Letter from the Editor: Pride Was, and Should Always Be, Anti-racist
TRIGGER WARNING: This article discusses violence against Black people.
Ten days ago, I received an email from a fashion writer seeking quotes for a story she was writing on this year’s “virtual” Pride. I was first flattered — a writer wanted to feature me! — but was soon disappointed by the brevity and tone-deafness of the email. The two questions I was asked — How are you celebrating Pride this year? and What’s your outfit? — felt so incredibly off. Three weeks ago, George Floyd was murdered by racist police. Three days ago, Rayshard Brooks was murdered by racist police. 14 weeks ago, Breonna Taylor was murdered by racist police. 16 weeks ago, Ahmaud Arbery was murdered by white supremacists, including one ex-police officer. Yesterday, Oluwatoyin Salau was murdered after speaking out on her sexual assault. Today, protests are continuing to flood the nation, and police-inflicted violence is only persisting.
How could I take a moment to answer a question as trivial as “What are you wearing to Pride this year?” when Black people are dying and America is only fostering this institutional racism and violence?
Also three weeks ago, Tony McDade, a Black trans man, was murdered by racist police. Last week, Dominique Fells and Riah Milton, two Black trans women, were murdered in the same 24 hours. Five weeks ago, Nina Pop, a Black trans woman, was murdered. 12 weeks ago, Monika Diamond, a Black trans woman, was murdered. Two weeks ago, Iyanna Dior, a Black trans woman, was attacked by nearly 30 cis men. No arrests have been made for all but two of these cases.
Anti-Black violence is never just an isolated issue against cis men; we have to remember, advocate, and fight for the Black trans folks who face systemic oppression — violence and murder being the highest forms. Oftentimes, these forms of violence against Black trans women are ignored, making it even more crucial to focus Black trans lives in our BLM advocacy. Especially when these forms are sanctioned by the government, our police, our country — how can I even think to talk on behalf of my Pride outfit?
Prior to the recent outbreak in BLM protests, I had been reflecting on what Pride means to me, what it means to other queer folks, what it means to companies and corporations trying to make money on the neoliberal basis of “tolerance.” This was only masked by rainbow capitalism, hiding a company’s racist (and homophobic, and transphobic) culture and practices by selling a single Pride shirt during the month of June (and maybe, just maybe, donating some of the profits to an LGBTQ+ organization that does little for BIPOC). I notice this culture at the several Pride marches I have attended in New York and DC, watching (and glaring at) millionaire-floats decked with rainbow streamers for the racist corporations of the NFL and Amazon.
I remember seeing hardly any tribute to Marsha P. Johnson, or Black trans lives, or Black lives at all, for that matter. Maybe it existed, but the mass amounts of banks clad in rainbows and floats decorated with slogans of “Love is love” made the origin of Pride impossible to see.
Don’t get me wrong — I have always cherished attending several Prides a year and being with my queer community, traveling to visit queer friends, getting to be public about my queerness. But every year, something always felt off. And now that there is no physical Pride to attend this year, it has me thinking about this lack I have always witnessed, but never had to actually experience due to my white privilege.
Living a Pride month during nation-wide (and beyond) protests on the basis that all Black lives matter while not having the ability to attend a capitalism-driven parade makes me rethink, well, everything. It shouldn’t be news that all Black lives matter, that Pride was started by a Black trans woman and a Black butch lesbian, that Black queer folks are at the root of so many radical changes in both queer and Black liberation. But the disconnect feels amplified, even more now, between Black and queer lives, although it is so inherently connected. I have to ask again: how could anyone care what I’m wearing to “Pride” when instead of taking the form of a traditional parade, it is taking the form of daily protests that are fighting for the safety and lives of Black folks?
While it might be (unfortunately) impossible to ask every protester to constantly be thinking about Black queer lives, it’s also impossible to entirely separate queerness and anti-racism. Not only was the first Pride rebellion led by Black and brown queer folks, it was a riot against police — all racist, homophobic, and transphobic by institution — the result of a violent police raid that was common at the time for gay bars. It doesn’t feel much different now; gay bars now may not be getting raided (it doesn’t help that they’re vanishing each day, but I digress), but Black queer folks are still the target of racist institutions, the police being one of them. Black trans people are dying at high rates — in April alone, five trans women of color have faced violent deaths.
The work of Marsha P. Johnson, Sylvia Rivera, and Stormé DeLarverie cannot — should not — end by appropriating the 1969 riots being into capitalist parades where the thousands of rainbow-clad outfits outweigh the significance of that initial riot that is still (obviously) critical decades later. This isn’t to say that we can’t do both — fight for Black trans lives and put effort into what we wear — but so many times this first mission gets left in the shadows.
Now that there is no physical “parade” to attend, it’s time to refocus our energy into what is urgent. I won’t be focusing on what I’m wearing to whatever virtual festivities I show up to (if I even do, for that matter); instead, I will be showing up for Black trans and queer folks.
The June 2nd protest for Black trans lives, taking place at the Stonewall Inn 51 years after its historic moment, is a start to refocusing this activism. The June 14th Brooklyn liberation, an action for Black trans lives in the wake of Fells and Milton’s deaths, also shows this refocus. Yet, can it be called a refocus when it has always been about Black trans lives, even when so many of us overlook that to make it a white-washed rainbow party? This isn’t just evident in the parades themselves — queer theory has been white-dominated for decades (this book works to both challenge and diversify that), there is an evident lack in Black queer characters and films, HIV/AIDS continues to disproportionately affect Black queer men. So seeing several of my New York-based queer peers of all backgrounds attend this 2020 Stonewall protest, as well as shed some glimmer of hope — maybe the inability to attend mainstream Pride is revealing what we can do for Black queer lives in the midst of a pandemic and a nation-wide cryout against America’s anti-Blackness and justice for Black lives, those already lost and threatened to be lost every day.
There’s obviously more to be done; there will always be more to be done. When asked how I’ll celebrate this Pride month, it is impossible to simply forget the Black members of our queer community. “Celebrating” should be exchanged with “fighting for” — donate to Black queer organizations and funds (listed at the bottom of this piece), read and watch the works of Black queer authors and filmmakers (available on our Camp Thirlby guide published last week), center Black lives in your queer activism and queer lives in your anti-racist activism.
Most importantly, it shouldn’t only exist within the scope of Pride month — something we at Camp Thirlby have been saying ever since our start. But this year, amidst a national revolution, Black queer activism is more than just a moment, it is a continuous process that should only progress after the month of June. It’s not just a moment, it’s a revolution.
Black Queer Organizations and Funds to Donate to
Tony Mcdade’s family fund
Iyanna Dior’s cashapp
Sign Dominique Fells’s petition
Riah Milton’s family fund
Comprehensive list of Black queer resources (that you can add to as well!), ℅ Lex app
About the Author
Natalie Geisel (she/her) is a senior at The George Washington University studying women’s, gender, and sexuality studies with minors in English and communication. Her love of writing sprouted from starting her fashion blog in high school, and her current written work focuses on topics of LGBTQ+ content, culture, and identity. Launching and managing Camp Thirlby was out of interest in intersecting gender and sexuality into the world of youth and wellness, hoping to add marginalized voices, like her own queer one, to an underrepresented community. When she’s not writing, she spends her spare time at dance rehearsal, attending local indie shows in the DC area, or finding the best cafes that serve oat milk. She’s passionate about inclusive sex education and sustainable fashion and thinks everyone should be, too. You can view all of her written work on her website.
