The Faces of Boston Pride

They say there’s nothing like a parade—and they’re right. This weekend I marched in my first ever Pride parade, proudly carrying my JWA bag, a Keshet sign reading “another Jew for LGBTQ equality,” and my camera. The weather called for rain, but I wasn’t about to let that get me down. I packed my raincoat and channeled my inner Barbra, declaring that no one dare rain on my parade.

To be honest, I wasn’t sure what to expect. Would the streets be filled with supporters—or with people out to heckle us? Would they be empty? Would I feel at ease putting myself on display? Could I chant, dance, and wave a sign for two (or more) hours?

We gathered under overcast skies, huddled between groups already dancing, passing out swag, and oozing with pride. I felt my trepidation slip away, and caught myself dancing in place. “This is what pride is all about,” I found myself thinking. “This is a parade of pure joy and celebration. It’s as simple as that.”


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