My favourite pride memory is from a few years ago when I marched in the parade for the first time. I wish I could say I remember it clearly, but I don’t. Yonge street was a fluid blur of cheering faces all the way down, and instead of remembering specifics I just remember how it felt. At the end I was so hot and exhausted that my legs could barely function, yet so energized and moved that I didn’t want the journey to be over.
The one thing that does stand out are the people I was surprised to recognize in the crowd, friends I hadn’t seen in years, or who I’d drifted apart from, brought together by a unifying cause. One of those people had been the director of a summer camp where I’d been a camper. At that time (and, unfortunately I suspect, still today) homophobic insults were the preferred kind amongst almost any randomly-selected group of 12-year-old boys. I remember very clearly the day when that director was courageous enough to come sit with us and explain why and how those insults were personally hateful and hurtful to him. We didn’t stop teasing and insulting each other after that of course, but we did stop using those words, and every time we heard someone else use them we were conscious of what they actually meant.
I was lucky enough to first encounter pride as a celebration where I took for granted that everyone is welcome to be themselves, but I’m conscious of the fact that it wasn’t always that way, and that the journey still isn’t over. As a straight person I keep coming back as an ally, but to a certain extent I also think of myself as a guest (albeit a very welcomed one). I’m so grateful to those who have worked and suffered to create the pride we know today.