Why the queer community needs alternative Pride events more than ever

It’s that time again; rainbow banners are cropping up on high streets, queer influencers are trickling into ad campaigns and your company’s HR director has solemnly changed their email signature to: “Proud to be an ally.” It’s Pride Month! In other words, the next few weeks will see queer people and their allies take to streets worldwide – if they’re lucky enough to live in a country which doesn’t criminalise them – for colourful parades, whose origins can be traced back to the brutal Stonewall riots, which took place exactly fifty years ago in New York.

These large, generally expensive Pride events are growing in scale and size each year; last year’s Pride in London parade attracted over a million viewers, New York drew more than 2.1 million and Britney’s headline slot in Brighton brought the city to a standstill, leaving some attendees stranded. But alongside these huge spectacles, a series of small, grassroots alternatives are also thriving. Their reasons for existence vary, but they all share one common belief: that mainstream Pride events aren’t catering for the queer community at large.

“Black LGBTQ+ people and QTIPOC (queer, trans and intersex people of colour) and our needs have historically been erased from the LGBTQ+ rights movement,” explains Josh Rivers, a spokesperson for the UK’s Black Pride festival, which this year celebrates its fourteenth anniversary. It all started back in 2005, when activist Phyll Opoku-Gyimah filled a bus with fellow queer Black women, taking them to the sleepy seaside town of Southend-on-sea for what fast became an alternative Pride celebration. The festival has now been moved to London, but the ethos remains the same: “It was a response to a lack of available space for us to celebrate, prioritise and protest for ourselves, our hopes and our dreams,” continues Rivers.

This space is often lacking at mainstream Pride events; despite its violent political history it’s not unusual for organisers to crackdown on protest altogether. A combination of increasing ticket prices and respectability politics has aggravated this issue, leading to an overall sanitisation of Pride. This has left queer people – particularly queer people of colour, who face discrimination from within and outside of the community – frustrated.

“I do question what [mainstream Pride events] stand for,” explains Kennedy Walker, a London-based activist and co-founder of collective KIN, which connects POC activists from across the UK and helps them to organise against discrimination. He describes the liberation he felt at alternative events including Black Pride and the community-focussed Queer Picnic. “There’s an assumption that things are getting better for queer people of colour as time goes on, but we know it’s not the case. We need to have that stance of resistance, but I find that mainstream Pride events don’t have strong anti-racist or pro-migration voices.”

Arguably, this lack of political stance can be attributed to ‘pinkwashing’ – a term which refers to brands profiting from queer consumers and marketing positioning without giving anything in return. It’s far from radical to acknowledge that racism exists; that transphobia is becoming more rampant than ever before; that hostile border laws and immigration policies disproportionately punish queer people of colour. There’s a clear hierarchy of privilege within the queer community, and those at the top often don’t want to acknowledge it; instead, they want to ignore the struggles of more marginalised communities. Pride organisers pander to this, writing slogans which recycle platitudes around love, equality and tolerance. Not only do they eliminate the risk of alienating corporate sponsors, they remain apolitical enough to draw in the privileged LGBTQ+ people and allies who would rather leave politics out of it.

Naturally, a large portion of money made during Pride does get donated to charities. Manchester Pride drew criticism for booking Ariana Grande as a headliner this summer and hiking up their prices to £71 for a weekend pass (up from £30 last year) as a result, but it’s easy to argue that profit for the queer community is always positive. But this argument ignores the fact that LGBTQ+ people are more likely to be impoverished, homeless or without fair access to healthcare, and therefore statistically less able to cough up the cash for events built for them. Part of the problem is that brands see queer advocacy as something to try on for size during Pride Month, but this kind of opportunistic queerbaiting tends to evaporate soon after. How beneficial is this support if it’s only temporary?

Outside of the UK, similar issues persist. America’s original Dyke March (now spread globally), France’s Le Pride De Nuit and San Francisco’s Trans March have all grown in popularity over the last few years, and they all share basic common aims: to make Pride more inclusive and to rally against pinkwashing. They feel increasingly necessary not just because corporate sponsorship is here to stay, but because they offer a sense of community and belonging that larger Pride events simply can’t.

In the case of the Dyke March, they’re also politically vital. The last few years have seen media latch on to a supposed split between lesbians and trans women; in reality, the divide is between trans communities and trans-exclusionary radical feminists (TERFs), whose aggressive tactics and undisguised hostility have made headlines worldwide. The most notable example came when a group of women blockaded the Pride in London parade last year, laying down in front of parades to scream anti-trans slogans. In response, trans-inclusive lesbians reacted with their own solidarity movement, which overwhelmed the negativity by sending messages of support to their trans siblings.

This solidarity is referenced in the official statement of the New York Dyke March, which makes clear that it is open to anyone of any “gender expression, sex assigned at birth, sexual orientation, race, age, political affiliation, religious identity, ability, class, or immigration statement.” The fact that this message needs to exist exemplifies a divide within the community which desperately needs to be addressed, and which is being tackled by events like the Trans March – this already happens in San Francisco and Toronto, but this year it’s scheduled to come to Washington in protest of Trump’s anti-trans legislation. Trans Prides are also cropping across the UK; Leeds and Brighton both have their own trans-focussed events, and activists in London will this year unveil their own iteration for the first time.

Specific guidance groups also tend to have a presence at bigger Pride events. BiPhoria pops up at Pride events across the UK, bringing its almost 25-year history of offering support and advice to bisexuals to various stalls and tents. Convenor Jen Yockney explains that these support groups can make underrepresented demographics feel welcome in spaces which don’t always feel safe. She tells me stories of organisers turning a blind eye to guest speakers making exclusionary remarks, and highlights that bisexual erasure has recurred throughout LGBTQ+ history. “It’s not a great surprise that alternative events are being set up,” she explains, “they offer a blend of queer space and a break from the racism, biphobia and transphobia.”

Statements like these indicate that alternative Pride events will always be necessary, especially as racism, misogyny and transphobia can combine to make mainstream offerings exclusionary to marginalised groups within the community. Grassroots activists are able to take a strong political stance and avoid charging extortionate ticket prices, which alienate the queer people these events are built for. Of course, it’s not just about politics; it’s about creating smaller, safer spaces where queer people from different demographics can experience the euphoria of Pride. “Each of us is looking for somewhere to call home,” says Josh Rivers of Black Pride, describing his joy at organising alongside other passionate, dedicated volunteers. “Seeing thousands upon thousands of Black and brown bodies dancing, connecting, sharing and laughing – that’s immeasurably powerful.”