In conjunction with World Pride 2025, the Rainbow History Project is creating an exhibit on the evolution of Pride. In “Dawn of a New Era of Pride Politics,” we discuss how fewer than a dozen picketers in the 1960s grew the political power to celebrate openness, address police brutality, and rally hundreds of thousands to demand federal action.

By the mid-1980s, the LGBTQ community’s political demands and influence had grown. The AIDS crisis took center stage across the nation and locally. Pride events morphed from the entertainment of the 1970s into speeches, rallies, and protests. Groups like ACT UP, Inner City Aids Network, and GLAA made protests and public pressure year-round events, not just Gay Pride Day. Blacklight, which was the first national Black gay periodical, ran an in-depth cover story on AIDS and its impact on the community in 1983:

“The gay community has to think in terms of what it can do to reduce the incidence of AIDS,” a writer noted in the Q&A section of the article. He added, “If your partner has AIDS that doesn’t mean one shouldn’t show care and concern, and just throw him out… There should be support groups that would help gay people who have AIDS and not just shun them.”

Just about 10 years later, however, support extended to activism, the onus not just on gay people to reduce the incidence of AIDS. On Oct. 11, 1992, ACT UP protesters threw the ashes of their loved ones onto the White House lawn to protest government inaction and negligence.

“If you won’t come to the funeral, we’ll bring the funeral to you,” one protester said about President Bush, according to the National Park Service. 

The Ashes Action and many other protests brought awareness to the issues of the day – the epidemic, government ignorance, and police brutality, among others.

When the first High Heel Race began on Halloween 1986 at JR.’s Bar and Grill, a popular 17th Street gay bar, about 25 drag queens ran up 17th Street, N.W., in their high heels from JR.’s to the upstairs bar at Annie’s Paramount Steakhouse, where they then took a shot and ran back to JR.’s. It was joyous and grew in popularity yearly despite impacting the locals’ “peace, order, and quiet,” according to the Washington Blade in 1991.

In 1990, though, pushback from the neighborhood community against the High Heel Race meant its official cancellation in 1991 – no coordinators, no queens, and no planning. However, despite statements that it wouldn’t occur, people still came. Roughly 100 police officers arrived to break up the crowd for causing a public disturbance. They injured people with nightsticks and arrested four gay men. D.C. residents Drew Banks and Dan Reichard planned to file brutality charges, and lesbian activist Yayo Grassi had her video camera, recording the scene.

“This will set back a lot of the good will between the Gay community and the police,” said Tracy Conaty, former co-chair of the Gay Men and Lesbian Women Against Violence, in a 1991 interview with the Blade. “What people will see and remember now is that police used excessive force on a group of peaceful crowd because of their homophobia.” 

Other protests advocated for equal representation. D.C.’s 1948 sodomy law was first repealed by the City Council in 1981 – but Congress overturned the repeal. Still, gay activists urged the D.C. Council to consider action. 

“Here in the district, we have been thwarted by a bunch of nutty fundamentalists from other places, and so the whole population of Washington remain habitual, recidivist, repetitive, villains, held hostage by a small group of noisy fascists,” Frank Kameny said at a 1992 rally. A successful repeal of the law passed subsequently in 1993, and this time, Congress did not interfere.

Our WorldPride 2025 exhibit, “Pickets, Protests, and Parades: The History of Gay Pride in Washington,” centers the voices of the event organizers and includes the critics of Pride and the intersection of Pride and other movements for equal rights and liberation. But we need your help to do that: we are looking for images and input, so take a look around your attic and get involved.

Vincent Slatt volunteers as director of archiving at the Rainbow History Project. Walker Dalton is a member of RHP. See rainbowhistory.org to get involved. 

Among the “Terminally Online,” someone who is so involved with internet culture that they have something of an obsession with it, is a phrase known as “touching grass.” To touch grass means to log off, engage with the real world, and prioritize one’s offline relationships. While this conjures up all kinds of images of young adults playing video games in a room full of dirty laundry, piled up pizza boxes, and crusty socks hanging everywhere—the truth of the matter is that all of us could do well to “touch grass.”

