Dance is pride in myself
Photography credit: Sambath Ouch
All 14 of us are waiting at the 2025 Pride Festival check-in station on Tennyson street, moaning, mostly, about how sore our backs are and realising that as fully-grown adults we have made a grave error by forgetting to bring our hip flasks. We all have our own individual hip flasks. They’re currently all sitting empty in cupboards and drawers and bedside tables at home. This is a tragedy.
During Pride in Amsterdam, the canals, a friend tells me, are pumping with boats and floats and explosions of rainbow chalk and the banks and insurance companies are desperate to be involved and stalls selling bubbly cocktails and pink soda are everywhere. In the gray streets of Wellington, we’re glad to finally be moving our old bones. If we can’t get tipsy on whisky we’d like to get tipsy on the crowd, thank-you-very-much.
We’re in between the Polytechnic and Vinegar Hill Camp (Aotearoa’s DIY gay camp) when we finally start walking. A ginger cat (he/him, obviously) watches over us from his balcony and the comfort of his owners arms. There is a lot of rainbow, more sequins, and thick eyelashes that flutter and fan. It feels like it could rain at any moment, but it doesn’t.
Cars are slowing down past orange traffic cones and people choose to do one of two things; wind down their windows and film us on their phones, or plaster on their poker face. Clearly, leotards and metallic-gold hot pants and sexy men dancing in a pink bird cage on a moving float is clearly just another “classic Welly day” to some people. I spot a familiar face. I haven’t seen them in years. They’re smiling and waving at me and I wave back at them in, jumping in time to the beat.
We turn the corner and HIT ME - the drums come in and it’s Lose My Breath by Destiny’s Child. It’s the choreography where we ~follow the leader~ and we’re doing flicks and sashays and even the can-can. Improvising and moving in unison feels powerful, like a heartbeat pulsing through the streets.
Rewa finishes the track with the ultimate move - hands outstretched, head looking up to the sky, big stretch, big grins and in that moment we’re not just performers, we’re experiencing the experience. Pride is kind of like… joy as resistance, and there is nothing more joyful than claiming space, of being seen in our bedazzled, sweat-soaked, choreographed glory.
The thing that strikes me about being a part of a walking parade (I’ve never done this before) is how much of it is about the people watching - rather than the performers performing. It’s all about the stranger who locks eyes with me and laughs when I laugh, who suddenly start mirroring my moves, who go from cheering to joining in.
A queen, looking immaculate in black, does exactly that while we’re performing Murder on the Dancefloor and I’m grateful because my dance partner was sick and couldn’t make the performance. She takes up the space that was missing, and this queen is bold, improvising the routine with us, and she even brings out her poi! I see kids giggling with their friends, and little humans perched on their parent’s shoulders, and older couples swaying together on the sidelines. Everyone’s feeling pulled to the music, the rhythm, our freedom.
I see my best friend, she’s normally brunette but today she’s blonde with rainbow streaks. I squeal and contemplate running up to her to take off her wig and wear it for the rest of the parade. Instead, I shake my arse into the camera that’s been following us for the last 30 minutes. It seems like a more practical use of my time than fumbling around with bobby pins.
I see another friend, and I realise she’s with my neighbours, my Titahi Bay squad, my gym buddy, my partner. They follow us down to the stage where we’re about to clean up with our finisher - Chappell Roan’s Hot To Go! But first, there are voguers absolutely killing it to one of the most hyped up sample of ABBA’s Gimme Gimme Gimme I’ve ever heard. The very last bits of energy I have are being thrown onto this dance floor as I try to keep up with their fast swerves and drops and kicks and flicks.
Suddenly, Chappell calls 5, 6, 5, 6, 7, 8, but it sounds slower than usual. The DJ has the bpm set too low! It’s super weird but here we go, there’s nothing we can do now. We perform our routine at what feels like snails pace to us - but my friend tells me later he felt GIDDY watching us perform, and had no idea. The show must go on, I suppose 😄
The parade has wound down but the energy is still buzzing in my body. My back aches, my voice is hoarse from cheering, I’ve lost one of the diamonds on my face and the glitter on my eyelids is starting to feel heavy. I know deeply that Pride isn’t just about one day, one parade, a rainbow badge or flag or one performance. It’s about carrying this feeling of freedom that I am securing within myself, and sharing it with everyone I interact with across every facet of my life.
Wellington Pride Parade is no Amsterdam Pride Parade, but it’s eclectic and it’s special, it felt safe, and it’s very much our own.