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.

As I worked on this piece, I received a rare WhatsApp notification on my phone. What did it say? Stay tuned, but first:

Ever imagine your life as a sitcom? Like most writers with Main Character Syndrome, I do all the time. I reflect on my setting, my episodic plots, my seasonal arcs, and the supporting cast making life more interesting. However minor the role these recurring characters play, one thing is certain: they shape our universe, for better or worse.

Often, my daily episodes start in a setting familiar to many: a coffee shop greeting me with the aroma of freshly ground beans and the chatter of patrons ready to seize their day. Well, that’s the romanticized version, anyway. Since I work late at a bar, it’s usually early afternoon by the time I stroll in. By now the morning rush is long gone while I’m in disheveled clothes that may as well be pajamas, but regardless, my day’s first recurring character remains: my barista, Spencer.

With Technicolor dreads, anime memorabilia, and punny Steven Rhodes T-shirts, it’s evident Spencer marches to the beat of their own drum. It makes sense, then, that Spencer became a welcomed friend when I moved into the neighborhood during the pandemic. Our encounters often made the 10-minute walk worth the overpriced cold brew.

Yet as I got to know Spencer, I found myself confused by their relationship status. They would recount their weekend speaking of their boyfriend, their daughter, their girlfriend, their partner, or their other partner. At first, I figured my memory was shit (partially true), until I finally learned that Spencer is in a polyamorous relationship.

Over the years, the term “poly” has been casually tossed into relationship conversations. Typically, the natural follow-up is, “what exactly is poly?” Turns out polyamory is a catchall term, so poly relationships can take various configurations. Open relationships, throuples, and even polygamy can be considered polyamorous, but the common theme is this: polyamory rejects the notion of a singular love in life and accepts that people can love multiple partners at the same time. Now polyamory is so widespread your barista might even partake, proving these days your relationship is about as customizable as your latte.

So, how exactly do these relationships start? It’s hard enough for me to get serious with one person, let alone two or more. Through my conversations I learned it’s a gradual count as simple as one, two, three. This was the case for Spencer, since their boyfriend and girlfriend were a couple before they entered the picture. “We had some mutual friends who introduced us,” Spencer told me. “We talked on and off for about a year and a half before they invited me over for dinner and vibes, which led to us hanging out more and more, until my boyfriend asked me to join the relationship.”

Earlier this year, I read an article in the Atlantic about the rise of polyamory, which described the lifestyle as a luxury of the elite. “From their gilded pedestals,” wrote the author of the rich, “they declare polyamory superior to monogamy.” From what I see, however, this is simply untrue. Perhaps our awareness of polyamory coincided with online images shared by the elite, but that doesn’t make it elite-only. Case in point: Spencer has been in their polyamorous relationship for nearly three years.

Moreover, Spencer is not an exception. Beyond baristas, coworkers appear in our sitcoms more often than friends or family sometimes. In a previous piece I wrote about Kelsey, our bar’s stylish door girl, who I learned was in a polyamorous relationship nearly a decade ago, exploring the trend before the trend was a trend.

Like Spencer, Kelsey’s throupling didn’t happen overnight. “Back in college, I was exploring my bisexuality but hadn’t come out yet,” said Kelsey. “I started casually dating a guy who casually dropped the bombshell that he was in an open relationship. I saw a picture of his partner and knew I had to meet her. When we finally met, sparks flew, and the three of us started hanging out. Before long, we were inseparable.”

And Just Like That, Kelsey’s sitcom went from “Felicity” to “Three’s Company.” What I didn’t know until recently was the extra curveball thrown in. “Fast forward,” she started, “they got pregnant, and we were all raising the baby together.”

I was surprised to find not one but two polyamorous relationships raising a child. This might sound messy, but it works better than I thought. “We run into a lot of the challenges most monogamous parents run into,” Spencer explained. “The main benefit I’d say is that [our daughter] has three parents who love and support her, will defend her, and will always take care of her. She has three people she can talk to or cry to, and we have all different opinions and experiences, so we’re able to give her unique advice or teachings.”

This highlights another important aspect of polyamorous relationships: they are often more than fleeting affairs. To reach this label requires serious thought, deep conversation, and mutual agreement. The rest of us can snicker or balk at these triads all we want, but they easily become as serious as monogamous couplings, if not more so.

In fact, polyamory can even resolve the woes of monogamy. “I used to feel the pressure of having to be everything to one partner,” said Kelsey, “and vice versa, but with two partners, that weight lifted. If one partner wanted to do an activity I didn’t want to, they could enjoy those activities together while I got to opt-out guilt-free.”

Interestingly, while poly is considered solidly queer, homosexual relations are not a requirement. For both Kelsey and Spencer, there was at least one in their trio who remained heterosexual. This is because throuples often find a balance enabling all involved to be their optimal sexual selves. “I didn’t know at the time,” Kelsey recounted, “but I’m definitely a vers and got to express both my submissive and dominant sides.” This makes sense, for sexual dynamics are complex. It can be a tall order to expect one person to satisfy everything we want.

That said, polyamory doesn’t come without its own complications, one being the perceptions of others. “My mom didn’t really understand our dynamic at first,” said Spencer, “but once I explained our dynamic, she’s been super supportive. I have run into judgment from strangers who have ‘traditional’ family values.”

This echoed Kelsey’s experience. “When we moved in together, my friends were initially shocked but ultimately accepting. For work events or family gatherings, it was always stressful figuring out if it was OK for all of us to go or only two.”

And as in all relationships, emotions are entangled, which ultimately ended Kelsey’s experience. “After about two years, I noticed the romance between the two of them started to fizzle. Their date nights became as rare as a unicorn sighting, eventually disappearing altogether. I felt like a referee in a never-ending match of jealousy and tension.” Naturally, more people mean more feelings to manage, so the work that relationships require never truly goes away.

Relationship drama — now that I can relate to, bringing me back to WhatsApp. The notification turned out to be a message from a special friend in South Africa. He and I met nearly a decade ago, when I studied abroad in the UK. Our chemistry was instant, and although we live separate lives in separate places, we’ve managed time for friendly banter, romantic getaways and, on occasion, a quasi-lovers quarrel, which was the case just over a year ago.

We have barely spoken since our spat, yet here he was reaching out with an apology. I promptly apologized back. We both recognized that, at the end of the day, we still care about one another.

So, as I wrote this piece like some anthropologist analyzing a vastly different polyamorous culture, it struck me how the notion of “many loves” may not be as distant as I thought. I, like many queers, have experienced romantic connections that never truly went away. These few individuals check in on me, consistently root for me, and refuse to turn their back on me, even if we go a while without speaking. They know me well, often better than family, and they’re almost always worth an apology.

I’d venture to say most of us have this kind of recurring character in our sitcoms. Perhaps someone comes to mind as you read this. Perhaps they’ve stayed in your orbit because the best is yet to come or, like Janice to Chandler or that creepy scientist to Phoebe, to help clarify what you truly want.

Perhaps, then, we’re all a little polyamorous, and the details of how and when we balance the loves of our lives are trivial at best. A polyamorous society of queers and queers-adjacent? Now that’s a twist I can get behind. 

Jake Stewart is a D.C.-based writer and barback.