Each June, American cities erupt in color—rainbows in storefronts, parades down Main Street and declarations of allyship from corporate boardrooms to statehouses. But beyond the surface-level celebrations lies an uncomfortable truth: Pride was never meant to be easy. It was, and still is, a protest.
Pride’s roots are radical. It was planted not in policy briefings or marketing campaigns, but in the streets. In June 1969, amid escalating police brutality and institutionalized discrimination, the Stonewall Uprising ignited a movement that Black and brown queer and trans people like Marsha P. Johnson and Sylvia Rivera bravely led. These pioneers didn’t just march in parades—they sparked revolutions. They demanded justice, visibility and dignity in a world that offered none.
That revolutionary spirit is under siege again. In 2024 alone, more than 500 anti-LGBTQ+ bills were introduced in state legislatures. These measures target everything from drag performances and gender-affirming health care to inclusive school curricula and even public expression. The Human Rights Campaign has issued an unprecedented national state of emergency for LGBTQ+ Americans. We are not simply debating policy—we are fighting for our lives.
I know this struggle firsthand.
I was raised in rural Fayette, Mississippi, in a devout Christian home where queerness was rarely spoken aloud—when it was, it was often in prayer. I learned early that being Black and gay meant constantly navigating silence, shame and survival. I also learned resilience from my mother, who raised me with grace and grit, and from my community, where even in scarcity, love was abundant.
That resilience has shaped my life’s work. I’ve fought to remove the Confederate flag from Mississippi’s statehouse, organized rallies for justice in the name of Emmett Till, and created children’s books that center young Black voices in conversations about voting and civil rights. Through my podcast, “Those Who Give a Damn,” I bring marginalized voices into national conversations—because if we don’t tell our stories, someone else will tell them for us.
This Pride, we must channel that history and activism into purposeful action.
To allies: Don’t just wave a flag—vote like our lives depend on it. Because they do. Speak up when it’s inconvenient. Push back against bias in the boardroom and at the dinner table. Disrupt silence. Allyship is not a brand—it’s a behavior.
To educators: Affirm your LGBTQ+ students not just with words, but through inclusive curricula. Queer history did not begin at Stonewall and does not end on June 30. Representation isn’t a luxury—it’s a lifeline.
To faith leaders: Reclaim your pulpits. Preach a gospel of radical love, not selective exclusion. Queer people of faith exist—and we deserve to be seen in our full humanity.
And to my LGBTQ+ family: You are not too much. You are not a political wedge or a moral debate. You are sacred. You are necessary. You are loved—not in spite of who you are, but because of it. Keep voting. Keep marching. Keep dancing. Keep living out loud.
Pride is not just a moment; it is a movement. It is a demand that we live fully, freely and fearlessly. And it is a question to this nation: What kind of country do we want to be?
Do we believe in liberty and justice for all—or only for some?
My dream is simple, but urgent: That a queer child in Jackson, Mississippi, or Montgomery, Alabama, can grow up free. That they can love who they love and worship where they choose without fear. That their lives are not up for legislative debate.
But dreams require action.
Let Pride be our promise—a promise to rise when others try to erase us, to speak when the world demands our silence, and to love, even when it hurts. Let the parades roll. Let the glitter fall. But when the music stops, let us leave the streets with purpose, not just pride.
Because Pride is political. And love—unrelenting, unapologetic love—is still our greatest revolution.
This MFP Voices opinion essay reflects the personal opinion of its author(s). The column does not necessarily represent the views of the Mississippi Free Press, its staff or board members. To submit an opinion for the MFP Voices section, send up to 1,200 words and sources fact-checking the included information to voices@mississippifreepress.org. We welcome a wide variety of viewpoints.
