Pride is over
Today is my 11th anniversary in New York City. I moved here through a few strokes of luck in 2014 and somehow have been able to survive it this long. I started a short sabbatical from work yesterday, so I took myself to the Brooklyn Botanic Garden to go bird watching. Within a few minutes of walking, I was drenched in sweat and met by a baby great blue heron. A blessed sighting matched only by a nesting green heron just 30 feet away. Within minutes of the herons, I met an older birding couple staring upwards. “Babies,” they said pointing to a mourning dove’s nest. One of the babies turned its head to me and said, “pride is over, bitch.” So I left.
Pride is over. The two gay wolves in me have softened their voices for now, still whispering “no pride in genocide” and “we have to be louder now more than ever, honey.” I honor them in a namaste kind of way, but I am tired and need to catch up on my sleep debt. I suppose I can still be gay even if there are no rainbow flags on the MTA.
There is a denseness to things right now that I think is more than just 10mg of generic Lexapro at work. There is heaviness and urgency floating through gatherings and laughter. There is great fear and great absurdity as we all do our little tasks.
I walked in the Queer Liberation March on Sunday, which I have for almost every year since it started. I wore a silencio = muerte shirt and an original ribbon from the early red ribbon caucus. I saw many old and new friends, some long-time activists, some long-time HIV survivors. I cried gently behind my sunglasses thinking about those not there because they’re dead or because they’re not born yet. What world will I allow my future ancestors to inherit?
I passed a slack-jawed gayguy as he exclaimed “ohhh it’s the dolls” to a group of South American trans beauty queens. I marched next to a group of communist flags as we passed a giant ad for Smurfs in theaters July 19 (“Natasha Lyonne is mama poot.”) A drone flew overhead as a safety marshall explained to a woman with lunch plans that she was going to have to wait to drive across the street. It was hot and things felt good and they felt bad too.
I later flitted through Instagram seeing what other people were up to the final weekend of pride. Twinks wrestling and raves, gays with tech jobs bragging about load counts, and private Fire Island Pines pools. It seems like the comfortable gays have been operating in the same ways since they booed Silvia Rivera off of the stage at an early pride. I think about that speech a lot.
Pride is over and a big bill is now passed that will hurt poor people most of all. I am wrestling with some anger and disappointment for the rich gays. “Imagine the power we could have if we could actually coalesce and remember our collective struggles,” I think to myself, but the baby mourning dove flies in to remind me to shut the fuck up. I am asking the two gay wolves to settle me down, but they are tired and angry too. I worry again that those with the most resources will forget those on the ground, those with the most needs with the highest stakes. Will the Meta and Blackrock queers flee? Have they ever been on Medicaid? There is a lull right now that feels like eye of the storm. But maybe it’s just the heat.
For most of my 11 years here I was on medicaid. I was working multiple jobs and struggling. I was gardening in extreme heat and brutal cold. I was being yelled at by uppity corporate types. I was being called jealous by the rich gays who traveled constantly and never seemed to give back. New York City has had me confront my working class guilt and embrace that I grew up poor, that my family is still poor. The strongest people here that I know come from the working class. Today we also see a 12 point victory over Andrew Cuomo. There is hope, if not imperfect hope.
In thinking on the past, on Silvia in 1973 or the original red ribbon in 1991 and everyone who has come before and since, I know that there is power in our collective histories. A history that tells the full story is a powerful one. I see the romanticization of particular communities at specific junctures in queer history. A rich, white male dance club whose echoes exist now in the exclusionary summer vacations of the upwardly mobile gayguy. “But sometimes we let trans women come! And some Black people own homes now!” A more complete, more widely known history might uplift the working class struggles to show us the way forward. Rich people have class solidarity but they do not have community. The working class has a history of revolution and revitalization.
Pride is over. I’ve just learned about declining osprey communities and somehow it feels connected. I suppose it all is. To notice the birds and care that they are there is important. To notice each other and to care that we are here is important. To look back as we move forward is good sometimes. To remember those who survived before so we can do it again is good too.
Happy not pride anymore.