Pride and Solidarity: what now?

Introduction: A Warning from History

If you’re feeling anxious lately—like the world’s tilting just a little too far in the wrong direction—you’re not alone. And you’re not imagining it.

I know how tempting it is to brush that feeling aside. To call it doomscrolling fatigue, or social media distortion, or just “bad vibes.” But the truth is, for many of us—especially trans people—it is getting worse out there. And the signs we’re seeing now? We’ve seen them before.

In pre-Nazi Germany, Jewish people protested. They warned. They organized. But the world around them was comfortable in its denial. The rhetoric came first: “dangerous,” “degenerate,” “un-German.” Then came the laws. Then the violence. And most people didn’t act until it was too late—not because they were evil, but because they didn’t want to believe the worst could happen.

That’s how this kind of hate always works. Slowly. Legally. With plausible deniability and patriotic smiles. And that’s why we can’t afford to sleep through it—not again.
Jewish Resistance in Pre-Nazi Germany – Holocaust Explained
BBC – Nazi Control of Germany

Stonewall and the Roots of Pride

Pride didn’t begin as a parade. It began as a riot. A spontaneous, furious, deeply human uprising against police violence and systemic oppression. It was 1969, and for queer people in America, simply existing was a risk.

In cities like New York, it was illegal to serve alcohol to LGBTQ+ people. Police raids on gay bars were routine, sanctioned harassment. Officers would line people up, check IDs, beat them, humiliate them, arrest them for wearing “too many clothes of the wrong gender.” Most bars were run by the Mafia, which used that leverage to extort queer patrons while cutting deals with police. The Stonewall Inn was no exception. It had no running water, no fire exits, no liquor license—but it was one of the few places trans people, drag queens, and homeless queer youth could feel a sliver of safety.

On June 28, 1969, when the NYPD showed up again to raid Stonewall, they expected another easy night of humiliation. Instead, they were met with something different: resistance.

What followed was not a single riot, but six nights of protests, clashes, and spontaneous uprisings. The streets filled with people—many of them marginalized even within the queer community—refusing to be pushed into shadows any longer.

Marsha P. Johnson

Marsha was a Black trans woman (though she often used “drag queen” at the time, language has evolved since). She was a sex worker, a performer, and a deeply
beloved figure in the Greenwich Village queer community. Known for her flower crowns and joyful presence, Marsha also had a deep commitment to justice. She was at Stonewall, possibly on the first night or the day after—she later said, “the cops were pushing people around and it was the first time I saw the street kids fight back.”

Marsha co-founded STAR (Street Transvestite Action Revolutionaries) with her close friend Sylvia Rivera, providing housing and support to homeless queer youth.

Sylvia Rivera

Sylvia was a Latina trans woman—Puerto Rican and Venezuelan—who had been living on the streets since she was a child. She was just 17 during the riots. Sylvia was fiery, outspoken, and relentless in calling out the racism and transphobia that persisted even within the emerging gay rights movement. She was often sidelined by more “respectable” advocates who sought assimilation into straight society.

But Sylvia refused to be erased. She fought not just for visibility, but for material survival—for housing, jobs, healthcare, and dignity for all trans people, especially those of color.

Together, Marsha and Sylvia laid the foundation for the modern trans rights movement long before most people even had language for it.
Wikipedia – Stonewall Riots
Wikipedia – Stonewall Inn
Teen Vogue – Firsthand Account of Stonewall

Wikipedia – Marsha P. Johnson
Wikipedia – Sylvia Rivera
Women’s History – Marsha Johnson Documents

After the Riot: Harvey Milk and the Rise of Visibility

In the years following Stonewall, the queer community began to find political footing. Marches turned into movements. Outspoken activists started running for office—and for the first time, winning.

One of those trailblazers was Harvey Milk, a camera store owner and activist who became the first openly gay elected official in California when he won a seat on the San Francisco Board of Supervisors in 1977.

Harvey wasn’t just a politician. He was a voice. A hope. A reminder that we didn’t have to live in fear or shame. His speeches didn’t pull punches. He called for young queer people to come out, to be visible, to be proud—because he believed visibility was the most powerful weapon we had.

But visibility came at a cost.

Just eleven months into his term, Harvey Milk was assassinated by a former colleague, Dan White, who also killed San Francisco’s mayor. White was given just five years for the double murder—a verdict that sparked the White Night Riots.

Harvey’s death was a devastating loss, but his message lived on: “Hope will never be silent.”

