So you want to march in the parade
A veteran marcher shares seven things you should know about participating
We are regular people, just like you. Except, of course, we put on shiny costumes, get our cheeks rouged and parade in front of one million of our fellow citizens each November. This is what it’s like to be a marcher in the parade: 1. Preparation starts months in advance. For the1,500 of us who march or ride a float each November, the year begins in May, when we check our email for the message that says parade registration has reopened. We send in a few details — age, measurements, whether or not we’re willing to wear a papiermâché head — and are signed up for another round. Participation is open to the public; maybe you can join us, too. 2. Our day starts early, cold and
full. Marchers, and the kids who ride the floats, meet at 10 a.m. at the Bickford community centre, right across from Christie Pits Park on Bloor St. W. In the days leading up to the parade, we watch the weather forecast obsessively — will we need boots, or can we get away with walking the six-kilometre route in running shoes? But arrival time is the coldest part of the day. You can’t leave anything behind in the centre, and there are no super-puffy jackets or hoods allowed, so many of us arrive lightly dressed. We also show up stuffed — once we get inside, there is absolutely no eating allowed until we’re done marching, which can mean waiting to eat until 3:30 p.m. 3. The pre-parade scene is sur- real. If you pop out of the Christie station on parade morning, you will glimpse pre-show magic. Marching-band members trickle into the park and begin their merry warm-ups, while empty floats line Bloor St. W. down past Ossington Ave. Meanwhile, inside the community centre, otherwise responsible teens and adults struggle into their dinosaur and elf costumes, sometimes asking for last-minute alterations (how did my waist grow two inches since summer?). A team of 300 volunteers gets us into shape; before we know it, parade marshals escort us out to our assigned spots. But only after a flurry of bathroom breaks — there’s no way for a six-foot penguin to duck out downtown.
4. The parade changes with the neighbourhoods. Bloor is a jampacked blast. The street is narrow, the sidewalks rub right up against the buildings, so the crowds are packed and loud; each intersection presents a sea of smiling faces. Looking for something less busy? Queen’s Park Circle is a good bet; greeters have the time and space to shake almost every hand as we walk past the legislature. Once we get down to University Ave., the street widens and the parade seems to run faster; we almost have to jog to keep up sometimes. Then it’s over to the finish at St. Lawrence Market, where things get more tightknit again as we approach the finish line.
5. There are extra-magical spots along the way. Along Bloor on the south side of the street, mystery people have dropped fake snow off of the lowrise rooftops. When you’re turning from Bloor onto University, you’ve got to put on your biggest smile and throw out your merriest waves; that’s where the TV cameras are. And I save a few extra-big high-fives for the fundraising kids in front of the Hospital for Sick Children (the patients will have their own TV-viewing party inside later in the day), and for the kids at the very end of the parade, just before we head into the big de-costuming tent. We’re pretty tired by then, but they deserve just as big a show as the first kid on Bloor.
6. There are different types of kids. There are the precocious ones, who are dancing around on candy-cane energy, trying to get a fist-bump from every passerby. There are the terrified first-timers, clinging to the safety of their strollers until Santa arrives. There are the almost-too-cool 10-year-old boys, who offer you a high five, then pull back and “dab” when you approach (there was an epidemic of these last year — the only thing to do was dab back). My personal mission is to look for the shy ones, the ones you can tell are really into the magic but are just too nervous to put their hands out. You’ve got to make sure they don’t go home without a high-five and a “happy holidays.”
7. There’s nothing as magical as Santa. One year, I was lucky enough to march with Mr. Claus’ float. I knew nobody was looking at me; they were watching the grand old man himself. Imagine hearing a million people calling out in excited voices non-stop for a few hours; I felt like I’d just been in the Leafs’ Stanley Cup parade. It’s a magical day, but the end really is the best part.