lowercase pride

It’s coming! A month of Pride.

 

I’m keeping calm and composed. I’m not making announcements to passersby on the sidewalk. “Pride is coming!” I don’t have a flag to pull out of the closet and drape over my balcony—fourth floor; little chance of an outraged homophobe going all Spiderman to scale the building and yank it down. I haven’t dug through that catch-all drawer in my hutch to find my rainbow pin. I haven’t even prepared a special jogging playlist.[1]

 

I have pride but it’s more lowercase p than uppercase P. That’s just my nature. Understated, unassuming, underwhelmed. 

 

I get that Pride month is a big thing, but I have mixed feelings about it. Same for Christmas, Nicki Minaj and Elmo. I can’t put all my gay/nonbinary joy into June. I have to pace myself. I don’t want to peak. I don’t want to experience Pride fatigue. Heck, I can’t even cope with a hangover (the last one, thankfully, hitting me in 1993).

 

Capital P Pride is important for newbies and the Qs of the LGBTQIA+, if the letter stands for Questioning instead of Queer. I understand that it is a chance for them to feel A-things, like affirmation, acceptance and acknowledgment. Good stuff. I also get that for well-established queer folk, it can be about P-things: a party, a parade and a play or some other performance piece. (I’m being generous about plays and (non-drag) performances. The parties and parade take center stage.)

 

Five years ago, I felt a shift as I considered who Pride month was for. I was living in a group home for people with eating disorders, eight women and two of us guys, one straight, one gay. Dealing with (resisting) treatment and navigating weeks spent with a batch of roomies who talked endlessly about Billie Eilish, Love Island and, well, everything…ANYthing!, Vancouver’s Pride Parade snuck up on me. I was only made aware of it because the women in the house were busy buying outfits, makeup and other accessories to attend. All of them were straight but, for them, it was a must-see and be-seen event. 

 

Incidentally, the parade falls outside of official Pride month. The Vancouver Pride Parade is in August, instead of June, seemingly to allow Super Proud people to plan their own Pride circuit celebrations. (Within Canadian borders, this year’s Pride tour can include Toronto (June 30), Halifax (July 20), Charlottetown (July 20)—Ooh, conflict! Two parades in the Maritimes on the same day—Hamilton (my hometown; August 10), Montreal (August 11), Edmonton (August 24), Ottawa (August 25), Calgary (September 1). There are more, of course. 

 

Everyone loves a parade.

 

Everyone but me. They always start late, there are big gaps and I have a fear of being struck by a rogue baton or even a colorful strand of beads. Even a free packet of condoms lobbed my way might instill panic. I fit that stereotype: The gays can’t catch. No chance of physical injury from flying condoms but a sure-shot of humiliation. Pride compromised.

 

Okay, I’m sure there are others who are parade-avoidant. It’s just not talked about. A Grand Poobah is to be celebrated; someone who pooh-poohs it all is to be shunned.[2] It’s like saying you don’t like butterflies or babies or ice cream. 

 

WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU? 

 

Yes, all-caps. And that wasn’t even lifted from a Trump tweet. 

 

The point I was trying to make before I fell down a rabbit hole, looking up the dates for Canadian Pride parades, is that I don’t feel I’m the target audience for the parade anymore. It’s not that I’ve aged out in the way I’m disregarded by television ratings data, literary agents and advertisers for everything but “niche” products like Viagra, Depends and that alert system for falling and not being able to get up. There is the Been There, Done That factor though. I’ve even passed the point of regarding the event as “tradition.” Yeah. Whatever. 

 

I don’t need to see who is on the gay volleyball team. (I was for a few years.) I don’t need to see drag outfits. Those queens are everywhere now. (Yay!) I especially don’t need to see the obligatory Rave-on-Wheels, a group of toned boys in thongs or Speedos, dancing offbeat to Madonna (so retro), each accessorizing with a plastic water bottle. The fact they get the biggest whoops always makes me question how deep the gay identity goes.

