Does that reality mean that the original Pride flag is meaningless? Everything that Pride Month has become-the Fortune 500 companies proudly displaying their rainbow products and marketing campaigns-is rooted in the activism of the very people who are still least likely to benefit from it the most, and who are the most vulnerable. And the month of celebration and joy that we know and love, which started as a protest against police brutality, began because Black trans women were tired of not fighting back. So when the city of Philadelphia’s Office of LGBT Affairs added two stripes-one black and one brown-to the Pride Flag in 2017, and then musical artist Daniel Quasar added a five-striped chevron in 2018 to represent LGBTQ+ people of color and trans people, there was some blowback.īut here’s the thing: the original Pride flag may have been intended to represent all queer people, but much of the sociopolitical progress that’s been made in the name of LGBTQ+ equality has primarily benefitted cisgender white gay men and lesbians. Meanwhile, the more substantive work that needs to be done-in 2021 addressing the continued murder of trans women of color and the attack on access to gender-affirming healthcare in numerous states by the GOP-is often missing in a company’s Pride Month agenda. Pride Month is home to campaign after campaign of corporations aligning themselves with the queer community, often co-opting the rainbow symbol and slapping it onto a special-edition product. As rights and representation for queer folx have increased tenfold in the last decade, so too has the buy-in of capitalism. And most importantly, I knew that I wasn’t alone.īut what started as a unifying symbol, a sign signifying a safe space, has become, for many, the singular iconic visual representation that we have. When I saw those flags, I felt seen completely, affirmed. Occasionally you would see a Pride flag strung up on a pole, dancing in the wind in front of someone’s house. But in certain neighborhoods, those flags were everywhere, littered in windows, stuck against front doors, and used as bumper stickers to display someone’s Pride. As a queer teenager, I didn’t feel safe in much of Cleveland.
I remember how important the little three-by-five rainbow flag stickers were to me every time I saw them in the window of a Starbucks or a bagel shop in Lakewood, Ohio, or one of the vintage shops on Coventry Road.
For years, the flag has served as an iconic reminder of the existence of LGBTQ+ folx of all stripes, our resilience, and even merely a symbol that someplace-a coffee shop, a bookstore, a bar, or a school-was a safe haven, an affirming space. In fact, the different colors were chosen to reflect the different colors found in nature-much like the divergent identities that make up our community. The flag was embraced as an embodiment of the diversity among the LGBTQ+ community. In 1978, Gilbert Baker, an artist, created something of an icon: he designed a striped flag made in the colors of the rainbow for a people who needed a symbol of unity.