That hope was about to be tested harder than anyone imagined.
Wikipedia – Harvey Milk
History.com – Harvey Milk Biography

AIDS, Silence, and the Rise of Queer Activism

The 1980s were supposed to be a time of momentum. After Stonewall, after Harvey Milk, the queer community had begun to step into the light—slowly, imperfectly, but visibly.

Then came a virus.

At first, they called it GRID: Gay-Related Immune Deficiency. The name alone was a death sentence—not just medically, but socially. As cases mounted and men began to waste away in hospital beds, the world looked away. Politicians laughed. Doctors hesitated. Families abandoned their own. The Reagan administration didn’t publicly acknowledge AIDS until over 20,000 Americans had already died.

It wasn’t just a health crisis—it was a moral judgment. Gay men were blamed for their own deaths. The media called it “the gay plague.” Churches called it divine punishment. Landlords evicted. Employers fired. Funeral homes refused to handle the bodies.

But even as the world turned its back, the queer community turned inward—and found each other.

It was the lesbians who stepped up. While hospitals refused to treat gay men and even nurses walked away, it was lesbians—many of them radical feminists and activists—who provided bedside care, coordinated food, cleaned wounds, held hands through dying. They drove people to appointments, buried the dead, and kept the living going. They showed up because they understood what it meant to be cast out—and because they refused to let their brothers die alone.

That act of solidarity was more than compassion. It was foundational.

It’s part of the reason we say LGBT today—not GLBT. That order was intentional, honoring the role lesbians played in saving a generation of gay men when no one else would.

Out of the silence rose ACT UP—the AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power—a fierce, disruptive, unapologetic movement that used protest, direct action, and media-savvy campaigns to force the world to pay attention. Their motto: “Silence = Death.”

ACT UP stormed the FDA. They shut down Wall Street. They interrupted mass at St. Patrick’s Cathedral. They forced the release of life-saving medication, exposed pharmaceutical greed, and reshaped the landscape of medical activism.

But even with all their fire, the losses were staggering. By the early ’90s, most LGBTQ+ communities had been hollowed out by grief. Entire circles of friends vanished. Queer elders became a rarity—not because we didn’t have any, but because most of them had died.

A generation of lovers, artists, rebels, and caretakers… gone.

And yet, through it all, we learned something powerful: we are our own lifeline. Our own care network. Our own historians. Our own family.
Medium – Lessons from the AIDS Epidemic

The New Cycle: Dehumanization Today

History doesn’t repeat itself in the same words. It echoes in tone. In tactics. In fear.

We’re seeing the cycle again now—this time with the trans community as the first target.

Across the U.S., lawmakers are introducing and passing bills aimed at erasing trans people from public life. They ban healthcare, books, pronouns, restrooms, sports participation—any trace of trans existence. They criminalize parents, doctors, and teachers who support trans youth. In some states, they want to take kids away.

It doesn’t stop at policy. We’re called groomers, predators, delusional. Right-wing pundits casually refer to us as a “threat to civilization.” On social media, calls for violence aren’t hidden anymore—they’re algorithmically boosted. And when we speak up, we’re told we’re being dramatic. Hysterical. Just like they told Jewish people in Germany. Just like they told the queer community during the AIDS crisis.

It’s not just happening “somewhere else.” It’s all around us. Iowa. North Dakota. Wisconsin. South Dakota. Missouri. Every border around Minnesota is under siege with anti-trans laws or attempts to pass them.

Make no mistake: this is organized. It’s deliberate. And it’s escalating.

But here’s the truth: the goal of this backlash isn’t just to target trans people. It’s to fracture us. To divide the LGBTQ+ community. To pit cis lesbians and gays against trans people. To make “respectability”? a weapon.

They want us to forget what we learned during the AIDS crisis: that our strength has always been in our solidarity. That lesbians saved gay men, that trans women threw the first bricks, that our movements rise when we protect each other.

We are not just defending pronouns or surgeries—we are defending the very idea that people who live outside the margins of power still deserve love, safety, and joy.

This is the same cycle. Just wearing new clothes.

But now, we know how to fight it.
ACLU – LGBT Legislation by State
The Advocate – Anti-Trans Legislation Map
Washington Post – Anti-Trans Bills Map

But Minnesota Is Different—and That Matters

It’s easy to feel like the entire country is slipping away. Like there’s nowhere left to breathe. But here in Minnesota, the story is different.

This state has chosen to stand as a refuge, not a threat.

In 2023, Minnesota passed the Trans Refuge Law, becoming one of the first states to explicitly protect access to gender-affirming healthcare—not just for residents, but for anyone fleeing states that criminalize it. It tells the world: “You are safe here. We will not turn you in. We will not abandon you.”