 

I don’t even get anything out of PFLAG[3] anymore. That used to be my favorite participation group, but my first parade was during the peak of the AIDS crisis. There were fun floats, but there was also a lot of meaningful statements expressed in signs and banners or just by being in it. I’m glad PFLAG still exists. Parents need to support and, in turn, need to be supported. 

 

For first-timers and perhaps tenth-timers, the entire Pride month can be exciting, empowering or even just an opportunity to ogle gays IRL. Maybe a story or two for drag brunch. From Pride events I attended with my ex two years ago—not the parade but some outdoor Seattle festival—Pride seems as much for allies as the community itself. It’s not that different from gay bars and drag events now. Girls’ Night (or Day) Out. Something to do instead of another beach day or eating hotdogs at a ballgame. 

 

And then there are the banks, real estate agents, gyms and cider brands. I’m okay with all the corporate leeches. Their Pride comes down to a business decision. Does hanging a few flags and having two dozen employees march while handing out rainbow stickers with the corporate logo in the bottom right corner bring in more new business to outweigh the possible boycotts from incensed church-going haters? No doubt, the projections were presented at an executive meeting in January. And then an affirmative vote. Still, I’d rather see a sign of support, however calculated, than read about conservatives’ devotion to Chick-fil-A or Cracker Barrel. March on, Royal Bank! 

 

I’m even okay with the backlash from bubbas and has-been rock stars who take to shooting up cases of Bud Light (which, presumably, they had to purchase). Covert hate was more peaceful, but it left me with less of a sense of safety. Who actually hated me on account of my sexual orientation? Overt hate sets out the cones (Coneheads?) to dodge on the roadway. It also requires the haters to attempt to defend their position, to the extent it runs deeper than, “Ew. Fags,” whenever they dare go beyond their safe circle of jerks. Sure, there are unpleasant family picnics and Thanksgiving dinners but pronouncements of hate, however unwanted in the moment, only strengthen the LGBTQ community, reminding us we can’t take anything for granted while also helping our allies understand how important their support is in everyday life and when making political choices. Haters get louder as their numbers get smaller. These days, there are earbuds for that.

 

The thing is, while Pride is a one-month (plus) annual celebration that almost mandates some sort of pro-gay display in progressive shops and places, it’s an all-year event for me. Gay in January. Gay in February. Gay in March. And on it goes. Pride is not like Halloween, Christmas or St. Patrick’s Day. It doesn’t end after I’ve eaten the last mini Coffee Crisp[4] and box of Smarties.[5] It’s not out of mind once I’ve taken down the garlands, the pointless mistletoe tossed and that dang Mariah Carey song given a rest from every radio station, café and drugstore speaker. It’s not over after all those people spend a day donning green, faking being Irish, randomly saying, “Erin go Bragh!” and “Top o’ the mornin’ to ya” well past noon and then hitting the bars to sing the wrong words to “Danny Boy.[6]”

 

Yesterday, today and tomorrow, I’m gay. Forevermore. Forgive me for not jazzing it up come June just because midnight put an end to May 31^st. I have to maintain my pride, pace myself for twelve months every year. I’m not a showy dude. Pride manifests in the books I read, the essays I write, the characters I create, the causes I donate to, the art exhibits I attend, the people I choose to associate with and the occasional letter I write to a politician.

 

Okay, confirmed: 
unicorns.

So, wave your flag if you wish. It’ll make me smile, inside at the very least. I have rainbow shoes and socks with rainbow dragons—or maybe they’re unicorns…a gift (What do you get for a gay acquaintance?). Go gaga over go-go boys with hairless six-packs approximating dance moves.

 

I’ll be proud all of June. Before then and after that, too.

