Around the world, Pride celebrations take a variety of forms, from parades to parties to protests and proms. Since the start of the modern LGBTQ+ liberation movement in the 1970s, hundreds of independent Pride events have sprung up in cities worldwide, each distinctly local and generally tied in some way to the foundational Stonewall Riots in June. A true starter guide!

Pride in Dallas is presented by the University of North Texas Special Collections, and features materials found in the LGBTQ Archive. The history presented here is an overview of major events, but is not the full story of Dallas LGBTQ history and culture. Many stories are not represented within the LGBTQ Archive at UNT, especially those of the BIPOC and Trans communities. If you are in DFW, here's where to celebrate this month!

“Mainstream liberal queer and trans folks want to whitewash our history,” Mokuena said. “I think it’s really important that marginalized voices are lifted up and not ignored — it’s the responsibility of organizations with power and money to elevate our voices. We’re following in the footsteps of all of the amazing trans people of color who fought for us in the late ’60s.”

"The first time, I was on vacation with my family in Myrtle Beach, SC, and I was utterly terrified. Still in the thrust of medically transitioning, I was experiencing major, welcome but nonetheless uncomfortable, changes in my body and my hair. My breasts were growing, and I was not "passing." In the midst of all that, we traveled to this incredibly conservative Southern beach destination, and I only got through it by drinking copiously, hiding behind my family, and when all else failed, staying behind in the hotel room."

"When I signed up to spend five days at queer camp, surrounded by 400 other queer people in the mountains of Ojai, California, going to church was the last thing on my mind. Jesus might be a queer witch, as one camp friend said, but my faith was a hollowed-out relic of a past life, left in the dust with a straight marriage and the dozens of friends and family that stopped speaking to me when I came out as a lesbian."

HIV: The Neglected Pandemic is a special Vice TV documentary feature marking the 40th anniversary of HIV/AIDS in the United States. Narrated by Queer Eye star and New York Times-bestselling author Jonathan Van Ness, VICE takes a comprehensive look at what it means to be HIV-positive in the U.S. in 2021 through a diverse array personal accounts, while exploring the truth behind the statistics.

"When I was younger, I wanted nothing more than to escape the South. At the time, I thought that there was nothing worse than being gay and Southern, that no two parts of a person could be more in conflict, and I felt that there was nothing to be done for it except to leave one or the other behind. I did not realize that there was a difference between being Southern and being in the South, that one did not depend upon the other."

"I was a queer kid. My partner Nix was a trans kid, though he didn’t know it yet. We grew up in a rural community surrounded by white married straight couples and fields of corn and cows. The Internet existed, but even Myspace was a thing of the future. My formal sexual education consisted of my PE teacher diagramming a penis on the overhead projector while I made Beavis and Butthead jokes about the vas deferens. We did get a bit of AIDS instruction and two hours worth of abortion discussion that went into excruciating detail about how having sex before marriage meant that I would get pregnant with a shame baby and have to take state assistance because of my poor choices — or, alternatively, that I’d need to have an abortion that I would regret the rest of my life. Or, you know, that I’d just die of AIDS."

"There are days when I forget I’m gay. It’s a surprising place to find myself after having lived through the most dynamic period in LGBTQ history. We Baby Boomers have one foot in the Stonewall Rebellion — the riots following the June 1969 police raid of a Greenwich Village bar that helped launch the modern-day gay-rights movement — and another in marriage equality. We are the first generation with a wide range of open and successful role models, from out-and-proud entertainers like Ellen DeGeneres to Apple CEO Tim Cook. We can now see our lives refracted back in Coca-Cola commercials and mainstream TV sitcoms. We are also the HIV generation: The virus stampeded through our communities starting in the early 1980s, killing more than 300,000 gay and bisexual men."

"I moved to New York in 2002, and I had avoided the pride parade because I felt people of color were not particularly welcomed. But then in 2005, I took part in a march, not a parade. We strode through the West Village chanting: “We’re here; we’re queer! We’re fabulous; don’t fuck with us!” My whole self came alive. I’d found a community I had spent years searching for."

