06Lost in Transition
Nothing looks familiar. I am dawdling in a foreign city I had only dreamt of seeing face to face. On this Sunday afternoon, I stand along the barricaded and cleared up streets of Toronto, defying the summer heat and the mobbing of spectators, waiting for the rush of proud people to march by, and in the meantime, enjoying the scenery of teens on the rooftop splashing water along the streets. In a few moments, Toronto’s pride will parade down the aisle, a march of gaiety and unrepressed existence—proud souls baring not just their skin but their individuality.
Although I arrived only the day before, I feel at home amidst a city embodying different cultures and backgrounds. It feels easy to blend in. As my watch flashes 2:30, the exhibition of pride begins. Proud fellows tramp by, telling one story after another, their bellowing voices reverberating throughout the city’s bounds. Blowing bubbles while marching, a gay guy has stolen my gaze. With his psychedelic balloon headdress, nearly opaque glasses and ruffled neck ornament, he radiates confidence rather than pride. Like all the rest, he looks free from inhibitions, proud of who he is.
I begin cheering. It feels so good to be part of something, even if technically I am not part of that community. I dab the sweat from my forehead and trace the sunburn along my watchstrap. The heat emanates unbearably, but the crowd and the parade tell me to stay still, to have fun, to join them in pride. I take a gulp of the already warmed-up water from my bottle, not at all getting respite from thirst. And for once, I find the water splashing from the teenagers on the rooftop refreshing, like an oasis in this desert-like stance. The Asian couple on my right has opened an umbrella to veil themselves from the splish-splash from the teens on the roof, blocking the view of the people behind us. The show goes on, people squish in closer to the fence. I will not give up my post, a front row spot in this ticketless arena.
While shielding it from the surge of water guns, I focus my camera on the marchers and keep snapping the shutter, feeling that every frame captures the spirit of the affair. But that’s not the smartest way of seizing the entire occasion. I let the camera hang freely, its strap clinging on my neck, and now my hands can wave free. Seeing the parade not from the peeping hole of the camera connects me more to the experience. I reach my hands to the passers-by and they begin relaying the pride, striking my palm with high fives, and like a communicable disease, it infects my presence. I look at the people across the street, mirroring the festive vibe from our side. A little girl in her stroller sobs, disliking the noise of her surrounds. The same police officer passes by several times along with the parade, making us wonder how he came back and forth stealthily. I heard another yell, not out of pride, but from the few vendors selling shiny bead necklaces, which marchers only give away for free. There seems to be a rally within and outside the fenced streets; at our back, a parade goes on, too, of people minding their own businesses.
Actors of this spectacle transpires quickly—flashing blissful visages, displaying nudity, sporting unconventional fashion, wearing their uniqueness, beaming their character. I recognize these people. I meet them in the streets, in school, in groceries, in television shows—the fearless single parents, the brave cancer warriors, the dedicated policemen, the confident big sisters, the passionate artists, the trustworthy politicians, the valiant gays and lesbians—people in vibrant rainbow colors who I have seen before, only in neutral. I look around. Now everything looks so familiar. As I walk away from my post against the direction of the parade, I glimpse on a reflection of myself in a glass window. I look away, walking my own pace in my own pride parade.
Katrina Balanga is a student at the Department of International Studies. She probably uttered the least number of words in the English 251 class.
This is for our class anthology in my expository writing class. I have published this photo before, only that it’s coloured. This will be further edited and revised by our editor, printed and published in black and white according to my professor/editor. This class scared and confused me. All the more, it was a thrilling experience.