 

 

 

    

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[1] Okay, I kinda sorta created a personal jogging soundtrack…the power of suggestion.Here’s are the tracks:

·      “Pride (In the Name of Love)” - U2 (not gay, per se, but it has such an anthemic sound)

·      “Smalltown Boy” - Bronski Beat

·      “I’m Coming Out” -  Diana Ross (already a regular jogging song; makes me hyper which is a good thing on a run)

·      “Freedom! ’90” – George Michael

·      “I Adore U” – Adore Delano (drag performer and 2008 American Idol semi-finalist, using a different name)

·      “Macho Man” – Village People (no “Y.M.C.A.” since that tune’s been lost to straight wedding receptions)

·      “Evergreen (You Didn’t Deserve Me At All)” – Omar Apollo

·      “Born This Way” - Lady Gaga (obvs…)

·      “Love Today” – Mika (he strikes me as hyper to the core, just like his songs)

·      “I Will Survive” – Gloria Gaynor (obvs, too, but one of the first 45s I ever bought, before I had any understanding of the word gay.)

·      “Constant Craving” – k.d. lang

·      “Latch” – Disclosure featuring Sam Smith

·      “Slide” – Calvin Harris featuring Frank Ocean and Migos

·      “I’m So Tired” – Troye Sivan & Lauv (I like this stripped-down version; their voices go so well together.)

·      “Come to My Window” – Melissa Etheridge

 

I could list more songs, but I’d risk a leg cramp if I kept running.

 

[2] Unless you’re Winnie-the-. Or possibly Eeyore. We must cut Eeyore some slack. His tail is pinned to his ass with a nail. Plus, that pink bow. AND, he’s had to put up with that bouncing Tigger all these years. 

[3] Formerly, the acronym stood for Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays, but now, according to Wikipedia, it’s been broadened to Parents, Families and Friends of Lesbians and Gays. Makes sense. Don’t we all want a big sis cheering us on?

[4] Canadian chocolate bar. So good!

[5] Canadian version of M&Ms. Basically the same, but ours comes with a catchy, classic commercial jingle in which the red ones are especially feted. Plus, Smarties came before M&Ms although a French version, dragée, preceded both, the hard coating covering the chocolate for the practical reason that it allowed fashionable women to nibble without getting chocolate on their gloves (or having to take them off). One article also noted that Smarties are packaged in recyclable cardboard while the American candy comes in less-often recyclable plastic bags.

[6] Incidentally, the melody is Irish but the lyrics were written by Frederic Weatherly, an English lawyer. Blimey!

SUMMONING PRIDE

I’m trying to fight my reticence. Seattle’s Pride events culminate in its parade and other events this weekend. I’m going, even if I’m dragging my rainbow Converse-clad feet.

 

I’ve never participated in Pride in Seattle. It’s not my city and I’m not one of those to do a whole Pride summer tour. Ordinarily, it’s enough for me to bow out of Vancouver’s Pride activities which come to a head at the end of July or the beginning of August. It’s convenient for me to travel elsewhere at that time of year. The cottage in Ontario calls or, if not, I schedule a hiking weekend around Whistler or on Vancouver Island. I don’t require the annual Pride booster.  

 

This year non-participation is not an option. I’m in a new relationship with Evan who lives in Seattle. He’s one of the masses who loves Pride. We alternate spending weekends in Seattle or Vancouver and it was a given that we’d be at his place for Seattle Pride and then at my place for Vancouver Pride. I get to a double booster. Doubly Proud. Yay. Not yay.

 

I know very well how I sound. I’m the party pooper. I’m the rain on the parade. I have to work through this so that, when it’s time to celebrate, I’ll blend in. Let me not be the death of the party. Of course, if I appear blasé or, worse, mopey, no one will notice. No one but Evan. 

 

I could hit the beer garden. Evan likes it when I’ve had a drink. He says I get chattier and I’m giddy. One drink is about my limit. It shouldn’t be a surprise that I don’t do excess anything. Still, I’d rather track down an iced oat milk latte and do what I can to feed off the energy, not so much from eyeing the corporate banners or the go-go boys on floats, but from watching Evan take everything in. Let his joy be mine. 