Since COVID-19 use of the internet and social media has skyrocketed. In fact, what COVID did was merely accelerate our ongoing migration into the digital world. The LGBTQ community has always been at the forefront of this migration due to the marginalized status we occupy in society. Despite what some may argue, only recently have public displays of affection become acceptable, and even today some of those exchanges are met with hostility and discrimination. 

With the rise of social media has come increased use of social media apps, and one of the number one social networking sites—outside of big three (Facebook, X formerly known as Twitter, and Instagram)—are dating apps. Grindr specifically has ranked as one of the most downloaded apps in iTunes (#25 at time of writing) and in the Google play store. It is particularly interesting to consider how much of our lives we have entrusted to apps of all varieties—ranging from our favorite moments with our families, to our most intimate details. Sharing these kinds of moments might have seemed unfathomable to us in earlier decades, but today this has become second nature to most. 

What many fail to realize, or chose not to acknowledge, is that social media companies are well aware of the destructive tendencies that their products tap into. Nearly every aspect of these platforms has been intentionally designed to increase user engagement, and tap into our unconscious fears and desires. We fear missing an important event, we desire romance and intimacy, and worry about missing an important email that could change the trajectory of our careers.

For decades, companies from Grindr to Facebook have employed social science researchers to harness the addictive qualities of apps. Think about it, that all too familiar “Brrrrup” notification from Grindr. It’s almost Pavlovian in the way it causes us to immediately reach for our phones wondering who has contacted us, or what pic we’ve just been sent. This sound has intentionally been designed to be distinct from other apps, and thus to attach itself to a specific part of our brain. Researchers have shown we get a dopamine hit from getting a like, retweet, share, or other response—imagine what happens to our brains when we think a romantic encounter looms around the corner.

This strategy is highly effective. Grindr has one of the largest daily returning user bases of any social media company, and its users rank among the highest for time spent on the app. That downward motion to refresh the grid of profiles in proximity to you, that’s also been engineered to increase engagement. It’s like the pull of a Las Vegas slot machine with each swipe down offering the possibility that the next grid will be the one with your soul mate. While I’ve met several gay friends who met their partners on apps, and I’ve used the app to connect with a member of parliament who gave me a private tour while in London, I’ve also met many other men with an unhealthy, if not anti-social, relationship to the app.

My own reliance on these apps was reflected back to me recently, after becoming the victim of an internet scam artist. He had used several fake social media profiles to find out my interests, learn about me, and find out how I could be best manipulated. Gay romance scams are an understudied topic, one in which only a few researchers like Carlo Charles has studied. In speaking with him I have come to understand my story is not unique, and follows an all-too-familiar pattern. I was left wondering after engaging with his work how this happened, and why it happened to me.

While in Montreal this past summer for a conference I was given an answer, and had a mirror put up in front of my face. A very attractive young man messaged me, and he was also a fellow academic. He thought he recognized me from elsewhere, but looks can be deceiving—especially amid a grid of pixelated images. I had already decided after nearly becoming the victim of a scam I wasn’t interested in hooking up, dating, or anything other than being friends—plus I was there to work and had early morning appointments. Despite my encouragement to get out there and that he’d have no problems finding someone to make out with he decided to stay on the apps, “Everyone will just pass me by, so I’ll stay here on the apps, and maybe I’ll go to the gay sauna later.” 

While I’m no prude, or a stranger to the apps or the saunas, it made me realize the addictive hold apps have had on our community. Apps like Grindr have created the illusion of an endless supply of men, and that the perfect lover lies just around the corner with the next swipe. These apps also leverage social-psychological aspects of human behavior against us to increase engagement. Like Facebook, apps like Grindr have made us dopamine addicts seeking instant gratification. When you pair that with other substances these encounters can quickly become dark experiences.

The next day was the Pride parade, and it must have lasted more than an hour. I saw him on the app and encouraged him to come down. He refused thinking he would be rejected. I told him he ought to, and that I’m sorry I couldn’t meet up with him as I had to get to the airport. 

