![]() ![]() The pseudo-positive spin here is that I don’t need a single weekend or a month to shout my queerness from the rooftops. I write openly and proudly about my life as an Asian American gay man. I drink at Marie’s Crisis, a gay sing-along piano bar in the West Village as often as I can. Plus, I support queer businesses year-round. Yet as I got older and more wisely chose my friends, I began to withdraw from Pride Month wholesale. That elusive feeling of community was never a guarantee. Because of this, for me Pride in New York became a hit-or-miss affair. But as the years wore on, as I met more people and tried to find my place in our queer community, social dynamics with fellow gays in the city began to foster enough existential doubts, anxieties about body image, petty dramas, and exclusionary behavior to resemble a high school cafeteria. When I first moved to the city, I loved the Pride parties and parades. ![]() Back home in New York, it sometimes left a sour taste in my mouth. I considered why Pride wasn’t on my mind. It was a pleasant surprise, certainly, but how could I have forgotten? The realization hit me like a double-decker bus: It’s Pride weekend. On my most recent trip to London in late June of 2022, I emerged from the Underground at Piccadilly Circus and saw rainbow flags flying high above the streets, vivid against the bright blue sky.
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