 

As I drove to Seattle last night, I attempted to conduct my own therapy session. What’s your problem with Pride? How does it make you feel? 

 

My first Pride parade was in West Hollywood way back in 1990. I went by myself and sheltered beside a friendly group of lesbians. They made me feel safe while taking in a spectacle that was overwhelming. So much leather, so much drag, so much skin. There was lots of talk about the Gay and Lesbian “community” which, at the time, seemed conflicted about the B and the T. Bisexuality was often derisively questioned, a half-step out of the closet at best. I’d heard talk about transgender being a distraction to gay and lesbian causes. The thinking was that it was hard enough for America to accept gays and lesbians. People who were trans would have to wait. In many respects, they’re still waiting. 

 

However broad or restricted the “community,” I had a hard time seeing my place when I looked at the people in the parade. I was a repressed twenty-five-year-old, raised in a reserved family, having lived eleven years in Texas prior to moving to Los Angeles. I took the parade too seriously, at face value…or, really, the value seemed more focused on lower body parts—jiggly thongs and boobs with pasties. This was what I was supposed to be? I couldn’t see myself in bare-assed leather chaps. I failed to see the parade as a performance piece, as a stir-the-pot device to rally the troops, as a party on steroids…our version of Carnival or Mardi Gras. 

 

What I managed to connect with were the more serious entrants in the parade: the local politicians glad-handing while perched in convertibles, the PFLAG contingent that I knew would never include my own parents and the AIDS organizations demanding action now. Indeed, the parade planted the seed for me to become a volunteer buddy at AIDS Project Los Angeles a year later when I finally decided I couldn’t sit on the sidelines, buried in law school case studies in beach-blessed Malibu. When the parade wrapped, I left with a smile on my face—a genuine one without any nudge from booze. I couldn’t process the gay garb, but I truly felt the core message of Pride: It was okay to be gay. I was not alone, in spirit at least. There were tens of thousands of gays, lesbians and allies who would high-five me if I dared to relax and venture beyond my overly cautious life, skimming issues of The Advocate on newsstands and staring at my socks while sipping club soda at Rage on Saturday nights. My version of bold was asking the bartender for a lime wedge.

 

In subsequent years at various Pride events, I felt less affirmation as my inner critic cringed at seeing the more daring, out-there components of the parade. I’d learned that the stir-the-pot moments were the ones that made the TV news which didn’t seek to accurately portray the crowd but instead wanted viewers to react. My agenda had been normalizing being gay. I wanted people to realize “We’re just like everybody else.” Others stole the show with the counterargument: “No, we’re not.” I needed approval; they didn’t. 

 

I’ve evolved—to some degree. I love the drag queens. Really, I always have. I just wanted Joe Public to see the average Joes under the rainbow, too. Of course, the big wigs and glittery gowns made the evening news. Any decent drag queen will do what it takes to pull focus. 

 

I’m understanding more about the T in LGBTQ. I embrace trans rights even though my personal interactions remain far too limited. I appreciate the greater focus in the press and in the entertainment industry. I’m incensed how conservatives are using trans issues to get their followers frothing at the mouth and coughing up political donations. Fear the unknown!It’s outrageously manipulative. 

 

I’m in awe of the entire alphabet spectrum of terms younger and/or newly out queers can draw from in considering identity. I’ve heard others my age bemoan all the new labels and I get it. We worked hella hard to be accepted as gay. Let that be enough. But it’s a larger menu now. Other people choose what’s the best fit for them. COVID expanded my gay universe, allowing me to listen to and learn from a broader, more diverse group of queer writers than I’d ever encountered during my limited out and abouts, pre-pandemic. 

