Today, more than ever, New York’s Gay Pride Parade is extraordinarily important. It’s a powerful reminder to be true to oneself. It matters so much, lest those discovering a queer identity — but unaware of the city’s widespread allyship and supportive LGBTQ+ community — hide in dark closets out of fear. Depriving the world of the beauty and luminance they add to the rainbow, leaves us all bereft.
Due to the COVID-19 pandemic there have only been 52 parades since the first, in 1970. They’re held on the last Sunday in June each year. Different from recent parades, this year’s 2025 march was more like the proudly rebellious protest inaugurated in the aftermath of 1969’s Stonewall Uprising. When police routinely raided the now landmarked Stonewall bar, patrons — fed up with being belittled and harassed — fought back! “I threw the first punch!,” Storme de Laverie, Harlem’s renowned cross-dressing, butch lesbian singer and activist, told me in 2010.
En route to my 38th annual New York Gay Pride Parade. 
Since 1996, I’ve given roses to march spectators in memory of my late boyfriend, Markiver Grissom. A dancer with the Dance Theater of Harlem, he succumbed to HIV/AIDS. 
Everyone loves roses 
A diva in a cool cotton bustier 
People are delighted to get a rose tossed their way 
Celebrating Pride with revelers at Harlems 4-West Bar on 127th Street 
Attire featuring every color of the rainbow predominates 
Revellers at the parade
Apart from those two canceled parades and one other, I’ve marched in each since 1984, the year prior to my moving to New York from Ohio. Beginning in 1996, I’ve given roses to spectators bordering the avenue, first on one side and then on the other. Over the years, a few different friends have helped me. But, by far, my most stalwart assistant, every year since 2003, has been Ron Lestor, the originator of Harlem’s Disco Party Fundraiser. Jumping up and down, vigorously pointing to their partner, child, or mom, people clamor so enthusiastically for me to give them a rose. Their fervor is so exuberant, one would imagine I was handing out emeralds!
For men, for gay men, Miquel Brown’s anthem announcing, “So many men, so little time! How can I choose? How can I lose?” seems to be gospel. Over a lifetime one meets so many charming prospects. But amongst them all, I knew he was the one. We didn’t have decades together, just six years, three spent with others. But in terms of connection and satisfaction, our relationship was enough.
A sure sign of growing older is the collapse of time. As a child, an hour playing with a special friend can seem like a happy eternity. But then, almost imperceptibly, days, weeks, years, seemingly start to merge. This was not yet the case when we met. I was 34, finishing graduate school at Columbia. Born in 1963, Markiver, who came from Raleigh, North Carolina, was 27. He performed in the second company of the Dance Theater of Harlem.
Medium height, medium build with big brown eyes, a tapering waist and a dazzling smile with glistening lips, Markiver was, I thought, beautiful.
That was truly marvelous. But it’s the memory of his gentleness, kindness and thoughtfulness, that was what saw me through his death from HIV/AIDS in 1995. Tossing roses to expectant strangers along the Pride Parade route in memory of Markiver, is a quite tiny gesture. But, it allows me to at least symbolically share the wonderful gift that his love was for me.
I get so much back in return. New Yorkers of all ages, genders, classes and races gather together peacefully, rejoicing in our luck to live in the best place, a city where we value respect, encourage diversity, hold equality sacred and strive for inclusion. At the same time, we are exultant in our uniqueness, everyone. The vitality, creativity and determination of the crowd, its fire,” it gives me life! You can’t ask for much more than that.
When Ron and I finished, heading to Harlem on the train, we had just one bunch of white roses left. Our destination was the restaurant Vinatería, where we met friends for dinner. Just as downtown, fellow diners were eager to celebrate Pride with a rose too. Later still, afterward at Harlem’s hottest Gay bar, 4-West, dancing and drinking the night away, the place was thronged with partying people. The line to get in was a quarter-block long. And, this caused me to think as I waited, ‘I wish I still had more roses to share!’
That’s something for next year perhaps?