That protection didn’t happen by accident. It happened because Minnesota elected leaders who listen—and who act. Governor Tim Walz didn’t just sign the bill—he publicly affirmed that Minnesota would always be a place where trans people are welcome, seen, and protected.

And while the nation briefly considered him for the role of Vice President, we’re lucky to still have him as our governor—a leader who refuses to use queer and trans lives as political bargaining chips.

Minnesota is home to one of the most vibrant, organized, and interconnected LGBTQ+ communities in the Midwest. We have mutual aid networks. We have queer and trans-led nonprofits, events, youth spaces, legal advocates, and healing groups. We’re not just surviving here—we’re building.

No, it’s not perfect. No place is. Racism, classism, ableism, and transphobia still exist. But the difference is: here, we fight back. Here, we protect each other. Here, we have a chance to hold the line—and maybe, just maybe, push it forward.

If you’re reading this from another state—know this: Minnesota has your back. We are watching the borderlands. We are preparing. We are making room.
Minnesota Reformer – Trans Refuge Law
AP News – Pride Flags Official City Emblems

We’ve Learned How to Survive

Through every wave of violence, silence, and backlash, we’ve carried something stronger than fear: memory.

We remember that Stonewall wasn’t neat or coordinated—it was messy, fierce, and driven by people who had been discarded by society. We remember how the AIDS crisis carved entire communities out of existence—and how we became each other’s caretakers, doctors, and family when the world wouldn’t. We remember the silence. The funerals. The anger. The pride that still rose in the middle of all of it.

We know how to survive because we’ve done it before.

We know how to organize. How to build networks of care that exist beyond institutions. How to feed each other, house each other, show up at each other’s hospital beds and court hearings and protests. We’ve learned to code-switch, to shapeshift, to speak truth with poetry and fury. We’ve learned to laugh even when we’re not supposed to. We’ve learned that joy is resistance.

And we’ve learned the cost of division.

It wasn’t just disease that took lives in the ’80s—it was stigma, internal fragmentation, respectability politics. So when they try to separate us now—by identity, by race, by who “deserves” rights—we have to remember: we survive together, or we don’t.

Trans and nonbinary folks. Lesbians. Gay men. Bi folks. Intersex people. Queer youth. Elders. People who don’t fit in even within this acronym. We are one family. Disjointed at times. Messy. But real.

We didn’t ask to be warriors. But we are.

We’ve Got This

It’s okay to feel tired. To feel overwhelmed. To feel like maybe this world wasn’t built for people like us—because in many ways, it wasn’t.

But we’ve never waited for the world to catch up. We build what we need. We write our own stories. We love each other into existence. And we keep going—not because it’s easy, but because we deserve to be here.

If you’re reading this and feeling alone—please hear this: you are not broken. You are not imagining things. And you are not alone.

You’re part of a long, unbroken line of people who fought back. Who found each other in alleyways, AIDS wards, under rainbow flags and black ones. Who kept showing up, even when the world told them they shouldn’t exist.

Here in Minnesota, we do exist. We gather. We build. We resist. We celebrate.

And if you met me at Pride this year—thank you. Thank you for being here. Thank you for surviving. Thank you for making space for joy in the middle of all this.

We’ve got this.

Personal Notes & Observations

For me, this isn’t just about identity. It’s about ethics. About the fundamental question of what it means to live in a society that claims to value freedom, while systematically denying it to those who don’t conform.

At the heart of every fight the LGBTQ+ community has ever taken on—whether it was against police brutality at Stonewall, neglect during the AIDS crisis, or today’s dehumanizing laws—is a deeply ethical drive. Even if we don’t always frame it that way, we’re striving to create a world where consent, autonomy, and dignity are respected.

Consent is my personal north star. It’s the clearest expression of ethical respect between people—whether in relationships, healthcare, politics, or protest. When that principle is violated—when people are silenced, coerced, erased—it’s not surprising that they lash out. That isn’t a moral failure. That’s human nature responding to violation.

What I find remarkable is that, even while being targeted, our community still overwhelmingly chooses ethics. We choose to fight for ourselves without trying to destroy others. We organize care networks. We protest with boundaries. We build safe spaces, not fortresses. That doesn’t mean we’re always perfect—but the intention matters.

We may look like a chaotic collage of identities from the outside, but underneath, we are often more unified by shared values than people realize. We care about consent. About justice. About making space for people who don’t fit elsewhere.

And that, to me, is the most radical kind of ethics there is.

Manifesto for a Just and Ethical Society

References