Los Angeles — I DIDN’T start crying until I saw the sheriffs.

Last Sunday morning, when I woke up to the news of a mass shooting at a gay bar in Orlando, it was a distant, horrible fact. When I heard that the police had arrested a man in Santa Monica, Calif., with assault rifles and explosives who was planning on coming to Los Angeles pride parade, I realized, intellectually, that this was violence that could affect me.

Then my mom called. She was reminding me to be careful, a pleasant surprise. For decades, she had barely been able to talk about anything related to homosexuality — certainly not my plans to bring quiche to a pre-pride parade brunch this year — but now her maternal paranoia was more important. “I’m still going to go,” I told her. Her voice quavered a little as she said, “I know, but if you hear gunshots, get your big ass on the ground.” It felt sweet.

But when I was walking down Santa Monica Boulevard to the brunch and saw West Hollywood sheriff’s deputies, I broke down crying. I realized someone might try to kill people at this parade, and I was looking at the people who might die trying to protect us.

June is pride month around the country, and it will continue to be. This weekend, celebrations will take place in Portland, Ore., and Chicago. The weekend after in New York City and San Francisco. All pride parades happen in defiance of people who want the L.G.B.T. community to be scared and ashamed. Most years those people are just parents who won’t talk to you about your personal life; for a decade it was a plague the government wouldn’t fight because they thought gay men deserved it. This year we thought it would be politicians trying to make going to the bathroom impossible for trans people. Now, after a massacre, it is more than that. But every Pride parade is an act of rebellion. And our preferred form of rebellion is getting drunk, sweaty, loud and naked.