 

While I don’t think my attempt at road trip therapy last night made any inroads, I’m realizing this writing session is proving helpful. The last time I took part in a Pride parade and the showier events was probably seven years ago. Much has changed, some things for the better, other circumstances raising new concerns. Back then, I was single and I people watched the crowd more than the parade entries. I glanced at older gay couples, I studied younger straight couples who brought along their children with rainbow unicorns painted on their cheeks and I crouched down to bond with labradoodles and, wherever possible, schnauzers. I loved the drag queens, but I didn’t need to ogle the shirtless boys showing off tanned abs and toned biceps. As someone who will likely always struggle with an eating disorder, I’ve learned that I don’t need in-your-face displays of gay gods and the more awkward mere mortals desperately striving for that status. I don’t want to go to Pride and feel worse about myself. My issue. Let me shake another paw with Fido who looks rather festive with the rainbow leash and collar. 

 

I’m an introvert and, as I wrote last year, I get more from quieter moments during Pride month. But I think I can put on a happy face—a genuine one this year—and feed off Evan’s joy while celebrating the more diverse representations of pride. Let me cheer people pushing for trans rights. Let me whoop for LGBTQ seniors. And, as a bonus, let me boogie to the old school soundtrack…a little Bronski Beat, a dash of Gloria Gaynor, some sideline Voguing, a couple of Village People tunes and “Born This Way” as a takeaway earworm.    

 

Okay, Seattle. Pep talk completed. See you Out in the streets.

A BANNER YEAR

 I choose Pride-lite every year. Whether things are in-person or virtual, I just never get around to amping up my gayness and my celebration thereof during the designated weeks on the calendar. But then, I’m not much for any designated celebrations. 

 

Hey, everyone! It’s my birthday! Take me to dinner and join me for K-pop karaoke night to prove you’re a true friend.

 

Hi, Mom. Did you get the flowers I sent you because the florists are making their guilt-tripping push? I know you have to post a picture of them on your Facebook page. My bouquet is way bigger than the one Mrs. Conrad’s son sent, right?

 

Don’t even get me started on obligatory Father’s Day phone calls.

 

It may be weird, but I prefer treating a friend to dinner or sending Mom flowers just because. “I appreciate you and I don’t feel like conforming to doing things when society says so.” (To keep consistent, I NEVER do things on my birthday and I love that.)

 

Regarding Pride, I suppose I quietly engage in gay professional development when it feels right over the course of any year. I read gay memoirs and LGBTQ fiction when I can, but that’s certainly not all I choose. (Current reads: Bryan Washington’s Memorial (gay) and What Comes After by Joanne Tompkins (not gay).) I watch some gay content on Netflix and pass on others. (I recommend the Australian series treasure, “Please Like Me,” I had a love-hate relationship with “EastSiders” and I typically abandon everything by Ryan Murphy after the first hour. Yay, “Glee.” Meh, most everything since. Just my opinion. If you spit at me through your phone, I probably won’t feel it, but it might give your screen a nice shine.)

 

Parades have never been my thing. As a kid, I thought it took way too long for Santa to show up and I worried about marching tuba players knocking me unconscious if they did an energetic swivel in the middle of a raucous rendition of “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus,” a song which itself troubled me. (What about Mrs. Claus? Is Mom a slut? Why do I keep sending her flowers?) Basically, all parades are a pass. Too long, too many gaps, always too many tubas.

 

There are beer gardens, too, but I don’t like beer. When it’s the only option, I load up my bottle with a half dozen forcefully squeezed lime wedges. Tolerable then, but I’d rather just sip limeade…maybe with several splashes of rum.

 

I’ve seen a few arty queer films during Pride celebrations, but there’s often a lot of extended scenes of water running from a faucet down a rusty drain, a close-up nipple shot, a bubble-gum feather boa blowing from the antenna of a Buick sedan and then a long, long list of end credits. (Is it a coincidence that so many people have the same last name as the director?) After the credits—it’s only polite to sit through them—I want to turn to the person beside me and say, “What the hell was that?” but they always seem absorbed in a state of reflection, dabbing their eyes with a tissue and I know I just need to leave and head home to YouTube Donna Summer songs for the rest of the day. That’s as arty-gay as I get.

