A wonderful part about Pride is its multitude of celebrations, across multiple cities, throughout the month of June. It can look quite different from Philly Pride, which was celebrated earlier in the month. But even amid not–so–sunny weather, anti–LGBTQ+ legislation, and glib corporate displays, the crux of the celebration, protest, and remembrance remains the same: diverse queer folk expressing love, community, and struggle in a space that should exist all year round.
Detroit, June 9
Thousands of Detroiters line the streets on the afternoon of June 9 to celebrate Motor City Pride, the city’s annual Pride parade and festival. People wave pride flags representing a variety of identities in Michigan’s largest Pride celebration, which boasts over 65,000 attendees over the festival’s two days.
Motor City Pride, as it has been known since 2003, has a long history in metro Detroit. The first iteration of a pride parade in Detroit was in 1972. After bouncing around several suburbs—Dearborn, Royal Oak, and Ferndale—it relocated to downtown Detroit’s Hart Plaza in 2012, where it has stayed ever since.
With Detroit’s historical reputation as the “automobile capital of the world,” it should come as very little surprise that Motor City Pride is quite mainstream and heavily corporatized. Michigan Gov. Gretchen Whitmer, with a host of other Democratic politicians, urges the crowd gathered before the parade starts to vote blue in November, which is met with loud cheers. Staffers for President Joe Biden and Vice President Kamala Harris’ reelection campaign mill about, with the Biden–Harris campaign as the first to march in the parade.
A vast majority of the groups that march in the parade are large corporations rainbow washing themselves. One after the other, companies such as Amazon, McDonald’s, and Bank of America trot out their slogans meant to demonstrate allyship with the LGBTQ+ community. They bring drag queens to proclaim that Stonewall was a riot, and hand out pride flags, pens, and rainbow beads.
In comparison with Philly Pride, where people could simply join the parade in the street, Motor City Pride is a never–ending stream of corporations (literally) parading their public–facing commitment to the LGBTQ+ community. When Detroit Police end the 90–minute procession, many in the crowd cheer and a “Thank you for protecting us!” is heard, as encouraged by the emcee.
Despite metro Detroit having the country’s largest Arabic–speaking population and having seen its own fair share of pro–Palestine activism and action, there’s no interruption or pro–Palestine protest during the parade as there was at Philly Pride. Only a scattered handful of people don keffiyehs among the sea of rainbow outfits.
A riot, this is not.
At the end of the parade, participants are corralled to the festival in Hart Plaza, which requires a $5 entry ticket—a small price to pay, to be sure, but it only adds to the inclination towards profitability that wasn’t there at Philly Pride. Multiple performers at the festival do get political, and use their platform to speak about Palestine and the importance of protecting trans, especially Black trans, people.
“We are we are able to [celebrate Pride] because of our trans brothers and sisters. Don't ever forget how important they are,” Sabin, a Detroit drag queen who performs at Motor City Pride, says. “It is your responsibility to march alongside them when their arms are tired from holding them up in protest.”
For an event that stemmed from protests against homophobic legislation in 1972, Motor City Pride bears only a fleeting resemblance to the radical history it was derived from—centering corporations and their rainbow logos far more than the LGBTQ+ community itself.
“Know your history. We are afforded our history and our privilege to be able to do what we do because of our elders before us. And we are in their debt,” Sabin reminds the crowd. It’s a reminder that Motor City Pride seems to have forgotten.
– Diamy Wang
Houston, June 29
Sun, sweat, and the swamp steam fill the air down Westheimer as Houston gears up for its 46th annual Pride parade. Like every event in Houston, my journey is bookended by excruciating traffic and overpriced parking. A friend roped me into walking in the parade. Neon tee shirt over my GYATT (Gay Yass Af Tank Top), I cosplay a Precinct One intern.
It’s only when the sun begins to dip that we begin to roll out. Armed with bags of campaign wristbands, technicolor sour straws, glow sticks, and Mardi Gras beads, I join the chorus of whoops and cheers, throwing our trinkets into the ecstatic crowd. Your energy reverberates right back at you. Screaming hands and reaching faces cheer back, celebrating a shared existence and collective resistance.
