Around 2015 I went to my first pride.
It was in Birmingham, toward the end of May, which is pretty early in the ‘pride season’. I was fortunate enough to have a supportive father who would take me, and we stood at the side of the barricades for hours, watching a seemingly endless array of people march past us.
There were people marching as individuals, people marching as local queer groups, such as the inclusive rugby group – the Birmingham Bulls. There were drag queens, drag kings, drag on stilts, and even drag on dogs!
There were also brands parading around. The discussion of a corporation’s place in pride has perpetuated since the establishment of pride celebrations themselves.
There are multiple angles people take in arguing against corporate sponsorship, or corporate participation, though one of the most undeniable challenges comes from the hypocrisy of such marketing.
Many have noted the discrepancy between a company’s rainbow-ified logo, and its political donations.
I distinctly remember the Conservative candidates being criticised for issuing “transphobic dogwhistles” during the leadership race last year. Somewhat even more annoyingly, however, is that the large city prides we know today are made possible in part through corporate sponsorship.
Birmingham pride, for example, is sponsored by HSBC, and Manchester pride is sponsored by the likes of TUI and union-busting Starbucks. After all, a pride event can be a good business decision to participate in, boosting economies, and providing an opportunity to showcase your company’s “support” for progressive tendencies.
But, even as a young teenager, seeing these corporations take up space in the march left a bad taste in my mouth.
Finding the roots of pride
On 1st July 1972 the first British pride event was held, taking place in London on the nearest Saturday to the anniversary of the Stonewall riots. Just two short years earlier, the London branch of the Gay Liberation Front (GLF) was formed by students at the London School of Economics. Inspired by a visit across the pond to a Black Panthers meet, the students were inspired to bring liberation to the UK.
Liberation, whether it be black liberation, women’s liberation, or gay liberation, is inherently tied to challenging capitalism. Queer organisers have leaned left, whether that be Harry Hay (the founder of the Mattachine Society) and his membership within the Communist Party of the USA, or the support offered to striking miners by LGSM.
The personal is political
How do we respond to so-called “rainbow-capitalism”?
We can’t “return” pride back to a mere march, because it never was such. Queer joy was always baked into the event.
Though the first Brighton pride in 1973 was a rather small affair, the march ended in a ‘Gay Dance’ at the Royal Albion Hotel. Brighton pride wasn’t to return until 1991, as a retaliation to Section 28 (part of the 1988 Local Government Act which prohibited the “promotion of homosexuality”). It offered an ambitious array of events, ending in a Pink Picnic.
At face value, picnics and dances don’t seem to be the political drive needed to enact change, but they are. Queerphobic policy and legislation is driving our community out of public space. By having a picnic, sitting around with snacks and drinks, we stand our ground, and refuse to be thrown back into the shadows. Whilst we may not be marching, we remain visible.
Visibility in political matters is important. Marches and protests are important. A protest, however, comes in many forms. Picnicking with the local drag artists is a protest, in a similar way Stonewall was. It’s a protest because, not only are we thrusting our queerness into the spotlight, but we are thrusting our joy into the spotlight.
Much of the backlash I have received after coming out as trans comes in the form of ‘concern for my future’. Trans success is not publicised widely, with many activists, myself included, often focusing on stories of pain and dysphoria. I’m not going to deny the huge importance of such stories, particularly in fights for access to healthcare, but joy must be displayed, too.
As a closeted trans teenager, I needed someone to tell me that I could grow up and be happy. I could grow up and find a community, a community that could foster joy.
Pride is a protest. Not just in marching for our rights, but in encouraging people to become involved in their local queer community. Encouraging people to befriend one another, and share the joy of pride together. We can fight for better lives of queer individuals, through organising politically, sharing joy, and supporting the work of organisations like Mermaids who are on the frontline campaigning for trans young people’s rights.
The most impactful part of going to my first pride as teenager was not necessarily the political placards, but the drag queens, drag kings, drag on stilts, and drag on dogs that exemplified queer joy, and showed me that I could have a happy future.
You can donate to Mermaids, the trans youth charity, here.