I grew up in a small town an hour outside of Alabama, where the only thing anyone took pride in was a Starbucks opening when I was in my teens. I didn’t grow up with queer role models. The only gay people I saw were wild caricatures — villains in Disney movies or campy sitcom stereotypes. Queerness was presented as something wrong, shameful or evil.
Even with my mother’s support, the thought that I might be gay didn’t occur to me until I had my first sexual experience at 15. That moment was a true awakening. In my college years I fell hard into gay culture — Queer as Folk, nightclubs, Pride events — building my identity around parties, desire, and a craving for validation.
For Pride events, I starved myself, worked out obsessively, and took horse hormones, hoping to achieve a form of self-love that never came. Pride, as I experienced it then, didn’t feel inclusive — it felt like a popularity contest. I didn’t realize how much privilege I carried as a cis, white-presenting queer man. I only knew I still secretly hated my reflection.
What many people don’t realize is that queer people are subjected to judgment from the moment we’re born. Over time, that external judgment often becomes internalized, shaping how we see ourselves and how we relate to others in our community. Undoing those narratives is a lifelong, uphill journey.
With time came perspective. The parties eventually felt hollow. My social circle lacked diversity. I came to discover that Pride didn’t start with glitter and floats — it began with a riot. The 1969 Stonewall Uprising, led by trans women of color like Marsha P. Johnson, sparked a movement. Pride began as resistance, not rainbow-branded cereal with marshmallows shaped like poppers and pup masks.
I spoke to my friend Paul Williams about this topic. He said this: “The intersectionality of being a Black gay man in this country — where ‘inclusion’ is often more slogan than reality — can be taxing. Pride Month can feel like a spotlight on a celebration I’m not always sure includes me, or people who look like me. We, as a community, have work to do.”
So here’s what I say: Start the conversation. Use your privilege — whether it’s beauty, race, money, or confidence — to reach out to someone who might feel invisible. Stop seeking validation from the few at the top. We’re all lonely. Connection isn’t just kindness — it’s our duty to our community.
After my mom died in 2017, I withdrew from everything. Then I went to Southern Decadence in New Orleans. At first, I judged it — sex in the streets, wild displays — but then the edible kicked in. Suddenly, I saw it differently: joy, chosen family, defiant celebration in a world that wants us quiet. I realized that these were my people and they deserved to express themselves freely.
There’s always backlash about Pride being “too sexual” or “not family-friendly.” But our sexuality has always been used against us — it’s what got us arrested, pathologized, and murdered. Queer expression in all its forms is powerful. It’s defiance. If that looks like people in jockstraps dancing in the street, so be it.
In 2019, my best friend Nadia Evangelina and I created alter egos for Pride: Gajax the gay gladiator and Transgalactica the trans alien warrior. We wore glittery armor to Denver Pride and connected with strangers immediately based on spectacle alone. That connection deepened at World Pride in New York City, where we accidentally ended up marching at the front. Those costumes gave people an excuse to come up and talk to us. By dressing up, we became creators of inclusion.
During COVID, I taught myself animation and created queer political cartoons using our alter egos. That became Pride Warriors — my way of shouting into the void with purpose.
Today, with the help of a team, I run Haus of Other, a creative collective hosting queer events to build community. Through costumes and art, we offer joyful acts of defiance and radical inclusion. My hope is that people will rally behind my message, and the Pride Warriors can be used as a tool to unite the LGBTQA community, both with each other, and with other marginalised and oppressed communities such as people of color, immigrants, and women. That is the only way we can defeat the chokehold of the white patriarchy.
So here’s what I say: Start the conversation. Use your privilege — whether it’s beauty, race, money, or confidence — to reach out to someone who might feel invisible. Stop seeking validation from the few at the top. We’re all lonely. Connection isn’t just kindness — it’s our duty to our community.
To me, Pride means looking in the mirror and feeling peace. That kind of self-acceptance is something we have to build and protect together. Pride isn’t an event. It’s a goal. It’s a shared effort to ensure no one feels excluded, especially BIPOC, trans, disabled, and nonbinary folks who have always been at the heart of our movement.
Pride isn’t lost. But we have to fight for it. And we start by choosing inclusion and practicing it every single day. That is how we honor our trancestors, and all the queer people who fought for survival so that one day we might fight for inclusion.
Gary Adrian Randall is a Denver-based writer, artist, and community organizer. He began his writing career in New York City, contributing essays and cultural commentary to outlets like TheLuxurySpot.com, with a focus on identity, relationships, and social issues. He is the co-founder of Haus of Other, a local queer creative collective that produces community-centered events to foster visibility, connection, and support for LGBTQ+ causes.
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