening to a jazz band thumping out the melodies.