Condemning the Pride parade that night was a convenient way for me to cram everything straight people didn’t like about gay people into one symbolic event and then throw it away. It’s the same line of thinking that social conservatives take, wherein the parade is a sort of bogeyman. To hate Pride is to hate the moral chaos queerness promises upon hegemony, and to condemn it is to protect the status quo it seeks to upend.

It’s more common for homophobes to say they hate the Pride parade than it is for them to say they hate Pride itself. Parades are garish, extravagant things, after all. A parade is not a contained celebration. It exists in the public eye. It asks to be celebrated, challenges its surroundings with its naked desire to be seen; it seeks to make its bystanders collaborators. “But do you really need a parade?” a common retort goes. It rests on the unspoken argument that, by merely existing, the parade has asked the critic to participate. “Do you need to shove it down our throats?”

“Shoving it down our throats” is another common complaint, because at the core of many straight men’s homophobia lies a phantom violation: imaginary gay men who want to touch them without permission, to objectify them, to threaten their masculinity. There was no one on the Capitol Mall that morning in D.C. But Jake rose to defend himself. Over the years, I’ve tinkered with his reaction, tried to solve the puzzle of his animus, because I thought doing so might explain everything.

What I’ve found is that this instinct against Pride parades and gayness in general isn’t confined to straight men. Gay men are also conditioned to see gayness as an intrusion, a disruption. We see gayness punished with violence, and we replicate that violence so as to avoid it. We punish ourselves if we have to, if it keeps others from getting to us first. For gay men who are white and/or cisgender, gay men who are adjacent to the access straight white men enjoy in society, distancing ourselves from anything that marginalizes us can be a way to cling to privilege. It’s not liberation. It’s a facsimile of it. But its rewards are enough for some.

Deeply rooted misogyny and a performed disdain for all things feminine is a hallmark of masculinity, and a necessary action to procure its benefits — like not being harassed or assaulted on the street, a benefit that isn’t on the table for other queer people. The fear is vulnerability, and the Pride parade makes it impossible to hide, to be a chameleon. It exposes. It’s “out.” By participating in that violent tradition of masculinity, we can spare ourselves, even if it comes at the expense of all those in our community for whom it is not an option.

I attended my first Pride parade in Oklahoma City right after I graduated college with someone I’ll call Matthew, one of my first gay friends. I put on a sleeveless shirt and jorts, which I thought was the unspoken uniform, unsure what to expect. Some drag queens standing on truck beds rolled by, throwing beads. There was a lot of rainbow. It did not have the transformative effect I thought it would — I thought once I attended, something final and intense would happen. I would finally be a “real” gay person. But it wasn’t remarkable in that way. I enjoyed myself.

Today I understand that every Pride event is different, and what it means varies widely depending on location and from individual to individual. Some Prides are protests. Some are parties. Some fit the bill of the hedonistic conservative nightmare of promiscuity and alcohol. I’ve been to some of those. They’re fun. Others are family friendly events. As my politics have changed, my critiques of Pride have wrapped around to the other side. I wonder if it is radical enough, if it’s too white, if it’s dominated by cisgender gay men. I wonder if there are too many banks with floats.

I’ve also encountered many gay men who parrot the language I used to use for Pride parades. I don’t think anyone has to enjoy Pride, but there’s a certain strand of hating it that sets off alarms for me. It’s the same language many gay men use for feminine gay men, for “the scene.” It’s the language of distance, of condemnation. It’s a vocabulary most of us were taught at an early age; sometimes by parents, sometimes by peers. There are gay men who think if they use it loudly, they can sever the cumbersome bond of community, and the restrictions and marginalization that comes with it.

I wonder if the people who do this had a moment like I had with Jake, a moment where they realized people would not only hate them for existing, but actively seek to punish them for it. I wonder if they even know, as I didn’t know when I first came out and rejected my community at a bar in college, that they’re afraid.

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