on pride

Dear Readers,

Delhi, Kolkata, Banglore, New York City, San Francisco, Toronto all soared this past weekend. Pride.


A young, queer student of mine had this as her Facebook status message on Friday, kicking things off rather existentially: “is there anything to really be Proud about?…but ill b there anyway…see yall in the vill.”


Hell yeah. Pride is to queer folks what the weekend is to everyone else. It’s our time of year to show the rest of y’all how its done. Our time to shine. And we are. Just so. Shiny.

Some of my Pride. This past weekend I saw, in live-amongst-the-tall-green-trees-concert, Chubb Rock, Masta Ace and EMC crew, DJ Premier, OC, Jeru the Damager, Elvis Perkins, the Cold War Kids; I danced epic go-getta style at the Leela Lounge and the Highline Ballroom; I marched up and down Christopher Street as much as my golden sandaled and new-nod-to-the-c-c-c-olors Nike clad feet could take; I feasted with a troop of Desi Dykes; I random conversated with mad queer folks on the subway, because in the City, pride leaks down into the underground; sketched and drew with fellow women to the beat of a live model and nearby book club watching Junot Diaz on You Tube in Spanish Harlem; read deeper into The Tipping Point and The Biography of Paul Robeson; rode my bike to Coney Island, where I quenched, sank my body into salt, spread out to dry on the sand, and arose to the tune of lightening, the color of thunder, rode back home in a torrential summer downpour, soaked and biking. Just like monsoon season. India, I miss you.

And I’m so proud of and inspired by your fabulous Pride march debuts. (!!!)

There’s no beginning or end to Pride, not really. So, Happy Pride forever.

And read my Pride poems, bitc*es.

There’s three for you. One on Pride in the village with the visage so amazing and cops closing us out in the hundreds. Cavalry, SUV’s, scooters. The other two are on dancing in the Pride filled clubs. I heart gay boys.

I’d like to send these poems out to India, my students (you know who you are) and Mondays.



cascade/rain drenched



closeted wish

summer went somewhere

when out of nowhere


the visage

opens a stone walled place inside

a nation of millions

creative children

bending colors

contorting hedgemony

vaulting social control

careening gender roles


poured out pier

backwards looking

cop in his rear/view


which one of you

thinks this is funny

barricades slapped on the crowd

the worlds most lucrative consumer base

only gets

un-caged/out loud

one weekend a year

never will we forget

that this is Our Pier







dancing/heal me

dancing/billy club

dancing/my drug

of sweat/choice




gay boys

gay boys

brown and black

cowboy boots and daisy dukes

all knees and elbows

curves and necks/posed/up

gay boy

dance close/for good/luck

and good measure

i promise i won’t take my eyes off you

as long as you watch me too

gay boy

pressed against/our hip bones blue




thanks for tuning in to: “on pride.” stay tuned folks, there’s more where that came from in two and two.


roopa singh/n

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

One thought on “on pride

  1. Peter says:

    I got some great visuals from the first couple, having been caught out in the rain while running errands around town, and subsequently caugh in another thunderstorm, under a shaky metal scaffold. I saw rainbows on people all around, soaking wet. I also saw ranbows in the oil slicks and puddles…like they melted, spilled, dripped and pooled.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: