What a wonderful circumstance to realize that Pride Month has reached such saturation in mainstream media that it rivals Christmas in all the best and worst ways. I’m not going to get into a critique of corporate tie-ins and the whole lavender-washing of a movement that was rooted in the Stonewall Riots of 1969. We’ve come a long way to see rainbow flags on Target merchandise, and I’m not about to decry or condemn the rest of the world for catching up and wanting to celebrate too.
Rather, I’m going to focus on the true meaning of Pride, much in the way that I’ve come to focus on the true meaning of Christmas – the essence of this month in which we remember our past, celebrate our present, and look to make things better for the future. For me, Pride will always be about one simple image: two guys walking down Boylston Street in Boston holding hands, unconcerned about the world around them, and simply enjoying the touch of another human being. I saw it at one of the first Pride Marches I ever attended, and it still thrills me – because I remember.
I remember what a thrill that was because it was something I didn’t grow up seeing.
I remember growing up and not having any sense of the possibility of love – not the love I was created to experience, not the love I was born to live. I remember the sort of heterosexual love that was forced upon me, and that I forced myself to fit into, even when it felt wrong, even when I knew it wasn’t me.
I remember not seeing myself anywhere, not finding my future on television or in a magazine or a movie.
Because I remember those things, and so many more, I will still celebrate Pride.