"At a San Francisco bar called Peg's Place, "you could wear pants, but not blue jeans. She had a hang-up about that," 88-year-old Jackie Jones says over the phone. Jones hated being told what to wear. "I think they wanted you to be--maybe they call it classy. They didn't want to think they catered to bums or truck-driver types." At Peg's, dancing was restricted to a room with an interior-facing window, so the person playing records "could watch you and be sure no one was touching anybody--prison style." If the owners hadn't paid off the cops, they could lose their liquor license and customers would be dragged to jail for "no visible means of support." It was the 1950s, and these women were lesbians. No dance was worth spending the night in jail."

"With my new Grindr profile almost complete, I look forward to what I hope will be the fun part — chatting with men. But first I have to fill in the field that describes my body type. The choices in the menu include Toned (I do like the way that sounds), Average (this one just depresses me), Slim (a possibility), and Muscular (despite repeated efforts, I am not). Or I can choose to leave it blank, but when it comes to dealing with anonymous gay men this is not an option. We want to know. I sweat it out for a solid two minutes, then go with Slim."

As we head into horny/vaxxed/tits-out/corporate rainbow season, I’ve been thinking a lot about all of the people who ~realized some things~ about their sexuality and/or gender during the pandemic. Maybe you got served so many videos from lesbian TikTok that you decided to do a little soul-searching, or perhaps you came to the conclusion that life is too short to deny yourself the things you really want, or maybe you’ve always been open about being LGBTQ+, just not as loudly and proudly as you’d like. Or maybe 2020 was just always going to be the year you stepped fully into your queerness! 

"When I was a young teen I didn’t understand why I felt attracted to all sexes, not just to the opposite of mine. I went to an all girls school and I felt the bodies near me blossom with such intrigue. Sex was an unformed, vacuous thing that nobody wanted to unpack. Like an elephant in the room, it felt like a bone stuck in my throat. I wanted to know what sex was like. I wanted to know what sex was like with everybody. Coming from a Muslim family, I never felt pressure to be anything, but I did feel a pressure to be desexualized. I felt my desire like a blush that went up my body. I didn’t know why I felt attracted by everyone, that everything could turn me on."

"Across the street, I saw a gathering of people outside a familiar looking white building. It took me a moment, longer that it should have, but at last the realization of where we were smacked me dumb. Pulse. Next door to where the husk of the nightclub stood, four hands spelled out the world “love” in sign language on the wall of an Einstein Bagels branch. It’s sacrilege among Orlando queers, but I hadn’t visited the site yet. I’d written about Pulse for a handful of publications, helped fundraise for the displaced workers, and stood in solidarity with the survivors at several vigils, but I had not been able to bring myself to visit the club. Something about going there in the daytime felt wrong to me, like catching a drag queen under fluorescent lighting. The nightclub was permanently closed, in limbo between crime scene and memorial. Its bones were all there was left to visit."

Books were honestly the first place I turned to help me understand my sexuality and I think that safe space books provided has only intensified my love for reading. Here are just a few of my favorite books from/for the alphabet mafia as well as quite a few that are on my list. What is 'reading'? Watch this, honey.

I love Etsy and I've rounded up some of my favorite Pride-themed finds from entirely independent (and almost entirely queer) creators. Spend your money here!...because see below.

Every June, brands roll out rainbow logos and capitalize on Pride Month. While it's great that brands acknowledge the month, are they actually doing anything outside of performative rebranding? Before you click to "Add to Cart", use this link to make sure the brand is putting the money where their mouth is - back into the community. Not on the list? Check to see if: 

It me. I'm Collin. Shockingly, I hate talking about myself but here are the CliffsNotes. 32, Texan turned cruise ship character turned Texan turned Chicagoan turned Texan. Event designer and planner. Interior designer and stylist. Corporate badass. Spotify playlist-makin' fiend. Partner and double dog dad. Cursed with an aggressive gluten intolerance but also a passion for bread and no f*cks to give. Why a newsletter? It gives me a creative outlet with a deadline and my therapist says these things are important. Plus, I love to read, shop, share, and most importantly spend time on the internet. I don't sleep.