 

To sum up, Pride is either too crowded, too tedious, too forced and sometimes all of that at once. It’s hard for me to find connection. I’m gay in my own, rather conventional, solemn sort of way.

 

Several weeks ago, however, I stumbled upon a different expression of Pride. I’d headed out on an evening walk, my agenda limited to picking up a tube of toothpaste and maybe getting myself an ice cream. (Nowhere near my birthday, but sometimes I just like to treat myself to Crest Extra Whitening and a scoop of salted caramel. See? It’s so freeing to go with whims instead of iPhone calendar reminders.) When I popped out of the drugstore on downtown Vancouver’s busy Georgia Street, I looked up and noticed a pair of dark banners flanking the pole for a streetlight. I was seeing the reverse side of them, but I could tell that one banner had the word “PRIDE” printed vertically. This immediately upset me. I was in the downtown business-y district where people in stuffy Brooks Brothers attire talk too much about IPOs while others wear knockoff GUCCI sweatshirts tote designer store shopping bags that are fancier than anything featured on my coffee table. This was not the gay part of Vancouver and I didn’t like the idea of some other entity stealing our word. Why hadn’t we thought to trademark “PRIDE”? I suppose we thought no one would want to use it after we made it gay…just like the word “gay” itself which no one uses as a synonym for happy anymore. (That’s why eight-year-old boys crack up every time that seasonal song comes up with people donning their gay apparel.)

 

Okay, so the stolen PRIDE had me riled up. I had to see what the wordier companion banner said. As pedestrians walked purposefully to the gym, toward the mall or into office towers, I faced the banners, standing in the middle of the sidewalk as the human version of a traffic cone discontented people had to dodge. I looked up for a clearer reading of the message fluttering gently on the pole:

 

 

 

Huh. An event in Canada’s LGBTQ history I did not know. I saw other banners running up and down Georgia and then more adorning Howe, a cross street.

 

 

 

No longer irked, I was excited and intrigued. I smiled as I walked each block, head up, embarking on my own Pride history tour. 

 

 

 

 

I have not seen this kind of signage in Vancouver before. Whatever committee decided on what should appear on these banners gave plenty of thought to representing diversity in Canada’s LGBTQ history. Trans rights, Indigenous identity and drag queen activism were highlighted along with significant moments for gays and lesbians. 

 

 

 

 

Political milestones such as Canadian marriage equality, adoption rights and the banning of conversion therapy were also recognized.    

 

 

 

 

THIS is my kind of Pride event, something to take in on my own time in an area that’s a fifteen-minute walk away from Davie Street, the traditional hub of the city’s gay community. Smack dab in the shopping and business core, this allows our history to be seen by thousands of people each day who are less likely to come upon the heavy concentration of rainbow flags on Davie and Denman Streets. 

 

This display is not sponsored by a Pride organization or some other LGBTQ association. I’ve learned that the banners were funded by the Downtown Vancouver Business Improvement Association representing 7,000 businesses and properties in the area. DVBIA consulted with Vancouver’s Pride Society and Forbidden Vancouver Tours to ensure accuracy of the content on the banners.

 

 

The project offers more substance beyond rainbows, the word Pride and expressions like Love Is Love. This is an indelible part of how I see Pride as honoring our past and reaching beyond our community. I am proud of our city and prouder to be accepted as someone under the LGBTQ umbrella. 

 

I hope more people make a point of embarking on their own history tour.

 

 

A SUMMER OF PRIDE

I’m not sure when it happened but Pride got bigger around here. 

