Last Saturday, August 26th, I participated in the Topless parade which took place in Manhattan (and all over the world, for more info check the gotopless.org website) at Columbus Circle marching for two hours and ending at Bryant park. So, why a topless parade? First, women have been legally allowed to go topless in public in New York City since 1992. That means that if you find yourself in Central park or on the High Line or at one of the beaches in New York, you have every right to take off that godforsaken bra and let you boobs and let your boobs feel the sun’s sweet rays. How fun. In honor of Women’s Equality Day, which this year fell precisely on Saturday, there was the GoTopless Day march, celebrating women’s rights and gender equality. As a matter of fact it was on August 26th 1920 that American women, although only white women, got the right to vote. Only by 1964 all of the other women, Native, Asian and Black, got the same right to vote. Therefore, aside from the jolly and freakish mood which dominated the parade, and which yours tit-reporter Robbie enjoyed at the utmost, there was a serious reason behind the hilarious Boob-Wagon, the bare-chested women of every age, race, sex, background, the all-female music band which played the drums steady for two hours under the burning sun … There were women and men (we love you guys), transgenders (same here) and anything goes (same love and support). Everyone was super nice and kind. We were not many, I would guess around 300 hundred or less, but we were watched, cheered, provoked and photographed to death by hundreds of people who stayed away from the parade but were attracted to it and just watched it. Well, I am not a mere spectator of my life. I fucking live it and participate in it. With braveness, lightness and a slight embarrassment (at first, then I fucking enjoyed marching to Times Square with my 45-year-old boobs out, dancing in the streets and posing for all those voyeurish cameras. Not to mention shocking the tourists on the double-decker buses screaming WELCOME TO NEW YORK FOLKS), I joined the parade, talked to the organizers and tried to bribe a very nice man, Milo, photographer for The Villager, into becoming my own personal paparazzo, or better popparazzo and basically welcomed the chance of strolling around Midtown almost naked celebrating Women’s Equality Day and myself, a cantankerous, rambunctious and feisty little Italian reporter, nicknaming myself the OriANAL Fallaci of Italian journalism. Take it not with a hint but with a load of irony. I adore, esteem, cherish and very well know the work of the mighty Oriana. A woman with guts, heart and soul. And I can only imagine her cursing God wherever she is now for my irreverent comparison. Yet something tells me she would have eventually liked my spirit. Dio bono.
Anyway, the parade was a great experience to add in my multilayered and multicolor life. I want to specially mention a very brave woman in her 60s who marched bare-chested showing her cicatrixes due to a double mastectomy. She wore with pride, rightly so, a SURVIVOR writing on her bosom. Sister you are amazing.
For some videos of the event check my blog FB page here
In this one at 1.39 you can hear my loud friend Jennifer calling out my name, ROBERTA, and me proceeding to greet her topless. How fun.