It’s time to stop watching and do something
In today’s world, being gay in San Francisco is a privilege. A loud, public, and often colorful privilege. We walk through neighborhoods where our LGBTQ+ flags fly high. We have businesses that reflect us and city officials who hear our voices. This isn’t true everywhere, and we know it. But even here, even now, I see a growing numbness, especially among younger gay men. Myself included.
Because being a younger gay man today means being born into the aftermath of a war we didn’t fight. We’re the first to inherit a kind of queer ease that many of our elders couldn’t have imagined. We aren’t closeted in the workplace by default. We have dating apps, community centers, and corporate sponsorships. But most strikingly: we have each other, out in the open.
And yet all around us are generations of queer people who remember fighting just to survive. People who buried partners, watched whole friend groups vanish, and still got up and marched anyway. Fighting through the silence of a government that let their friends die during the AIDS crisis. Fighting against religious zealotry, the criminalization of their love, and the moral panic in classrooms.
I try to shut up and listen during Pride, to make space for memory. Because if I don’t, I risk forgetting that this was never just a celebration, it was a bitter fight. And it still is. Take a step back from the glitter and look at where we are right now.
This year, there are over 500 anti-LBGTQ+ bills introduced across the United States. Transgender people are being banned from sports, bathrooms, and healthcare. Drag shows are criminalized. Books that include queer characters are pulled from school shelves. Children are being told their queer families are unnatural. In some states, simply discussing queer identity is now seen as “indoctrination.”
In June, the Department of Defense stripped Harvey Milk’s name from a Navy ship, allegedly to remove “politics” from military naming conventions. But how is it apolitical to erase the name of a man who gave his life speaking truth to power? A man who had to leave the Navy because he refused to stay silent about his sexuality? A man who became the first openly gay elected official in the United States?
This year felt different. Pride was subdued. It was still provocative, loud, and unapologetically us. But there was fear, and it makes me wonder what we would do if the country decided Pride was no longer constitutional. I hope we will be like Hungary, defying Orbán’s Pride ban.
Many of us here in coastal cities cheer from the sidelines. We post infographics. We change our avatars. We celebrate with a bottomless brunch. But what are we doing for the people in Kentucky, Texas, Florida, and Idaho? Or queer kids who don’t see a way forward, let alone a rainbow? Are we fighting for them like our elders fought for us?
I say this not to shame us, but to wake us up.
If generations before us ran a marathon through fire, we can’t just stand at the finish line with signs that say “Yas, queen!” The baton is in our hands now. And the torch isn’t just symbolic.
It’s still burning, because the work isn’t finished.
Pride was born from protest: it was a riot against police brutality, a refusal to be erased. That spirit still matters. Because the pendulum is swinging again, hard and fast, and this time it’s coming for everything: from books to bodies, education to healthcare, our trans siblings to our queer visibility.
I know it’s tempting to feel safe here in San Francisco. But safety can breed complacency. And the truth is, if one of us is under attack, we all are. Queer liberation isn’t a local issue. It’s an international one.
So yes, go out and celebrate in your authenticity. Be joyful. Joy is resistance, too. But don’t forget that grief is part of this story, and so is responsibility. Ask yourself what you’re doing to protect the next generation. Donate to legal defense funds. Support queer youth orgs. Show up to school board meetings. Vote like your life depends on it, because theirs does.
Pride means more when you remember who died to make it possible. The parade doesn’t end at the afterparty. It ends when we all have the same rights, dignity, and chance to live fully and freely. We inherited Pride, now let’s earn it.
So grab the torch. It’s heavy, yes. But it’s ours now.