 

Ever since I moved to Vancouver twenty-five years ago, the parade has always been on the Sunday of the first weekend in August. It coincides with an official long weekend in the province, the first Monday of the month being a public holiday with the flashy name, British Columbia Day. There are some official events on the Monday, mostly attended I imagine by speech-happy BC politicians, historians who haven’t been outdoors in ages and people who like to drive around in old cars, reminding the rest of us what the provincial flag looks like—something with a sun on it which is apropos in the middle of summer but has absolutely zero relevance from November through March. My five minutes of research about BC Day is that it started to show up on the calendar a few years after another province, Ontario, named the first Monday in August a provincial holiday back in 1969. Basically, it’s a day off in the middle of summer because another province started it and we wanted an extra Monday to sleep in, too. Yay, BC!

 

The first weekend in August has become a whole weekend of fun, at least for people in Vancouver, with one of several fireworks nights on the Saturday and the Pride parade on Sunday. All those historical speeches on Monday, a buffer day of festiveness, I suppose, help folks wind down so they can head back to work Tuesday, perhaps without a hangover.

 

Okay, so that’s more than enough context than you need. (Perhaps in my next life, I’ll be a speechifying historian.) What I recall during my first Pride in Vancouver was the Sunday parade and a festival of sorts at a park by the beach where you could pick up a nice plastic bag with a fancy corporate logo on it and walk around, staring at a bunch of tables with tarps over them, signing up the upcoming AIDS Walk, picking up handfuls of free condoms and listening to business pitches just so you could make off with more corporate swag. (Who doesn’t love a fridge magnet?) Really, the post-parade “festival” was a chance to walk around in a really crowded space with your friends, whispering things like, “Check out the abs on that guy in the purple Lycra shorts” and, “Girl, look at Miss Thang over there stuffing her bag with lube. She was so wasted at Celebrities last night.” Ah, memories. I’m beaming with pride as I type this.

 

I’m sure it was a small roomful of gays who didn’t have six-pack abs (or even purple Lyrca shorts) and lesbians who couldn’t get into riding motorcycles topless who decided there needed to be other events like queer documentaries and art exhibitions that might include something more than a bronze of a penis that surely made a cerebral political statement if one stared and pondered on it long enough. Pride Day stretched into a week and then something more.

 

I stopped researching for this post after that heady reading about the civic holiday, but I’m guessing that other cities saw their Pride celebrations grow out of the similar circumstances. As parades dotted different weekends in summer, perhaps to allow the Proudest queers to embark on an international Pride tour, the media started covering Pride events with more depth and breadth than just broadcasting drag queens and hedonistic shirtless gays and lesbians on the eleven o’clock news to shock the straight folks in the suburbs who would call and blast the news station for airing such trash that might titillate vulnerable children without reasonable bedtimes and possibly a few wavering husbands.   

 

Mainstream media began to pick up on Pride’s origins, springing from the Stonewall riots which stretched from June 28 to July 3 in 1969. More news coverage popped up in the week leading up to New York City’s parade and, in time, June became known as Pride Month, not just in The Big Apple but across the U.S. and globally.

 

Of course, Vancouver wasn’t going to change the date of its parade. It would have left a glaring gap in its smashing weekend to kick off Dog Day Month. (That’s not an official name for August and its internally nonsensical but pass it on. Things are rather sparse of the calendar for the year’s eighth month.) 

 

While I’m often away for much of the summer, enjoying travel and—drat—failing to hit a single parade on the Pride circuit, COVID has kept me close to home this season. I don’t know if this has been going on for many years but, as I’ve blogged earlier, local businesses started hanging rainbow flags, slapping up Love Is Love signs and displaying other pro-queer messaging at the beginning of June because every corporate entity that wants the gay dollar knows now that’s Pride Month. It was quite nice. Everyone loves a rainbow, right?

 

Here’s the bonus: In Vancouver, Pride Month is now Pride Summer. Due to our delayed Pride events, the banks and shops have kept up their We Love Queers. Pride decorations have a longer shelf life than Halloween’s witches and spiders and even All Things Christmas. 

 

June, July and early August…’Tis the season. The Pride goes on.