Letters from Samaria by Louie Crew Clay

Author:Louie Crew Clay
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Morehouse Publishing
Published: 2015-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

“It’s a ‘march,’ not a ‘parade!’” my friend Kim Byham, New York lawyer when it comes to facts, kept reminding “Ms. Grand,” (his new affectionate appellation for me) as I huddled in the heat of the rented chariot for New York City’s event yesterday.

Before the procession, I gadded about with neighbors: from Riverside Church, from a Unitarian Church in Brooklyn, from a Witches and Pagan group from all over (where I encountered an employee from our national Church office, who was burning sage for their incense), from synagogue after synagogue. Religious groups were all lined up east of Fifth Avenue on 51st Street, and at least an hour and a half of the parade—oops, “march”—had moved down Fifth Avenue before our turn arrived. We knew from the cellular phone that the Spongs were en route from their episcopal visit to Morris Plains, but they had not shown up when the white chariot bedecked with red ribbons and purple ribbons was marshaled to the taxiing area for entrance to the “march.”

Not wanting an empty vehicle marked “Bishop John S. Spong and Christine Spong,” persons insisted that the Reverend Tracy Lind be Bishop Spong and that Luti of the Alabama Belles be “Christine Spong.” “They won’t know the difference!” several shouted. Peg Dengle, vestry member from St. Paul’s in Chatham, exchanged her fuchsia straw bonnet for my butch—as in b-u-t-c-h—fuchsia cap. Jack and Christine arrived to this spectacle just as the chariot began gaily forward down Fifth Avenue. Tracy jumped out of sight but I could not waddle fast enough and was caught in the act. Can you imagine the reactions of the Diocese had Tracy and I still been stand-ins when we passed the reviewing stands with all the news media: “Bishop and Christine who?”

One of the most moving moments of the New York City “march” always comes quickly as the marchers move past St. Patrick’s, always closed all day long on Pride Sunday, surrounded by well over 100 policemen, most with walkie-talkies, and barricades two and three deep to prevent anyone from getting anywhere near the cathedral. Opposite, on our right, are always the small crowd of the major naysayers to the parade. “Buchanan for President,” Christine read aloud from a smaller sign in their midst. “AIDS is the wages of sin,” read a bigger banner, and upstaging them all were several posters the size and shape of coffin lids, each saying, “Here lies a queer who marched last year.”

Yes, a march, not a parade.

“Should I bless it, Louie?” Jack said quietly from their perch at the back of the chariot while Scott Helsel drove and I huddled in the right front seat as he stared at the grim, guarded St. Patrick’s.

“No,” Christine said.

The silence was eerie as we slowly moved past.

“What a comment on the church,” Jack said, over and over.

All down Fifth Avenue people applauded in ripples, then with shouts, as our chariot approached. Dozens called out: “I read your book and it brought me here to support

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