I was embedded in radical queer organizing spaces marked by zines, patches, and direct action, calling for the abolition of both prisons and marriage. I felt anything but proud.īy my early 20s I developed a healthy sense of pride in my queer, trans self. I remember pulling my cap down over my face and trying to crouch, praying that no one I knew from school would see me. I remember a little parade weaving its way through downtown on a cloudy Sunday. I don’t remember floats, or bands, or partying. To be honest I don’t remember what was Pride, and what was protest. We were in the streets about it regularly. I understood viscerally that my family lacked many basic rights - fair access to housing, work, even the right to legally recognize each other as family.
We chanted “Hey Hey, Ho Ho, the OCA has got to go!” about a prominent Christian organization pushing LGBT discrimination. I remember hand-painted signs, homemade buttons, shaved heads, jean jackets. I wore a backwards baseball cap and stood next to my lesbian moms. I was eight years old when I attended my first Pride Parade.
