If Stephan had been in town, he would have insisted we go, but he had left Chicago for the summer to be with his Mom. I had continued working for Evanston Special Recreation as the Assistant Program Director for mentally and physically disabled adolescents and adults. This was my summer of freedom, for every other summer I had returned to Atlanta.

I could hear the heavy breath of my roommate; he was one of four other fraternity brothers that shared the apartment.

Actually, I had two invites for the same time. Ironic, for it was that coincidence that made me nervous. My roommates had planned a day at Wrigley Field cheering the Cubs. That was a no-brainer, of course; I didn’t want to go. Since joining the Phi Delts, I had exponentially increased the amount of pro sports events I attended, against my will. The problem was, Michael, my former roommate, had invited me to join him at Chicago’s Gay Pride Parade.

I had never been to a Gay Pride Parade, so it seemed very exciting to me. As fate would have it, Wrigleyville (the neighborhood of the Cubs’ stadium) is adjacent to Boystown (the gay-borhood). In fact, the march route, I was informed, was very close to the stadium.

If I went to the parade and happened to be seen by my roommates, all four of them football players, not only would I have to look for a new place to live, I would have to find a hospital to recuperate in. If my worst fears came true, there would be no need even to look for an apartment or a hospital. I could kill two birds with one stone and simply locate the right burial site.

At 10 A.M., Michael called. "Josh, meet me at the ‘L’ near you in half an hour." A long pause followed. "I don’t think I can go." "Suit yourself. Don’t take this harshly, but I am though having that conversation with you. If I see you, great; if not, have fun watching the Cubs."

A sigh of exasperation, mostly at myself, escaped. "But what do I wear?" Michael said, "If there were ever any questions in your mind whether you are gay or not, that should end all discussion. Whatever you wear, just look cute. And for God’s sake, wear some shorts. It’s gonna be hot. Besides, you may want to show some leg."

The entire "L" ride, I trembled. I was unsure whether my heart tremors were due to the train or my trepidation. Thought I couldn’t see myself, I am sure the color had drained from my face. Either that or I was deep red.

When the train arrived, for a second I thought I wouldn’t exit. I would just sit on the train to its very end. I was oblivious to other gay men and lesbians on the train until the doors opened at the Addison stop and people exited the train. As I stepped off, I heard a voice, and I froze. "Cubbies! Yeah!" I couldn’t turn around. My roommates had not been home with I left. I assumed they had had a big breakfast, to soak up the river of beer they would drink. Slowly I turned, and there was a middle-aged fan decked out in Cub paraphernalia, already drunk. I rolled my eyes, relieved it was not one of my roommates. I was not sure I could make it through the day.

As we walked the streets, people had begun assembling. Mike explained that some people watch the parade from the sidelines, but the real fun happened on the streets marching. "Hmm, I think watching from the street will be just great." "We’ll see."

As we turned a corner, we saw the floats, organizations and politicians in sports cars in an impressive line. Balloons dotted the air, like reverse exclamation points. The cloudless sky and cool breeze off the lake did not explain the feeling I had of electricity in the air. It reminded me of days in Georgia when it would get so hot that bolts of lightning would start dancing at dusk without a trace of rain.

We walked up the street, and somewhere around Belmont and Clark, Mike located the Northwestern University student group. There I was, faced with two dozen fellow students, a few of whom I had known, none of whom knew I was gay. Or so I thought. Cursing Mike under my breath, I heard out of the corner of my ear a guy asking Mike if we were marching with them.

"Mike, I am sorry. I can’t march. Who knows who will see me? I mean, what if I’m on TV or in the paper? I am sorry. I just can’t. Being here is enough." "I am going to join them. If you want, we can pick a place and time to meet up later. I understand, but marching is the best part."

Before I could respond, I saw movement up ahead and people were walking. The earth felt like a moving sidewalk in an airport. In order to continue my conversation, I had to start walking. My legs were moving without my control.

As I tried to explain further to Mike why I couldn’t march, we turned the corner and entered the main thoroughfare. The crowds had thickened into a void with eyes and ears. I quickly ran into the middle of the group, trying to hide in the parade. The purple banner with my school’s name emblazoned in white rippled in the breeze.

When we began to march down the street, a burst, a thunderclap of cheers and applause surrounded us. A woman with cropped blond hair held a megaphone, chanting "2-4-6-8, Don’t assume your child is straight!" and "We’re here, we’re queer! Get an education." The crowd whipped into a frenzy, it reminded me of a vocal representation of a Seurat painting. Dots of noise, playfully engaged, blended to make a canvas of pride.

I looked out at the world from the center of the street. People celebrating, holding signs, clapping and dancing. The view was sensational, yet I couldn’t feel anything. Dumbstruck with awe, the fear retreated, and hollow, mechanical legs kept propelling me forward, onward. Mike was dancing in the street to Gloria Gaynor’s "I Will Survive," which was blaring from the Roscoe’s Bar and Coffee Shop float behind us. Up on the silver and blue float, men dressed like gladiators in short skirts danced bare-chested, swinging their swords. The world was at full tilt.

As the cheering continued to erupt when we passed the crowds, slowly it seeped in that people were proud of us. Proud of me. Not for my G.P.A., or my community service, or my wit, intellect, drive, or commitment, but for who I was. My very being, a young gay man who accidentally marched in a parade was evoking cheers and applause.

It wasn’t long after that I left my retreat in the middle of the group. I abandoned my false sense of security. I told myself, "Chill out! If my roommates see me, then they see me." I grew bolder in each step. The love in the crowd surged like a live wire. Caught up in a current of spontaneity, I grabbed the megaphone and started leading the chants, strutting and joining in the symphony.

The void no longer seemed anonymous. As if I had donned glasses, the faces and the individuals began to emerge. Beautiful people smiling and laughing. Colors and body parts bloomed. It was in the heightened awareness that I saw her. A curly gray-haired woman stood holding a sign. Plain white poster board with black marker proclaimed one sentence: "I love my lesbian daughter."

Again, my feet acting before my mind could catch up, I ran towards her. Surrendering the megaphone to an unknown hand, I continued towards her. The stillness was an illusion my confused mind fabricated. Tears coming from my eyes blurred my vision. I opened my mouth. "Thank you" was all I could manage. "No, thank you for being here," she replied. And like a good mother, she opened her arms and pulled me close. I could smell the freshness of the bleach and the faint scent of lilacs. In this momentary hug, we all became children and mothers.

I felt like God, moments before the seventh day, surveying the world, pleased, knowing it was good. –RABBI JOSHUA LESSER