Pride and prejudice

Thirty-five years ago, the unthinkable happened. Of course, nobody was paying much attention at the time—that's the nature of so many events that are truly revolutionary. Nonetheless, in late June 1970, a gaggle of activists gathered to deliver a few speeches at Bughouse Square (now Washington Square Park on the Near North Side), commemorating the brave souls who sparked the Stonewall riots when they fought back against police oppression in New York City one year prior.

Recollections of precise details at Bughouse vary: Some who were there recall maybe 100 activists altogether; others say 150. After the oratories, the group marched down the sidewalk of Chicago Avenue to Michigan Avenue. Some held signs. Onlookers gawked. They had never seen anything like it—a bunch of people marching and proudly proclaiming a radical new perspective about deviant sexuality!

The Chicago Pride Parade was born.

Today, everything about it is different. According to William Greaves, Mayor Daley's liaison to the gay community, about 400,000 lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender folks and their supporters will attend the parade Sunday 26. Years ago, it moved several miles north to Boystown; now, Greaves reports, it's one of the three biggest parades in the city (along with the Bud Billiken and the South Side Irish St. Pat's parades). Pride has become an institution, anchoring an entire month of special events for the GLBT community.

Even the very name of the parade reflects its organic, if fitful, evolution. First called the Gay Pride Parade, it then became the Lesbian and Gay Pride Parade. Later, in the early '90s, as transgenders and bisexuals gained billing in many organizations, the community debated the use of the word "queer"—meant to be inclusive but, to this day, still felt as an insult by a few gay people. (It's awfully hard, though, to imagine that the word has any sting left, now that Carson Kressley and Company have a zhuzhed-up mainstream TV hit with Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.)

So PrideChicago, the committee that organizes the affair, adopted a very sensible solution to the naming quandary: "The parade has, for more than the past decade, been known simply as the annual Pride Parade," says Rich Pfeiffer, who heads up PrideChicago. "That way, each person in the parade can identify themselves by whatever feels comfortable, in signs and banners in their contingent."

This delicate balancing act—trying to remain as hands-off as possible while organizing such a huge event—is an approach Pfeiffer and his committee have applied repeatedly over the years. It's a tricky spot to be in, because the concept of Pride and its embodiment in the parade mean many different things to many different people. For some, it's a chance to make a political statement, rallying awareness and support for a particular issue or candidate. Others treat Pride like Mardi Gras in Chicago, a chance to don colorful costumes (elaborate or skimpy, leather or sequins) and literally parade their wares. For others, it's just an opportunity to get drunk in the streets. And of course, some GLBT folks find the whole affair one big bloated yawn.

All the internecine grumbling is really, of course, the by-product of incredible success—a success the organizers of the Bughouse Square rally probably never imagined, not even in the heady rush of gay-liberation activism in 1970. Pfeiffer was there for that first, permit-free march, but "I wasn't in it. I was too much in the closet," the 56-year-old remembers. "Even though I was on the sidelines, it was still such an empowering feeling! I remember welling up with tears. It really changed my life. It's really hard to understand if you're under 45. They were breaking a huge taboo, to be out there, identifying as gay."

Today, Pfeiffer has heard it all—the kudos, but also the complaints—from all sides. Most commonly, folks complain about the huge increase of corporate entries into a community procession. The endless procession of politicians elicits gripes, too. (If only they all twirled batons, like Cook County board member Maria Pappas.) On the other hand, some assimilationists applaud the corporate presence while decrying the flamboyant queer characters like drag queens, leathermen and Dykes on Bikes.

"What I say to folks is this: The parade is what is in the parade," Pfeiffer remarks. "If you're a Republican and want more suits and ties in the parade, then you have to put more suits and ties in the parade. If you're a street activist [and want more activism], then you have to get more people who are street activists in the parade. The parade is not going to be dictated by the parade organization.... I think that's a real healthy thing. If you're willing to register and show up and be represented, that's great."

"I think that there are different visions for Pride," says Greaves. "The people who aren't happy with the corporate involvement should look to the Dyke March [Saturday 25] to be their Pride Parade." A community-based rally free of floats and corporations, the Andersonville-based Dyke March reflects the spirit of the Pride Parade in its early years. "It's a terrific event, the day before the Pride Parade, and it's lots of fun," Greaves adds.

"There's a lot of good to the Pride Parade. It brings a lot of people together," says Nicole Perez, a Dyke March organizer who hasn't missed either event since she came out three years ago. Still, she says she wishes more people knew what the Stonewall riots are. "A lot of people don't know the history of why we're there and what it took to be there. A lot of people just treat it like a party. Although there is a lot to celebrate, people—especially young people—don't know why that first march happened. The parade should be a combination of celebration and education."

"We're very different. We're not really one community; we're many communities," Pfeiffer acknowledges of the GLBT world. Still, he believes that Pride Day is about solidarity. "Though we come from different backgrounds—racial, religious and economic—this is one day, marching in that parade, where people who don't always agree with each other and might not even like each other, get together. There's all this energy that day, and a good feeling in the air.

"Looking at the faces of the people along the parade route—especially the young people just coming out, and the older people who grew up when there was no such thing as a Pride Parade—it's inspiring. It's an incredible feeling."