Big push for more politics at Pride
LGBT community renews activism during Trump era
There’s a phrase that gets thrown around every Pride — “The first Gay Pride was a riot.” It’s stitched onto jackets and scrawled on boards as a not-so-subtle reminder that for all the rainbow flags and late-night parties, Pride began some 50 years ago as a protest.
Lately, it’s also served to highlight a tension that’s become increasingly visible in recent years: Is Pride a protest, or is it a party? And can it exist as both?
With the current political atmosphere, and an increasing dread that recent gains in LGBT rights could be rolled back at any moment, cities across the United States are having to answer these questions. Pride parades in Phoenix, Washington, D.C., and Columbus, Ohio, have found themselves the target of protests from queer activists who say they aren’t doing enough to make space and fight for the most marginalized among them and the policies that directly affect them. In Portland, Ore., and Minneapolis, Pride organizers tried to minimize the visibility of law enforcement at the parades — and faced backlash for it.
And in Los Angeles, the parade was converted, wholesale, into a resistance march that pushed back against the Trump administra-
tion’s policies as well as laws coming out of legislatures in states such as North Carolina and South Dakota.
The San Francisco Pride board of directors appears to be trying to split the difference, after heavy lobbying by Alex U. Inn, one of the parade’s grand marshals, for the event to be more political. The parade will continue as it always has on Sunday, corporate sponsors and all, but with a “Resistance Contingent” at the front that will give visibility to issues such as the value of black lives, immigrant rights and reproductive rights. Beyond that, San Francisco Pride will largely leave the politics up to the participants.
“We understand (Pride’s) political context,” says Michelle Meow, the board’s president. “But I think what Pride means to each individual in our community will range. It’s diverse and it’s become complex.”
Other groups, however, are being more direct in tackling the moment head-on.
The Dyke March and the Trans March have always been primarily political, more protest than parade. But organizers for both events say that this year, especially in light of President Trump’s election, there’s a renewed sense of purpose.
“We are going back to our roots,” says Melisa Márquez-Rodríguez, the volunteer coordinator for the Trans March. “We are a protest march — we started out as a protest march.”
Elizabeth Lanyon, who co-chairs the Dyke March, struck a similar tone. “This isn’t a parade. This is us showing up and taking up space because we’ve been pushed out, because we have been overlooked for so long.”
Both marches are unapologetically political on their websites, talking about issues including transphobia, access to health care, deportation, police brutality and mass incarceration. This runs in stark contrast to what you’d find on the official SF Pride website. There are other differences, of course. Neither march features contingents or floats, neither takes corporate sponsors.
Though Sunday’s parade will pull the largest audience of the weekend, both the Trans March and the Dyke March draw considerable crowds. The Trans March, which has taken place annually for 14 years, is one of the biggest gatherings of its sort in the nation, sometimes attracting as many as 10,000 people. The Dyke March, now in its 25th year, estimates that 25,000 to 30,000 attend each year.
Both Márquez-Rodríguez and Lanyon say such marches help carve a space during a weekend of celebration that doesn’t always make room for everybody in the community. Márquez-Rodríguez says it’s
common to hear from transgender people that they feel “superficially welcome” at the main events. “‘Yes, you’re welcome. We’re not going to oppress you,’ ” she says. “But at the same time … a lot of people feel the need to have a smaller activity where we can all get together.
“The Trans March is a protest march, but it’s also a gathering space. That’s something we want to provide. Trans space is extremely rare.”
Finding spaces specifically for queer women is also difficult, Lanyon says. There are dance parties and meet-ups, but with the closure of the Lexington Club (the city’s only lesbian bar) two years ago, there’s no dedicated physical space. “I think that says a lot about still needing visibility. … And that’s why the Dyke March is so, so very important.”
Both say they’d like to see more of an effort made in the main event to center those on the fringes (and to advocate for policies that would help them). But, says Márquez-Rodríguez, “the discussions that need to happen in order to have a more inclusive event aren’t happening with the frequency we want them to be happening.”
It’s not impossible, though. And Los Angeles might be a model for the future. Less than six months ago, Brian Pendleton had nothing to do with the organization that runs Los Angeles Pride. When he realized that the L.A. Pride Parade was set to happen on the same day as an equality march in D.C., he shot off a post on Facebook about how Los Angeles should ditch the parade in favor of a protest. Normally, he gets about 50 likes on a post. This time he got more than 30,000.
It wasn’t long before Christopher Street West, the organization that plans Los Angeles Pride, had called him up to find out whether he was planning to march in their parade. Instead, after some discussions, he and a group of 60 were handed responsibility for the June 11 parade programming. What they crafted was ResistMarch, something in the vein of the Trans and Dyke marches, that eschewed sponsorships and floats and contingents. The march wasn’t explicitly anti-Trump, so much as it was a march against policies at both the state and federal levels that run counter to the sort of values that Pride originally stood for.
“The mission was particularly important this year, which was lending our iconic rainbow flag to anybody who feels under threat,” Pendleton says. “Not just the LGBTQ community — but immigrants of any status, Dreamers, people of color, people of faith, women who care about reproductive rights. It was our desire to build a much broader coalition.”
There was pushback from some in the community, but, Pendleton says, most came around to the idea, and saw the joy in the march, floats or no floats.
“There’s somewhat of a nervousness to give up a parade in exchange for a march,” he says. “But there is so much power in that. The only difference is that people, instead of spectating, are participating.”