This is my first Pride in Houston, and it is likely my last. The most striking thing about attending Pride in my home city is that you finally feel what it means to form a community—as you hand out fans to girls from high school and avert your gaze from former Hinge matches. Fact: Houston is the most diverse large city in the country. Most days that’s a facade. But today, Black and brown bodies of all shades gleam like sandy earth against the setting sun. Their shimmer, a mirage of a utopian inclusivity and acceptance, an oasis that is temporarily made real through collective joy.
Texas, of course, is obnoxiously Texan. Rainbow lone stars wave next to banderas of gay Mexico. Houston is proud of what and who it is. Floats blast beats from homegrown hotties, Bey and Megan breaking through Brat summer. Pride is the second–largest event in Houston, right behind the rodeo. Yet, the aesthetics are striking. Members of crowd control wear Stetsons and straddle steeds. The irony is not lost as stereos blare Cowboy Carter in passing Jeeps. Fishnets. Graphic tees. “Y'all is All.” And the gold–level sponsorship of Shell waves above it all.
As we pass City Hall, the facade glimmers with a rainbow reflection. It's an important reminder—Pride is a protest. Houston's first Pride took place in 1976, a seven–year commemoration of Stonewall. The parade has transformed since then. But from Montrose to the modern monster, the message remains the same. This year, Texas has passed more and more restrictions on drag, books, and HRT. Marching is a statement of defiance to a policy that intends to ban our queerness. The theme of the 2024 parade is “You Won't Break Our Pride.” Each unbroken stride shakes the ground, the epicenter of queer resistance across Texas.
As the parade wanes, sparkles and beads litter our wake. Plastic and oil mesh into the road, leaving a glistening rainbow in the wake of the parade. The entire city is built on this magic. Of oil and asphalt, the immigrants and indigenous, our queerness and culture are born. We are an impression that refuses to fade, and this trace of the colorful and colored bodies who walk these streets every day will last far longer than June.
– Andrew Lu
New York, June 30
Protests and a brewing thunderstorm did nothing to stop tens of thousands of sidewalk spectators from convening in Greenwich Village. Trying to get out of Christopher Street–Sheridan Square Station—recently renamed Christopher Street–Stonewall National Monument—is an absolute nightmare. We’re packed like sardines, and it takes some light shoving and a short argument with a confused police officer to reach the edge of the barricade.
Every year, on the last Sunday of June, which coincided nicely this year with the very end of Pride Month, New York goes all out—soaring rainbow flags, blasting music, enterprising street vendors, and lounging people on brownstone steps that make you feel like you’re at a citywide block party.
It’s a far cry from the march’s origins. The NYC Pride March began as a way to commemorate the 1969 Stonewall riots, which launched a new era of LGBTQ+ activism. Though NYC Pride makes many attempts to honor these roots—banning uniformed law enforcement from marching, refusing to label the march a “parade,” and choosing themes to reflect the modern struggles queer people face—many criticize the parade for corporate pinkwashing and rainbow capitalism. As such, alternatives like the Queer Liberation March have evolved.
Corporations aren’t the only entities subject to criticism this year. Workers from The Trevor Project march with their union, the Communications Workers of America Local 1180, denouncing the nonprofit for alleged union–busting practices.
Some marchers also raise attention to the war in Gaza, displaying Palestinian flags and donning keffiyehs.
Officers in the New York Police Department's Strategic Response Group—which has received criticism from the ACLU and other civil rights organizations for its practices—are also present around the packed streets. As this photo was taken, a group of pro–Palestinian protesters disrupt the march just a few blocks away from the historic Stonewall Inn.
Amid all the chaos, joy reigns. From cheer squads to drag queens to foreign embassies, NYC Pride showcases the diversity of the LGBTQ+ community. At a time when a wave of anti–LGBTQ+ legislation threatens the rights of the queer community, Pride is a celebration of community and protest against facism.
