(un)liberated pride

Growing up, I always enjoyed the first Sunday in May: Pride. As a town known for lesbian public officials and rainbow crosswalks, and mockingly called “Lesbianville U.S.A.” by the National Enquirer, we take pride very seriously in Northampton. My friends and family would walk to town and join the march. We’d cheer as the never ending stream of dykes on bikes rode by. Music blasted as drag queens showered us with candy, rainbow condoms, and mardi gras beads. Everyone we knew was there — friends, relatives, classmates, neighbors. You’d be hard pressed to find a school or church not participating in the march. The march led to the rally which was like the the biggest fair I could imagine. After walking under the rainbow balloon arch, we were greeted with food and music and activities from face painting to HIV testing (and everything in between). The morning always ended with purple pride ice cream (black raspberry with rainbow sprinkles) from Herrell’s double decker ice cream bus. The celebratory party-like atmosphere of Pride is what I always associated gay and lesbian identity with. The sound of early 2000s pop blasting as a drag queen sings karaoke. The taste of ice cream on a perfect New England May morning. The excitement of being part of a huge march, something much bigger than yourself. It wasn’t until later that I learned about homophobia and transphobia, about AIDS and police brutality, about youth homelessness and suicide rates. This celebratory parade felt like a lie.