Pride
When I first arrived in New York, it was the summer of 1969, the same year the Stonewall riots erupted in the heart of Greenwich Village.
I remember that summer vividly. The air was thick with humidity and tension. People were different here, openly fighting for their rights and demanding to be seen. I watched from the shadows, initially hesitant to reveal myself, absorbing the energy of a community that was awakening to its power.
I rented a small apartment in a pre-war building on Christopher Street. My neighbors were an eclectic mix of artists, musicians, and drag queens. They accepted me without question, perhaps sensing that I too was different. It was here that I met Javier, a fiery Puerto Rican activist with a heart as big as his personality. Javier took me under his wing, introducing me to the world of underground clubs and secret gatherings where people could be their true selves.
The first Pride march in 1970 was a revelation. I joined Javier and hundreds of others as we walked from Greenwich Village to Central Park, chanting and waving signs. The atmosphere was electric, a mixture of defiance and joy. It was my first taste of human solidarity, and it was intoxicating.
Years passed, and I saw the movement grow. I witnessed the pain of the AIDS crisis in the '80s, losing many friends, including Javier, whose light was snuffed out too soon. But I also saw the resilience of this community, their refusal to be silenced. They fought for recognition, for healthcare, for the right to love openly.
Today, as I stand amidst the sea of rainbow flags and glittering outfits celebrating Pride Month. The city is awash in color and I see young couples holding hands without fear, families with children joining the festivities, and allies standing in solidarity.
I think of Javier and all those who paved the way. Their courage has allowed a new generation to stand tall and proud. I feel a sense of belonging here, among these humans who understand what it means to fight for your place in the world.