– Chenyao Liu
Kolkata, India, July 2–3
I have no idea where I am, but as soon as I open the door, I am greeted by a pride flag and a booth manned by four staffers, one of whom is my age and is wearing a modern blue sari paired with a septum ring (who I would later have the privilege of watching my friend tragically attempt to flirt with).
The day before, I was invited by a group of college students to their archival art gallery exhibition. The exhibition assembles a group of around 50 or so attendees—ranging in age from college students to seasoned veterans of Kolkata’s queer movement. Entitled The 25th Anniversary of The Friendship Walk ‘99: Celebrating Friendship, Pride, and Diversity, the Indian Council for Cultural Relations hosts the space for community–sourced art that varies across mediums, from performance art, photography of queer love, and even a reinterpretation of Matisse’s Dance with brown androgynous bodies.
The gallery celebrates the June 1999 Friendship Walk, when 15 people marched through Kolkata in bright yellow t–shirts reading “Walk on the Rainbow,” now considered the first Pride march in South Asia.
“From 15 to 1,500,” says one of the original marchers speaking to participants of the current Pride Walk in Kolkata, which is now held in December. “Next we’ll get to 15,000.”
The artwork is a conversation with its audience. In the performance piece The Box, the dancer walks through the gallery with a cardboard box on his head, led only by the voices and kind hands of his peers in the audience. City of Colors by Aryan Goel begins as a black–and–white illustration of queer scenes in Kolkata; by the end of the night, however, audiencegoers make use of the markers conveniently left beside the easel and transform the piece into a bright collection of color and joy.
While India only legalized homosexuality in 2018 and same–sex marriages are still unrecognized across the country, queerness has a long history in South Asian tradition. Next to a series of hanging crowns and a water color painting done in Mughal style, the printed piece of paper serving as a placard reads “Particularly in India, we are often told about the Ardhanarishwar, the half–man and half–woman version of Lord Shiva, or the various woman forms of Vishnu, such as Mohini. Our epics are also laced with such transformations. Depicted here are Mala and Chandra in a moment of an intimate embrace still thinking about the birth of Bhagirath. These crowns here represent the State, the authorities, and the aspects of religion that are often used to subjugate us. However, we can use the the same to lead us to liberation.”
The second room of the art gallery is an archival exhibition, highlighting different pivotal moments of queer Kolkata history. There’s a singular portrait honoring a transgender community member who died under unclear circumstances in the past month. I bring a girl from my neighborhood with me, who had actually texted me about the news right when it had happened, as she had been one of the woman’s friends. The news reported little on the situation, so it’s only at the art gallery that she learns that the case had been abruptly closed by the woman’s father.
At the back is a selection of letters from Varta’s archives. While Kolkata is generally a liberal city, being out in the ‘90s posed a threat for serious danger, especially given the cultural centrality of family relations. As a result, a P.O. box was established where queer individuals could send letters to each other, creating a community of love and friendship through postage.
I stand with a group of other college students and stand in front of the letters, attempting to decipher the English and Bengali scrawl connecting them to our own crazy texts that we had sent before. Growing up in America, I felt like my South Asian and queer identity were almost antithetical to each other. The queer history I knew had no one who looked like me—but through this archive, I’m able to claim a space in a longer, international movement.
The program culminates with a panel talk from four of the original attendees of the 1999 Friendship Walk, who discuss not only the current state of queer rights in India but also their memories of late nights crashing at each other’s apartments after drinking together. Discussing the future of the queer movement, they note that legalizing same–sex marriage isn’t the main priority of queer activist communities at the moment—rather, they seek to militate ongoing violence against queer, trans, and hijra communities. (Hijra is the legally recognized third gender in India.) One speaker brings into focus a loophole in the writing of a new law that denies the recognition of rape victimizing transgender women and men.
At the closing of the final night, the audience and panelists stood up and began to sing “We Shall Overcome” three times—once in English, again in Bangla, and finally in Hindi. I look at my friend, who returns my sheepish smile, as we join in stumbling through the lyrics in a language I barely know over a voice to a message, universal and unmistakable.
– Norah Rami
