The First Pride Was A Riot

This sign got put up yesterday to replace a corporate sponsor banner!

I am so grateful for my friend who has marched with me, stood with me, listened to me, and held my hand when we had to run

Yesterday I had the privilege of being a part of something special, powerful, and humbling. Yesterday was June 1, the beginning of pride month in the United States. And we are always proud to be members of the LGBTQIA+ community, even if we’re not too proud of the United States these days. Our community marked the beginning of pride month, in these circumstances, with a vigil outside Stonewall, honoring our black trans siblings. The vigil was a time for black and trans people to speak up and speak out, and for white and cis people to shut up and listen, to lift up the voices of those most marginalized in our community.

We first heard from a number of speakers, all black and/or trans people, reminding us that we stand on the shoulders of trans women of color, and that without them we would not be where we are today. We were reminded that pride is a movement, not corporate floats and rainbow t-shirts. Our movement has always been intersectional and anti-capitalist. The fight for queer rights is the fight for black rights is the fight for women’s rights is the fight for trans rights. There is a lot of work to be done but we are strong and in this fight together.

After the speakers, leaders read a list of names of trans people who have died and black people who have been killed by police violence in the last five years. The list was not exhaustive, and it still took over ten minutes to read the names. Our country has a lot of work to do.

The vigil ended with a minute of silence and a call to action to continue the fight together. Before the silence, we echoed shouts of love and gratitude to Marsha P. Johnson and Sylvia Rivera, the mothers of our movement, the leaders of the first pride, the first riot. And we were reminded we stood gathered on stolen land. We acknowledged the Lenape people, whose blood is on the hands of white colonizers. “We know they are with us saying the names, because there are so few left to say theirs.” I thought about my anger and my power, my hunger for revolution and social justice. I thought of the privilege of my white skin and the work to be done. I thought about how lucky I was to live so near the site that is the historic foundation of our movement, the touchstone of our community. It was humbling to consider all the brave and powerful people in whose footsteps I walked.

After the vigil my friends and I joined a march (they’re not hard to find these days) and continued to protest throughout the streets of Manhattan for several hours. I have been participating in political protests since I was a teenager, and pounding the streets of New York since the death of Eric Garner in 2014. There is something deeply depressing about walking the same route down Broadway, chanting the same words, “I can’t breathe,” six years later. But the country is in crisis. We are shut down, we are unemployed, we are angry and scared. We return to the streets because we cannot stand idly by as injustice, white supremacy, racism, and police brutality rage through this country. Black lives matter. Trans lives matter. All the power to all the people.

We will take to the streets tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after. None of us are free until all of us are equal. The first pride was a riot. And we are observing pride in the full tradition of our ancestors. No justice, no peace.