I am of the mind that dykes just do it better. As with any rule, there are, of course, exceptions. But such exceptions are out of sight and mind in the sea of dykes marching down Fifth Avenue on the last Saturday of June. As Pride Month comes to a close, the annual New York City Dyke March—colloquially known as Dyke Day (the best day of the year)—returns for its 33rd procession.
“Community” is a word that gets thrown around with little meaning a lot these days, but the opportunity to genuinely experience it can feel few and far between. With fewer than 35 lesbian bars in existence in America, and in the midst of a political climate actively seeking to legislate queer people out of existence, the opportunity for dykes to build strong community networks and gather together can feel even further out of reach. Aside from, perhaps, the stands at a WNBA game, there is truly only one day of the year during which the dykes of New York are able to gather in such masses.
As I make my way to Bryant Park, I pass gaggles of dykes seemingly ready to take over the uptown F train. I get compliments on my “DYKES 4 IMMIGRANT RIGHTS” shirt, and my friend lets me know she’s on her way with a text that plainly reads, “train FULL of dykes.” I’m buzzing, with Bikini Kill blaring in my ears.
When I arrive, I’m overwhelmed by the feeling of hope I’m experiencing as I take a lap around the park. At every step, I pass other dykes sharing love and joy and a readiness to fight. I, like so many of us, have spent much of this year doing my best to fight off nihilism. Pride feels particularly important this year, and you can feel it in the air.
The feeling can be summarized by the numerous signs and shirts I see around me with the words “we keep us safe” plastered proudly across them. The Dyke March is organized by a committee of volunteers and leans away from a hierarchical leadership system. On the day of the March, attendees are surrounded by volunteer marshals who help with things like accessibility, blocking off traffic as the March passes through intersections, and de-escalation as needed.
When I find my friend, she’s proudly wearing her “Revolution” button-down from Tobin Heath and Christen Press’ re-inc., which she has dubbed her “soccer lesbian shirt” (she’s the soccer gay to my basketball). We start to conspire about where to go as we get ready to march and ultimately follow a group of marshals to the mask-only (alternatively known as mask-for-mask) section at the front of the pack. We begin our two-mile procession from Bryant Park to Washington Square Park just behind the banner, which is emblazoned with this year’s art and theme: “Dykes Say No to Fascism.”
Almost as soon as we take off, the collective chants are underway. They range from a special rendition of “When the Saints Go Marching In,” sung as if we are one very large, gay choir, to calls for a free Palestine, an end to ICE deportations, and the defense of trans rights. There’s no doubt that all 30,000+ of us have varying political opinions, but we are united not just by identity, but by a shared belief in empathy, intersectionality, and the power of giving a shit.
At every corner, we are cheered on by masses of people watching and supporting the March from the sidewalk. We stop at a “water 4 dykes” sign and eagerly accept the free water that’s offered to us as we continue walking (and sweating) in the heat. We encounter the Church Ladies for Choice, who proudly sing their “her, not hymn,” “God is a Lesbian,” as we pass (my personal favorite lyrics from their righteous tune are: “She’ll lick clit on / the floor with ya / God is a Dyke”). After two minutes of silence and stillness when we reach 24th Street, our energy is reinvigorated by the Queer Big Apple Corps marching band, who play from the sidewalk as we go by a few blocks later.
The crowds grow as we reach the Village, and the welcome as we arrive at Washington Square Park evokes a type of joy and hope that I can only describe as wholeness. We raise the banner once more as dykes flood the fountain. I meet dykes in their seventies who have attended every March thus far, and I rest with my friend after her very first. We’ve already started thinking about next year, making plans to become marshals ourselves.
As I close out the day, I catch up with Steph, one of the head marshals this year, who was at the front of the March, and I’m given the words to describe the day with a beaming, satisfied smile: “It’s wonderful. It’s a march for us. When people show Pride, they show a very specific version of Pride. But they don’t show it like this.”