But the truth on this hot Manhattan day is that I am Gay, Arab and Very Nervous.

It is the Sunday of New York City Gay Pride, and I am getting ready to march in the city’s parade behind the banner with the Gay and Lesbian Arab Society, GLAS.

The reason for my apprehension is obvious: It’s never been very popular to be Arab in America, but this year, being Arab has been somewhat akin to being Communist in the McCarthy era. The cultural and religious misunderstandings and stereotypes that already exist about Arabs have only magnified.

And I know from the response to my column these past nine months that the gay and lesbian community is not immune from the fear and ignorance and stereotyping and hatred of Arabs. From all around the country, I’ve gotten vitriolic e-mails from gay and lesbian readers in response to my columns, horrible words that pale in comparison to even the most acrimonious mail I ever received from homophobes.

And some of that comes from right here, New York City, Ground Zero not only for the attacks of terrorism, but also for the swell of patriotism that so often turns into pure, misguided hatred for Arabs. How many of them, I can’t help but wonder, will be standing alongside the parade route today?

Raised in the United States as an American citizen with no accent and the fair skin I inherited from an American mother, I am spared much of the personal prejudice and outright danger that many of my fellow Arabs have come to know the past nine months. Only my name gives me away. The same is not true for many of the other members of GLAS, with their olive skin tones and Middle East features and audible accents. They are all keenly aware of what it means to be Arab in America, particularly in New York City, right now.

Add on top of that the cultural strain of what it means to be gay in Arab societies. Only a handful of members of GLAS are out, maybe five of us, tops.

For that reason alone, getting people to march in the gay pride parade has always been a struggle, even under the best circumstances. Last year, for example, only four people felt comfortable enough to walk behind the GLAS banner. This year it will be even harder.

Maybe that’s why the GLAS meetings leading up to the parade are often so tense. At the first meeting where we talk about the parade, the organizer of our contingent makes a plea that this year, of all years, is the time we need to have a presence strong in numbers. But when he asks for a show of hands, no more than six rise in firm commitment.

The discussion about signs is even more difficult. Some of us, myself included, know what a golden opportunity this would be to take a public stand. But the vast majority of GLAS members are dead set against being “too political.” Incredulous at the irony of being told that the gay pride parade is no place to make a political statement, I argue that whether we like it or not, being gay in America is political. And whether we like it or not, being Arab in America is hyper-political. We have no choice in these things. Our only choice, I know, is what we do about it. But my fellow GLAS members remain unswayed. One man sums up the majority sentiment when he says, “Being political will only make more trouble for us.”

Grudgingly, I consider those words as I color my poster on the kitchen table the morning of the parade. Every thought, every slogan that comes to mind about being a gay Arab is politically charged. How could it be otherwise? I compromise, writing only that I am Gay, Arab and Proud. In the end, I console myself with my own argument-that those words alone in America today are indeed a strong political statement.

I arrive late at the meeting point, 53rd street between Fifth and Madison Avenues. Among the throngs of leather men and drag queens and bears and lesbian moms pushing baby carriages, I search for the GLAS contingent. I am looking for a tiny group, hoping maybe ten people mustered the courage to come out today.

When I spot the SUV with Arabic music blaring from its speakers and the yellow GLAS banner draped over its front, I stop for a moment, and with my eyes I quickly do a head count. To my surprise, 23 people are standing in our cluster. It is corny, I know, but I literally feel goose bumps at the turn out.

Before we step off, several of our young pretty boy and muscle boy members take off their shirts and climb on top of the SUV. As Arabic music pumps from the vehicle, they gyrate in bellydance-like motion to the music, swirling traditional Arabic headdresses around them as they groove.

And as we march down Fifth Avenue, I get the second surprise of the day. The hundreds of thousands of people hugging the street corners clap and cheer and blow whistles and make encouraging hooting noises as we pass by. A part of me, the skeptic, thinks many may not even be aware that we are the Gay and Lesbian Arab Society, that they are just clapping at the passing of yet more gay boys showing flesh and thumping to loud music while tossing out candy.

But a different part of me-the part that wants and needs to believe in this GLBT community-hopes that our reception today is in some small way an acknowledgement that even if we don’t live up to the promise everyday, that on one day a year-Pride Day-we as community realize there is a place for all of us here.

At the end of the parade, I take off my sign and look at the words on it: “Gay, Arab and Proud.” Never have they been truer.