Personally, I’ve never thought the expression “proud as a peacock” held much water. Sure, Mr. Peacock boasts exquisitely colored plumage, a veritable jewel box of blues and greens and violets, but look closely. There’s not the slightest bit of pink to be found among his feathers. He’s not a true diva without that particular color, if you ask me.

The history books tell us that the pink triangle originated in the WWII camps as an identifier of those convicted of sexual deviance. Often, the pink triangle badge was larger than the badges assigned for other “crimes.” Hmmm, talk about foreshadowing! Today, the pink triangle serves as a symbol of pride, remembrance, and identification. This Pride Weekend I was reminded with sledgehammer force how apt a signifier this flamboyant, flattering, sensuous, warm, larger-than-life color is for the gay community.

As you can imagine, the SWiSH float was a resounding success! We were supposed to have about forty marchers total, twenty on the float and twenty dancing alongside it, although the number of riders crept up and up as the parade progressed. Our insurance only allowed for twenty riders, but the allure of being perched on that gorgeous barge, not to mention the musical stylings of Sue’s boyfriend Sean, who served as DJ, was such that it was doubtful we actually had insurance coverage at any time during the parade.

The SWiSH kids all came dressed in various shades of pink. Flowers abounded, cute kitten ears, angel wings, even a fearsome pair of pink leopard-print platform shoes. We looked like an army of very subversive Marshmallow Peeps. I was sportin’ the official SWiSH tee and a Chernobyl-bright wig, which kept sliding backwards on my head due to my excessive sweating and bouncing. Halfway through the parade I turned it into a pompom, which was much more fun. There was so much pink on that float it was probably visible from space.

I’ve never had the pleasure of participating in the parade before. Watching the floats go by is always delightful, and I’ve of course been known to shout with glee at the occasional fierce drag queen strutting by in eight-inch stilettos or the chiseled torsos of just about everyone else, but I would have to guess the reaction SWiSH received was pretty special. People simply fucking lit up when they caught sight of us, especially the girls out with their boys for the day. They gasped, clamored for the beads we wore around our necks, elbowed their companions and cried out, “That’s ME!” and just generally loved us all to pieces. SWiSH was one great big cotton-candy cloud of fabulousness rolling down Fifth Avenue, and it felt like the beginning and the culmination of all our hard work at the same time.

Unfortunately, the power of pink is not absolute. When we passed an officer with his foot parked on his scooter, wearing a smugly sour-faced expression, I risked a “Happy Pride!” shout-out in his direction. Apparently he didn’t much care for my comment, as he turned towards me, mirrored sunglasses obscuring his eyes (clearly trying for Terminator 2-like dispassionate cool and failing miserably), and grabbed his non-existent package. My face must have fallen somewhat, because he did it again, slowly and very deliberately, making sure I’d seen him. I probably should have shouted some cheeky comeback like, “Save that for your boyfriend, Officer!” but it takes me a while to think of quick comebacks, and anyway, I wouldn’t have put it past Johnny Queer-Stomper to yank me off the float and stun-gun me into unconsciousness. But no matter; the rest of the cops were surprisingly receptive and amused, not to mention the truly stunning young café con leche-colored rookie on Christopher Street who my friend Soph got to smile and blush as she remarked on his cut-glass cheekbones. Ah, New York’s Finest. With rare exception, you are truly that. I’m actually kind of sorry I missed the Gay Officers Action League (GOAL) marchers this year. They always get major love from the crowd too.

There were SO many “pink moments” that day. Our fearless leader Sue was working the angel wings, and boy did she look the part! I was so proud of her that day my heart could have burst. What an amazing thing she’s done, nurturing and coaxing this small seedling of an idea into the 400-pound gorilla it seems destined to be. At this point I’d happily follow her into the mouth of a volcano. Sure, we had some problems, as any big undertaking is apt to experience, but Sue held it all together, remaining her sweet, focused and unaffected self through a long, long, LONG day. SWiSH couldn’t ask for a better CEO.

My roommate and dear friend Nikki was nursing herself through an exceptionally painful breakup with her girlfriend of five years. Although she is the bravest soul on the planet, I knew that at that time, every breath for her was a little bit like inhaling ground glass. But she and Soph vamped out in red garters (close enough to pink) and black leather and sashayed coolly alongside the float, one leading the other by a leash. Every lesbian for seventy blocks, and a fair number of guys too, lost their damn minds. I think the two of them got about as much individual press as SWiSH did. I was so thrilled for her—she was in the perfect place that day, embracing her considerable beauty, basking in her identity as a gay woman, and reminding herself that there is life after you-know-who. Rock on, foxy lady!

Jason was the picture of hipster cool in his pink newsboy cap. His slightly elfin, slightly bad-ass looks drew the adulation of several star-struck admirers. Jaybo doesn’t have the vaguest idea how hot he is, and therefore his surprise at being pursued comes off as adorable instead of phony. After a late dinner at a cute little tapas bar in the meatpacking district, we ran into some friends of his from the Human Rights Campaign. One of them, a handsome salt-and-pepper-haired specimen with sleepy eyes and the bedside manner of an underfed piranha, made no secret of the fact that he would be perfectly happy to take Jason home and remove all his clothes using only his tongue, but sadly, no sale. I guess our boy is still looking for Prince Charming. What he consistently fails to realize is that he IS Prince Charming. Such a conundrum.

And as for me, the self-described “accident waiting to happen” shaking my butt around in my impractical shoes and pompom/wig? Well, I danced my fool head off, doused Doug, our float’s Grand Marshal and favorite straight guy, with water for two miles straight (he gave back as good as he got) and hollered so much I couldn’t talk above a croak for nearly a week. At the end of the day I felt like I’d been folded, spindled and mutilated and then some. But man, was I happy. To me, being a SWiSH, literally or in spirit, is all about living out loud. In the pink, if you will (aw come on, you knew I was going there). You do everything just a little more flamboyantly, a little more conspicuously, a little more than the average. I don’t know, maybe it’s disingenuous to give so much credit to a color, but all I can attest to is how I felt that day—pretty, precious, perfect, and oh so powerful. Black is beautiful. If you’re red, you’re dead. White Power (ugh, that one chafes a little, but you get the idea). How about Think pink? It’s gotta be on a bumper sticker somewhere. And if not, it bloody well should be.

Yours in hagdom,

Jamielah