My career has been spent living in rural areas—areas known to be hostile toward LGBTQ people, but also areas in which even the community can be difficult to become involved in—and apps became a way to find some semblance of community. However, like many aspects of online life, these spaces are poor alternatives to real human interaction. Despite advertising otherwise, social media companies are businesses, and their business is keeping us logged on and engaged. Perhaps the solution is for us all to touch grass, and find the beauty that exists in all things—even if it’s not the ideal.

Christopher T. Conner is Assistant Professor of Sociology at the University of Missouri. His latest book, ‘Conspiracy Theories and Extremist Movements in New Times’ is available from Bloomsbury Press/Lexington.

In conjunction with WorldPride 2025 the Rainbow History Project is creating an exhibit on the evolution of Pride: “Pickets, Protests, and Parades: The History of Gay Pride in Washington.” In “Pride’s Day at the Beach,” we discuss how the success of the 1970s block parties created the need for a new organizer, a new location, and a new threat to the community –the onset of the AIDS crisis. 

The Gay Pride Day Block parties of the 1970s had grown so successful that they outgrew the capacity of the actual streets and of the original organizers, Deacon Maccubbin and his Lambda Rising bookstore. In 1980, Maccubbin handed off the reins of Gay Pride Day to an umbrella corporation of more than 110 businesses and community groups that sought to take the popular block parties into a larger sphere. 

P Street Beach had long connections with the gay community, with proximity to gay bars and other gay-friendly establishments between 20th and 24th Streets. The P Street Festival, Inc., was established as a standalone entity to organize Gay Pride Day. Its board of directors included individuals from media, political groups, restaurants and bars, women’s community, and Third World groups. They moved the festival to the grounds of Francis Junior High School at 23rd and N St., N.W. With their feet firmly underneath themselves a year later, the first Gay Pride Parade took place in June 1981. This parade route began at 16th St., N.W., and Meridian Hill Park then marched down Connecticut Avenue to Dupont Circle.

Media reports for Gay Pride Day festivities certainly describe a party and carnival-like atmosphere. A 1981 Washington Post article likened the scene to a beach party where attendees “spread blankets and towels on the grass, wore sunglasses and visors, flipflops and sneakers, shorts and halters.” An anonymous attendee in 1984 declared in another article from the Post, “This is our Fourth of July.” 

In 1983, Carlene Cheatam became the first woman and first person of color to become chief coordinator of Gay Pride Day. She sought to bring much needed diversity to an organization primarily headed by white men. One of her main goals was to “bring the Black kids out, make sure Black faces were on that stage, make sure that Black drag queens were on the stage,” she stated in a 1998 oral history interview with RHP. Cheatam was also the co-chair of the Hughes-Roosevelt Democratic Club who organized the first AIDS vigil as part of the ‘83 events.

Pride Day celebrations also grew in participation with more families, straight allies enjoying the atmosphere, and more women and people of color. Nancy Roth, vice president of Pride Day ‘84 remarked they had “the biggest turnout of women ever” and Thom Bell, chairman of Black and White Men Together, said “our people came out in force.”

In 1985, as the AIDS crisis began to impact the community, the discussion turned again to what should be the place of Gay Pride Day — should the festival be canceled so that funds could go toward combating AIDS, should the events be a fundraiser for AIDS services and other community needs, or does the community need the festival to be a “day of good times” amid the sorrow? Co-chairman Jay Chalmers was of the latter opinion. He reassured people that Pride Day ‘86 was still on. “I think our community needs to go out and celebrate, and we need to do it in the open, for the whole world to see.” 

In 1986, P Street Festival, Inc. experienced some financial difficulties – with a debt of about $6,000. The directors decided to establish a new corporation to run the event – Gay and Lesbian Pride of Washington. By Gay Pride Day ‘86, Pride of Washington were the primary organizers going forward. This change in leadership ushered in a new era of D.C. Pride history.

Rainbow History Project’s exhibit centers the voices of the event organizers, includes dissenting opinions on Pride, and highlights the intersections with other movements for equal rights and liberation. If you have any images and input contact us and get involved.