Pride March 2009

I was 45 minutes late for the 3pm call-time, but when I got to Remedios Circle, there weren’t as many people as compared to last year. Oh no! I feared the Pride March this year would be a sad affair.

I should have known better.

I decided to hang out with DJ Brian Cua who was with the Bed contingency. He was excited to experience his very first gay pride march.

Different LGBT groups gathered around for photo ops galore.


Of course mujeristas are as much a mainstay with these kinds of events.


Another mainstay would be the hunky men with their shirts off. It’s also great publicity for the establishments that cater to the pink peso.


Mainstays would be the protesting lesbians as well.

And of course, we should never forget them: the religious protesters who scream at us to repent or else we burn in hell.

And the march was on. This year’s march started much later, which we suspect was on purpose so that the march would end just in time for the street party—thus the participants would be more predisposed to stay rather than go home. And the route was a lot longer this year compared to last year.



As usual the religious protesters would follow us and scream at us to repent at almost every turn. “Walang bakla sa langit!” this pastor-sounding foreigner (the same one last year) spoke into his megaphone. The marchers would answer back with cheers, jeers and, for one limber mujerista, an effortless twist-then-split in front of the protesters. Others would drown out the shouts of “Repent!” with taunts of “Adik! Adik! Adik! Adik!”

Brian and I were enjoying ourselves immensely for we found ourselves just in front of the group Ikatlo who had 5-7 “muses” in ati-atihan outfit (black leotards, headdress and all). While the other groups had the usual chants like, “We’re here, we’re queer, we won’t disappear!” and “Walang masama sa pagiging bakla!”, this group had the chutzpa to go for funnier, sassier chants like, “Ibaba ang presyo ng chupa!” which had Brian and I wondering out loud, “Aba?! How much does one pay for a blow-job, hah?!” I guess they realized it too, for later on they were chanting, “Wala nang bayad ang chupa!”

One of them had the fortune (or misfortune, whichever you wanna call it) to look like Mommy Dionesia Pacquiao. So at intervals the group would spontaneously chant, “Madir! Madir! Madir ni Pacquiao!” and one of them would lift him up. Classic camp.

As the march wound its way from Roxas Blvd to Taft Ave. and from late afternoon to early evening, the number of participants swelled. I guess there must be something in the DNA of a homosexual to prefer the cover of darkness.

The protesters disappeared as well. The march then turned a little, well, less fun. It’s funny how we need opposition to make our position more urgent and interesting.

The march ended in Orosa Street, where a program and a street party were to be held afterwards. The whole march was fun, but I decided not to stay any more. Trust the fabulous to transform a demonstration for human rights into a festive event of pink proportions. It was both serious and fun. The ironic hope is this: one day being gay is so ordinary that it’s blasé and taken-for-granted boring. And marches for LGBT rights are necessary no longer.

P.S. – I walked back to the gas station along Quirino Ave. where I parked Orlando. I went inside the convenience store to buy a bottle of water. As I stepped out, a young guy wearing a nice pair of glasses and a nicer (though shy) smile approached me and asked, “Aren’t you McVie?”

Turned out he and his friend saw me break off from the march and followed me, thinking I was headed for the after-march party. Instead I had lead them three city blocks away! Embarrassed for them, I brought them back to Orosa Street. Guys, sorry but senior moment has attacked me once again and I accidentally deleted the text that contained your names! But I’m glad to have met you and heard your feedback. (Please email me your names again, and put me out of my further embarrassment. Hehehe.)