make Pride personal: “pride”
June 28, 2019, marked the fiftieth anniversary of the start of the Stonewall riots in New York City. This anniversary was preceded by years of slow but steady success toward achieving equality for LGBTQIA people in the US, including pivotal Supreme Court decisions like US v. Windsor and Obergefell v. Hodges and growing representation in various media. Throughout that year’s “Pride season,” companies capitalized by rebranding themselves as Pride-centered organizations. Walking through a mall during the month of June was like navigating an obnoxiously rainbow jungle. Maybe because of the milestone anniversary, or maybe because we were suddenly aware of the conflict between corporate performances of inclusion and their policies, practices, and financial support of politicians that contradicted any desire for equity for LGBTQ employees and causes.
A year later, with all the energy swirling from the fifty-first anniversary of Stonewall and the fiftieth of the first official Pride march, it was easy to get sentimental about these milestones, but two things bothered me. First, while there’s much to celebrate, 2020 provided ample reminders that we haven’t achieved total equality. We saw a rise in hate crimes against queer people, not to mention the aggressive and insulting rhetoric coming from multiple directions. We’ve seen state legislatures move to restrict voting rights and target transgender people (particularly, and most disgustingly, trans kids). Those voices have only gotten louder and harder to drown out, making me all the more grateful for and inspired by folx who speak up, who brave the backlash, and who shout from the rooftops the injustices perpetrated against queer folx and other marginalized and vulnerable people. Still, the fact that we, or anyone on our behalf, has to shout to assert basic human dignity tells us that the work is not and may never be complete.
Second, I felt that consumer culture coopted Pride, perhaps irreversibly. In the 1980s and 1990s, it was a risk for companies to be present at Pride festivals—it was a statement. But since then, too many parades have been miles-long advertisements of flashy and well-stocked floats for banks and airlines and other businesses hoping to build their credibility as inclusive and queer-friendly companies, relegating the churches and synagogues and PFLAG chapters and activists to filler status along the route (a shift brilliantly skewered in Saturday Night Live’s Pride song, “It’s Pride Again.” The most dangerous consequence of this is that marketing efforts not only tell a story—they frame a story; they shape the worldview of the engaged audience. Too many corporate presences at Pride events have shady histories (to both overgeneralize and understate) when it comes to support of their LGBTQIA employees both in business culture and in public policy, but they have the resources to tell a story. The story I heard from all those ads, though, wasn’t my story—actually, my story didn’t seem to fit into the worldview of any ofall those ads.
As an antidote to this, I found myself in a pattern of daily reflection on people, events, and experiences that shaped my story, influenced how I thought about myself and the world around me, provided a bridge during lonely times, and gave me language for the joyous ones. It was a simple practice: throughout the month of June, set aside half an hour, re-watch a few clips or look up some information or flip through an old book, think critically about how I’ve been shaped and challenged and supported in my life, and be grateful. This became my way of personalizing Pride. I tailored it to my style and needs, I didn’t try to claim someone else’s perspective or experience as my own, and I shared it with my friends on social media. Sometimes, friends responded with gratitude—my reflection triggered a happy memory or introduced them to a new idea or figure—which was lovely to see, but the practice was really one of discernment for me, to help me articulate who I am, what my identity means for me, and what I need and desire.
Things have changed since then. I returned to these reflections in the wake of the COVID-19 pandemic and the murders of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, and Ahmaud Arbery. For two years, the Pride celebrations, parades, and festivals we used to know and love (or at least tolerate) had been rightfully canceled, though, with the resumption of something-like-normal for many due to rising vaccination rates, the spaces that tied the LGBTQIA community together (bars, restaurants, gayborhoods, community centers, choruses, athletic leagues, chosen families, support groups—those spaces we’ve created to be safe, to be ourselves, all those spaces that evaporated when the world shut down) came back to life, and I wondered whether and how those spaces would reflect the things we endured, the changes we navigated, the scars we bore, the mistakes we made. I wondered whether we’d make the effort to resist the narratives imposed on us, to construct our own stories, and to listen to the stories we have the privilege to hear.
Gay men faced a plague forty years ago, another plague that was ignored and played down, that seemed to target an already vulnerable group, that was treated by leaders and neighbors alike as a justified punishment or at least a natural consequence of the “lifestyle” we lived. The AIDS crisis added urgency and fuel and anger to the movement for equal rights that started well before Stonewall, and that led us to equal marriage in the US. Queer folx established safe neighborhoods, those “gayborhoods” through which our Pride parades once traveled, and spurred economic revivals and returns of services to neglected urban areas. As that crisis relented, queer folx were visible in a new way. Harvey Milk’s legacy and murder revealed a need for queer representation in local and national politics. Ellen came out. Will & Grace joined the prime-time lineup. When I joined the Boston Gay Men’s Chorus in 1999, though more and more folx started to see themselves reflected in public institutions and visible in our culture, coming out and standing out, claiming our space, was still a political act.
After an experience that rocks us, we search for what’s steady, and I’m optimistic that we will be able to discern both what’s at the core of our celebrations and identify new ways to visibly and meaningfully mark Pride. As we look to future Prides, could the parties and interfaith services and parades and brunches and performances shift away from highly externalized celebrations toward something more personal? Instead of waiting for advertisers to tell us what to be proud of, we can do that for ourselves. We can take ourselves seriously and look at our lives critically. We can open our minds and hearts to a few minutes of reflection. We can tell each other about the people who shaped us, about the experiences we’ve had and the insights we’ve gleaned. We can articulate our own desires and needs. In short, we can make Pride personal again.
Join me in making Pride personal for you!
Throughout June, I’ll post daily videos (except on Saturdays) that include:
Questions to prompt reflection: What are the places, experiences, and relationships that helped you shape your queer identity?
An essay from my forthcoming book, six to carry the casket and one to say the mass
A moment for gratitude: What are you grateful for? Is there something you’re particularly aware of in this moment?
As we begin Pride month, here’s my essay, “pride.” I invite you to consider…
What has “Pride” meant to you?
How have you observed it in the past? What has been energizing? exhausting? inspiring? Aggravating?
What do you get out of Pride?
