Toronto Pride reflections.

I came to Toronto for one reason: to see Nanu (@itsTheCrazyLatina) perform at the Pride Parade closure. I saw the announcement at the beginning of June and knew I had to be here. So I came. The show was incredible. Girl, I love you. Thank you for so much. I spent a fair amount of money to come here, just for this. And it was worth every penny.

I didn’t actually go to the Pride Parade itself — I overslept — but I did make it to a party. And at that party, I met some amazing women. Friends of friends of friends, really. The kind of connections that happen organically, at key moments. And honestly, I think I’ve met a lot of people through parties. Key parties. I met the friend who introduced me to the friend who hosted the event where I met the friend who introduced me to these ones. All through a party. Funny how that works.

After the party, I was exhausted. I weighed my options — Uber or public transit — and decided on the bus. That’s when everything happened.

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A Video Found Me

I was on the bus, scrolling through Instagram, when I saw a new post from @Ismatu.gwendolyn . I always pause when she posts (and so should you!). This one was supposed to be a promo for her US tour — ten seconds of that, and then she went off-script. She started talking about her exhaustion. The weight of having to create content to sustain not just herself, but a whole team of people. The contrast between her personal desire to step away from Instagram entirely, and the reality that she simply can’t afford that luxury right now. The tension between how she feels in this moment and the knowledge that tomorrow she might feel differently.

I was watching this, sitting on a crowded bus in downtown Toronto, returning from Pride, when a conflict broke out.

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The bus was packed — full of people from Pride, many of us visibly queer. An old white man, probably in his 60s or 70s, wearing a Canadian flag patch (and several others) on his vest, was occupying two seats. One for himself, one for his stuff. On a crowded bus. A younger guy, maybe in his 40s, confronted him. A woman in between them, wearing a pride flag bra, was trying to de-escalate.

I watched. At first, I thought it was blatant homophobia. It wasn’t as clear cut— it was mixed with entitlement. The old man refused to move his stuff. People were standing, and he just… sat there. Taking up space that wasn’t his.

While the argument was at its peak I yelled something like: “Who do you think you are, you white piece of shit?” The bus tensed. I heard murmurs. The woman managed to calm the younger guy down. The old man kept his two seats. I didn’t escalate further. The bus settled back into a tense calm. I sat with the impulse.

And then I started writing a comment on Ismatu’s post.

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While I was writing, I thought about a mantra I’ve been carrying. It’s from a Haruki Murakami novel — Dance Dance Dance. A character repeats it to himself over and over: “Dance, dance, dance.” It’s not just about moving. It’s about moving to a rhythm. Ideally, a rhythm you enjoy. It’s about continuing even when you don’t know what comes next.

So I wrote: Baila, baila, baila. Dance, dance, dance. Don’t stop dancing.

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More Things Happened

While I was writing that comment, more things happened on the bus.

Two guys were joking around, trying to lighten the mood after the confrontation. I decided to do the same. I invoked reiki in my head — energy clearing techniques to help the space settle. I imagined roses. I moved the energy.

The woman who had been between the old man and the younger guy sat down. Then, before getting off, the younger guy approached her. She was clearly uncomfortable — arms crossed, body language closed off. He kept talking to her. Then he offered his fist for a fist bump. She didn’t want to. I could feel it.

I intervened. I said, “Hey, she’s uncomfortable. Leave her alone.” He started explaining himself. She said she was fine. I backed off. “Sorry, I thought you needed help.” He got off the bus.

A moment passed. She turned to me and said, “Thank you.” “You’re welcome,” I said. When she got off, she smiled and said, “Happy Pride.” “Happy Pride,” I said. “Get home safe.”

The old man didn’t say anything else. But I could feel the energy shift. People were murmuring. There was discomfort around the queerness, the pluma — the visible, unapologetic energy of the gay guys on the bus.

Then I noticed another man. He was drunk. He was harassing a woman next to him. Asking if she had a partner, why not, the usual drunk nonsense. I watched for a bit. He kept going. I leaned over and asked her, “Is he making you uncomfortable?” She said, “No, don’t worry — he’s drunk, he’s always like this. I’m used to it. It happens all the time at this hour.” I said, “If he makes you uncomfortable, let me know.” She showed me her fist. “I can protect myself,” she said. “Okay,” I said. “Good.”

He tried again. I felt a surge of energy. I wanted to do something. I fantasized about sitting next to him. Harassing him back. Touching him. Asking him if he had a boyfriend. Making him feel what she felt. Giving him nightmares.

I breathed. I laughed at myself. No, no, no. Don’t do that. Not worth it. Focus on what you’re doing. She got off the bus.

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I missed my bus connection because I was so absorbed in all of this. Four stations passed. I ended up taking an Uber. It was cheaper than taking one directly from downtown — but more expensive than if I hadn’t missed my connection. I thought about it. And I thought about that impulse — the desire to return the aggression. To make him feel what it’s like to be objectified. To be harassed.

But I also thought about the energetic cost. The way that impulse, if acted on, would have taken me away from my purpose. Away from what I actually want. And also — it wouldn’t have changed anything. It wouldn’t have erased that energy from the world. It would have just added more.

I wanted to share this. As a kind of catharsis. To give that part of me — the machirula part, the part that fantasizes about retaliation — a little visibility. Not to repress it completely. To bring it out. To reflect.

Because here’s the question that’s been sitting with me: In times like these — with the rise of fascism, of machismo, of all of it — how do we decide where to put our energy? What do we confront? What do we let pass?

It’s not easy. It’s never easy.

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And Yet

I’m so glad I came to Toronto. It was necessary. I needed it. I’ve been having a beautiful time, giving myself the princess treatment I deserve. Not “deserve” in a transactional way — but the treatment I want to give myself. The treatment I can give myself. And the one who can, can.

So. That’s my Toronto so far. The show. The friends. The bus. The mantra.

Baila, baila, baila. And don’t stop dancing.