My big gay Broadway summer

It’s the first day of Pride Month, and Restaurant Row in New York City’s Hell’s Kitchen is electric with anticipation. In a week, Broadway’s finest will descend on Radio City Music Hall for the Tony Awards. Showtunes emanate from the storied piano bar Don’t Tell Mama — a ballad from Jesus Christ Superstar here, a showstopper from Wicked there. Suddenly, I’ve wandered in, a negroni in hand, and I’m belting along. New York City in June is a fusion of the Tony Awards and Pride, and it’s idyllic for theater gays like me.

It’s also the week of Out’s Pride of Broadway celebration at Somewhere Nowhere NYC, and I’m prepping for red-carpet interviews. Between crafting questions for Out cover stars Megan Hilty and Lea Salonga and The Advocate’s cover star, Cynthia Nixon, I record a hopeful Pride message to share on social. Since going viral for my “holding space” interview with Wicked’s Cynthia Erivo and Ariana Grande last year, and amid a dark political climate, I try to connect with the queer community that has supported me. I’m inspired by the view from my capacious terrace at Stay Pineapple in Hudson Yards that’s mere blocks from Broadway’s beating heart. Musical theater has informed my queerness since I was seven, singing the original Broadway cast album of Man of La Mancha verbatim (“Dulcinea,” indeed) while dreaming of someday signing Playbills at a stage door.

Throughout a bustling eight days, I stay in two other Midtown hotels. LUMA, a block from Bryant Park, serves a homemade ice-sandwich bedazzled with rainbow sprinkles. A robot decked in Pride gear and rainbow angel’s wings delivers back-up toiletries to my room with a view.

Michael Shayan, Tracy E. Gilchrist, and Plasma at equalpride’s Pride of Broadway bash.courtesy Tracy E. Gilchrist

The Grayson Hotel (one of Hyatt’s Unbound Collection) offers a room with a vista of the Empire State Building so prominent, I imagine I see King Kong grasping its spire. The hotel welcomes me with a Pride flag, bonbons, wine, and Lather lip balm (a necessity for those, ahem, Pride-ful encounters). At The Grayson’s restaurant and lounge, Harta, I order the Unicorn Rainbowl Punch, a Bombay gin-based, cotton-candy-topped, purple glittering goblet of joy that is a must-share with a special friend.

The lead-up to the Tony Awards is frenzied as shows that don’t win are on the bubble of closing. I’m determined to see a few. An 11th-hour ticket to the delightful Smash for about $80 lands me in the fourth row of the Imperial Theatre. I catch two more shows that week, including Death Becomes Her, which I can confirm is “For the Gaze” and gays.

Real Women Have Curves costars a friend I know from Los Angeles, stand-up comic Sandra Valls. We were likely the only lesbians singing showtunes at the sapphic bacchanal, The Dinah in Palm Springs, back in the day. Now she’s made her Broadway debut at 59. I laugh and cry throughout the show, due to its timely themes about women’s relationships, immigration, and living one’s dreams.

The week is packed with enough singular experiences for a decade. There’s a trip to The Kelly Clarkson Show where The Advocate’s Communities of Pride Award is announced. Then the New York City Gay Men’s Chorus surprises me by making me an honorary member before their Heal Me at the Disco show at the Skirball Cultural Center in Greenwich Village. On a rainy Saturday, I venture out of Manhattan to Brooklyn, where I visit the newish sapphic space Boyfriend Co-op and “hold space” with one of the proprietors whose partner is a fan

In an ordinary year, the zenith of my Broadway/Pride trip would be attending the Tony Awardsrehearsal, where I’m tittering and gobsmacked while witnessing the Hamilton reunion and Audra McDonald’s visceral “Rose’s Turn” live. During a commercial break, I jog to the restroom on the mezzanine and nearly run smack into Erivo, who’s hosting. We gasp, smile, and nod. She’s working, and I only have two minutes to hit the loo before the show starts again.

For the theater kid in me who stopped pursuing that passion decades ago, my friend Valls, whose dreams came true, helps fulfill some of mine. We’re backstage at Real Women Have Curves, about to exit through the stage door, her Sharpie for signing autographs handy.

“Hey, anyone remember ‘holding space?” she shouts. The crowd cheers. Then, a fan behind the divider locks eyes with me. “Tracy, can I get a picture?” I hug him, smile, and pose. I’m ready for my close-up.

This article is part of Out's Sept-Oct issue, now on newsstands. Support queer media and subscribe — or download the issue through Apple News, Zinio, Nook, or PressReader.