Fire and Rain [🗸]

10. pride marches and stonewall inn

"no pride for some of us without liberation for all of us."

- marsha p johnson

"WHAT'S GOING ON UP THERE?" 

Zahra's seated on the edge of her bed, leaning forward so that her hands are clasped on her laps, and her eyes are resting on mine, some sort of inquisition flying behind them.

What's going up on there?

I wish I knew. I'm glancing at my reflection, making sure that the twin braids I'm pulling my hair into are even before sealing them off with elastics. I've been staring into the mirror for more time that's necessary, not particularly looking at anything, mind in many other places.

Today is the Pride march, and our last day in Manhattan before we head back to Greenport— where we'll stay for a few days before heading over to Rhode Island and finally, Pennsylvania. 

There's a lot going on in my head, from conversations about relationships in a garden to the six missed calls from Mom on my phone to the rainbow bucket hat that now belongs to me.

It's our last day in the city. Somehow, the days blurred by. Clubs, vintage shops, cafes, Time's Square, Coney Island, Central Park. The last one was earlier this morning. The flowers are still vivid in my mind. I can almost smell them.

I don't regret a second of it.

Zahra's still staring up at me and I allow my shoulders to fall into a shrug. "Nothing," I finally decide.

Her lips curve upwards. "I don't think that's possible." But she doesn't push it. She simply follows my movements as I find the bucket hat placed on the dresser. I pick it up, holding it in my hands for a few moments before placing it on my head. 

It fits well. In fact, it stands out against my white t-shirt and denim shorts. I tug at my shirt, fingers drifting to my lemon earrings. My eyes meet Zahra's. "I don't know. Does this fit the Pride Parade aesthetic?" I can feel the nerves rising to my chest. "I always analyze what everyone else is wearing and wondering how I fit into all of that." I tilt my head to the side, memories flying to my mind. "You probably know that better than anyone."

Zahra's eyes flicker with some sort of remembrance. A slow grin spreads across her lips.  "During themed dress days, you'd always just stay in your car for a whole-ass ten minutes, just looking out the window to see what everyone else was wearing."

I exhale a groan, gently pressing my forehead against the wall. 

"You always had your 'backup' clothing packed and I always had to coerce you out of the car." Her eyes sort of glaze over. "And during the school day you would hover next to me, pointing out any minor difference in what people were wearing compared to what you were wearing."

I bang my head on the wall again, somewhat lightly.

"But you look good," Zahra finally says, and she's doing that almost-grin she does, the one that's easy and slow and somewhat knowing. "I don't think there's any 'Pride Parade aesthetic' that you have to fit into. We're all just living and being and that's the whole thing—the aesthetic, if I had to label it."