As a woman in my fifties, thinking about Pride and what it means to me, I’m reminded of all the Prides I’ve been a part of over the past 30 years or so. I still get a tingle of anticipation and excitement thinking about coming together to celebrate the joys, and sometimes the sorrows, that Pride always conjures. I first went in the early 90s with a group of mates from work to what was then called Manchester Mardi Gras, and I remember being on the side of Princess Street as the floats went past, hoping that no-one I knew would see me, as I wasn’t yet out to my family and a lot of my friends.
And sure enough, I bumped into a girl called Sarah, who lived a few streets away from me, and we smiled at each other while I prayed fervently that she wouldn’t tell anyone I’d been there. The following year, having got myself a girlfriend, off we drove in a black Nissan Cherry, to London; Madonna on the cassette player, desperately seeking others like us at Watford Gap Services who might be going our way. We dumped the car somewhere in North London and boarded the Tube, destination Hyde Park.
At every stop our numbers grew as groups of out and proud gay men and women crammed into the carriage carrying placards and blowing whistles. I was so happy. I liked this bunch and I felt safe among them.
Girls and boys held each other’s hands, and I held my girlfriend’s. And I felt proud. We marched through London, surrounded by thousands of other people like us, singing, and chanting .