It Takes A Village To Party with Lynn Yaeger

My finances are apparently too shaky to impress most mortgage lenders. At times like these we bargain with God. I am skeptical even as to the existence of the Supreme Being, but still, I promise him/her/it that if by some miracle I succeed, I will have a Pride party in the apartment every year. A broker eventually finds a bank in North Dakota gullible enough to give me a shot, and despite my profound shortcomings as a hostess, I keep my word.

For my first Pride party in my new home, I lay out what will become my trademark non-buffet: the table where I write is swept bare of my laptop, and replaced with potato chips, M&Ms, and not much else. So worried am I that some disaster will befall my precious collectibles that I institute a “no alcohol” rule, the better to protect my flea market antiques. (This is a bridge too far for many attendees—“Maybe don’t call it a party?” my friend, the gay activist and columnist Michael Musto snorts, and so this draconian edict is eventually lifted.) Now, colorless drinks—white wine, champagne, and even beer—are allowed.

As time goes on, my party, like the parade itself, grows in size and stature. A few thousand LGBTQ people who had no civil rights, who were considered criminals or mentally ill, or both, were courageous enough to participate in the first pride parade in 1970. Now, seemingly every multinational corporation, every behemoth bank, every university, every trade union, underwrites a float. A bottomless pit of politicians marches alongside Dykes on Bikes, Radical Faeries, and Stonewall survivors, frail but still fierce.

My fête morphs as well—from a handful of acquaintances hanging out for a few hours, to upwards of 50 people occupying every square inch of floor space in my 600-foot apartment. This year, for the first time in a half century, there will be no parade, and thus no gathering at my house.

Pride and this neighborhood are inextricably linked to my own personal history. My dad first took me down to Greenwich Village when I was a young teenager, sensing that there was something in these small streets, literally off the Manhattan grid, that would speak to me. There is in fact an intersection where West Fourth and West Tenth meet, a cartographic metaphor for the area’s quirky spirit. We lived at the time in a Long Island suburb, where the avenues are completely straight, and have dull, stolid names—our split level was on the corner of Charles and Illinois.

Long before I lived here, I was in love with the Village’s infamous bohemian back story. I wanted to be someone like Marcel Duchamp or John Sloan, who, with other artists, snuck into the Washington Square Arch in 1917, climbed to the roof, got tipsy, and declared Greenwich Village, “The Free and Independent Republic of Washington Square.”

I was a deeply sad teenager, more lost, more confused, more unhappy, I was sure, than anyone around me. My affection for the Village, where I knew rebels from all over the country had flocked for over a century was immediate and real—everyone from Jackson Pollock to Bob Dylan to James Baldwin to Eleanor Roosevelt had found refuge here. I hoped that someday this outpost of bohemia would open its arms to a girl from Massapequa.

By 1990—the year I move into the apartment—there are no beatniks beating bongos around the fountain; the cold-water flats where they once crashed now sports Viking stoves and Toto toilets. But in my stubborn imagination, the neighborhood remained—remains!—a haven for the dispossessed. Late one night a year or so ago, I am at the local grocery store when some kids laugh at my rather outré outfit (I have been a funny dresser since my Long Island days.) “How can they make fun of me here,” I cry to Musto, “This is the Village!” He responds, “What Village? What are you talking about? This ain’t 1960.”

Well, maybe not. But the neighborhood is still a haven for ideals and direct action. As I write this, a crowd has gathered in the park, raising their voices, chanting that Black trans lives matter.

It is 2019, and the fiftieth anniversary of the Stonewall uprising. There are far more people in my apartment than I could ever have pictured in my miserable high school days, and who cares if some vintage picture gets knocked off the wall? My social and professional circle has grown over the decades, and it feels like everyone I know is literally in the house—old disagreements are forgotten. (It’s Pride! It’s like Yom Kippur—you have to forgive all those petty feuds.) The parade goes on for so long that at nearly midnight, hours after the last guest has departed, I can still hear the chanting and cheering far below my 16th floor windows.

Alas, this season it is too dangerous to host a get-together, even if your comrades are sporting rainbow-colored masks. But I am not giving up without a fight: I may suggest that we meet in Washington Square Park. I can bring champagne, and plastic flutes from the Party Store, and individually wrapped snacks; I can lay out a blanket and hoist a big striped flag in the shadow of Judson Memorial Church, a congregation with a proud commitment to social justice. It may not be the same as eating soggy potato chips and watching the festivities from the windows of my ramshackle aerie, but it is 2020, a strange and terrifying and tumultuous year, and we will find a way to celebrate.

Lynn Yaeger, a contributing editor at Vogue, has been writing about fashion, culture, and politics for over two decades. She has written for many publications, including the New York Times, WSJ Magazine, Architectural Digest, Travel & Leisure, and Departures. In her off hours, she can be found haunting the flea markets of the world. She lives, amidst her many collections, in downtown Manhattan.