A Reflection on My First Pride, Two Months Later
“Free Hugs from Mums” was the first thing we saw when we came through the gates. Naturally, we went to be embraced. Over the warm shoulder of somebody’s loving mother, I saw us all. I watched the joy bounce between people dressed in whatever they wanted, the ease with which they walked knowing we were safe here, momentarily, saturated in loud colours on eyes and hair and cheeks and bare, un-fetishized skin. I felt for my heartbeat; recognised how slow it was now, compared to when I was sitting with my parents preparing to tell them about a part of me they’d not known before, compared to walking past leering, sneering men who impetuously objectify you and the hand you hold.
All of us were loved there. So deeply loved, celebrated, accepted, needed and valid—a powerful potion of feelings that can be unusual for people so often shoved to the sidelines, ridiculed and rejected. Before we had even started to dance or covered ourselves in rainbows and huge smiles, we were already filled to the brim with joy. The sense of peace that comes with knowing ‘I belong here’ was almost beyond words. I burst into tears looking at us all, feeling our energy, taking up space and being free for a while.
I felt pride for every single person there. Each of the brave, unique, loving individuals, LGBTQI+ or ally or anywhere in between.
I feel pride for those at home in bed, scrolling through vibrant #pride #lgbtqi+ posts on their secret Instagram accounts, hoping they haven’t been seen but simultaneously wishing with a deep, sad desperation that they could be. I am proud of them, knowing I once was them, and that at some point most of us dancing that day have been them. I see you too. You are loved; and when you are ready, your huge kaleidoscopic family will be here for you, to march for you and by your side. Take your time; come to us when you can.
I am proud of our LGBTQI+ heroes, the ancestors of our queer rebellion who tirelessly paved this way for us with bricks through windows and the shattering of forced norms. The ones that told the world loudly that we exist as in-between and we are not the ‘other,’ we are ‘it’ as much as the rest. I am infinitely grateful. Infinitely inspired.
I am proud of our queer siblings who can no longer fly their flags with us, because so much space is so unsafe, and just to simply give the chance to be, to exist, seems too much generosity for this world of hate. Silence from all corners; this is all we hear when someone goes, because this place pushes people to the point where their full, glowing, lived in selves become unbearable, unattainable. This is for my siblings who seem to some to be just statistics, as if by rote: “this many on the streets, depressed or dead,” and what more can be done? They have their parade! We put a rainbow on our packaging!..We promise, we will not stop shouting for you, we will scream your names and hold hate and cruelty accountable.
This pride I feel is for sharing. It’s for rejecting gate-keeping and letting love in. This pride is not just for listening, but for hearing, and replying: “There is nowhere you don’t belong.” This pride is for our siblings who couldn’t make it. This pride is for more than just “love is love”, it’s for the complexity of sex and for fucking freely. This pride is all encompassing and intersectional and it lasts, unwaveringly, all year long.
Looking back in retrospect some months later, now that the flags have been plucked off their poles and peeled away from the shop window displays, now that the popular parties have finished and parades have been put aside, we have to ask ourselves how we are showing up post-pride month. We mustn’t forget that being queer is for 365 days a year, when it’s difficult and dark too, when its challenging, uncomfortable and painful. Showing up means calling out that uncle instead of laughing it off when he uses archaic anti-queer language casually, even when it makes the dinner table fall silent; it means reading, sharing, listening, donating and using our voices every month, not just during the decorated and labeled one.
We must promise every generation that follows ours: we will endlessly feel this pride and fight for it for you, too. We will transgress whatever boundaries it takes to make sure you to be able to also stand proud, beautiful and safe in your queerness, wherever you are, whatever month, skipping through your rainbow painted life—not just one day a year.
This pride tells us to preserve it, to look after each other, that we’re not done yet, to keep working and dance hard, but fight even harder.
About the Author
Lillan Lemouchi (she/her) is an Education Studies student at University College London and is devoted to transforming sex and relationships education into a common taboo-crushing practice. She believes everyone has the right to learn about the things humans universally have in common, sex, the body and the nuances within it all, and hopes that through this we can become empowered and educated about the intersectionality and complexity of sexuality, identity and our experiences. She loves theatre and writing as a means of expression and encouraging the questioning of societal norms and inequalities.
