I stand on the street wearing a shirt that says, “THE FIRST PRIDE WAS A RIOT,” as corporate-sponsored floats emblazoned in rainbow flags drag down the street in front of me.
I don’t think this is what our queer elders and transcestors had in mind when they were fighting cops and throwing bricks at Stonewall. That one day, what they fought so hard for would lead to displays of capitalism draped in pageantry akin to the flashiest drag queen they’d ever seen perform.
I’m sure this wasn’t the queer liberation they had in mind. But here we are.
When I was first coming out as a queer, I couldn’t wait to attend my first Pride parade. It was like a rite of passage, some kind of official ritual I needed to go through to be a true, card-carrying member of the LGBTQ+ community. I braved the hot asphalt streets of Houston, Texas, for the parade, danced with my friends, and felt a sense of joy I couldn’t contain. This was it! I’d found my people. I spent many more years attending Pride parades, dancing in the streets with my friends.
Years later, as I started to understand my gender identity and came out as transgender, Pride month lost its sheen for me. Especially as I learned firsthand that, just because something is queer-friendly, doesn’t mean it is trans-friendly. I began to experience safety concerns at large Pride gatherings. The Pulse nightclub shooting that happened in Florida in 2016 changed me forever. I shied away from dancing in the streets with my friends and opted for smaller, more personal celebrations of Pride. Some years I didn’t celebrate at all. After all, Pride for me was every day. I didn’t need a month to celebrate it, I was finally living it.
My safety became the number one concern for me. It seemed as if more and more protestors were showing up at Pride events. Their signs larger, their megaphones louder, and their hate bolder. I didn’t want to let them win, to let them steal away a joy that I spent so long yearning for while I was closeted. I also didn’t want to be a target.
A few years ago, a Pride flag hanging from a house a few streets away from my own was set on fire in the early morning hours. The house itself caught on fire, and luckily everyone inside was able to get out in time. I now live in a very queer- and trans-friendly city, yet these actions in our safe havens remind us that we aren’t truly ever safe. In response to the incident, all of the neighboring houses put up Pride flags and I remember how emotional I became seeing the streets lined with Pride flags … instead of feeling safety in numbers, I felt scared. I took the Pride flag hanging from my house down out of fear of becoming a target. I wouldn’t feel comfortable putting it up again for a few years.
Pride feels different now. As anti-LGBTQ+ and anti-transgender legislation has loomed in the past few years and the eradication of our community has become a political platform, I often have to choose whether I want to be safe or I want to be visible and free. That is a question I ask myself every time I step outside my house, not just in June.
My relationship with Pride is complicated, but what isn’t complicated is the feelings of pride I experience every day as my authentic self. I often think back to my first Pride, where I was who I am unabashedly for the first time, in front of thousands of strangers, without a care in the world.
