WorldPride was supposed to attract up to three million visitors to the Nation’s Capital for a once-in-a-lifetime celebration that would boost all of the region’s queer-owned businesses and shine a bright light on the progressive, pro-LGBTQ city that is Washington.

Then came the 2024 election. 

In an instant, the mood shifted. Then the anti-trans attacks came — eliminating “X” gender markers on passports, a trans military ban, efforts to criminalize affirming healthcare. The list goes on. Many trans people fear for their safety and those with the means are fleeing the country, as the Blade has reported.

As WorldPride drew closer, there were travel warnings from here and abroad for trans tourists and boycott calls from allied countries. 

As we commemorate the 50^th anniversary of LGBTQ Pride in D.C., it’s important to remember why we come together each June. We celebrated Pride before corporate sponsors embraced us and we will continue to celebrate and protest as our fair-weathered “allies” drop like flies amid Trump’s petty threats. We don’t need rainbow-colored Doritos and Oreos. We need safe and affirming spaces for our own to gather, celebrate, grieve, and protest the many injustices perpetrated by Trump and his toadies in Congress.

The first D.C. Pride, held on Sunday, June 22, 1975 and organized by local legend Deacon Maccubbin and the staff of Lambda Rising, sought to draw attention to New York’s Liberation Day March held that June 29 that drew thousands commemorating the 1969 Stonewall Rebellion. The D.C. City Council proclaimed June 22 as Gay Pride Day. The Blade published a crowd estimate of 2,500 for that first celebration and noted that many attendees were busy dodging NBC and Channel 7 news cameras out of fear of being outed.

Fast-forward 50 years and the city’s Pride events draw hundreds of thousands as the city embraces LGBTQ visibility and equality each June. 

After so many years of progress, 2025 feels dark, as our trans community is attacked, our friends in the federal workforce face harassment and termination, immigrant communities are hunted, HIV funding is gutted, and journalists, musicians, actors, and artists are deemed enemies of the state. It’s inconceivable to many of us that Trump could defeat Kamala Harris and take our country backwards so fast, crippling an economy that was booming under Joe Biden.

In the face of all this darkness, it’s important that we show up for WorldPride. Many LGBTQ people no longer feel safe or comfortable living authentically and openly. So those of us who are more privileged have to show up and be seen and heard. The WorldPride boycott calls are disappointing and misguided. No one ever said a social justice movement would be an endless party. This is hard work filled with setbacks and heartbreaks. Many of us won’t live to see a day in this country when the work is finished but that’s the point — we show up to make things easier on the next generation. Rather than stay home, all of us, along with our straight allies, should attend the marches and parades (and fireworks displays!) and send a clear message to Trump that we will not be erased. He and his cronies have deleted scores of pages from government websites from the SBA to the Interior Department, scrubbing any mention of LGBTQ history, as if we never existed. The Blade’s 56-year archive tells another story.

It’s the story of a loving community fighting to overcome police brutality, AIDS indifference, hate crimes, legalized discrimination, racism, hate, and bigotry to forge happy and productive lives under the American promise of equality. We’re not there yet but WorldPride offers an opportunity to stand up and be seen and counted. 

So I hope everyone reading this will join us at the many events scheduled to celebrate Pride. It may seem like a small thing but there is power in numbers. Help us show the world that Donald Trump has not extinguished or exhausted us. He has reinvigorated us and inspired a renewed sense of purpose and dedication to justice. See you at WorldPride.

Kevin Naff is editor of the Washington Blade. Reach him at [email protected].

When I was a teenager, I rarely heard about LGBTQ Pride — and I heard even less about Disability Pride. In the church my father attended, LGBTQ people were spoken of as sinful, and disability in the culture in which I was raised was something to be hidden away in shame. I could never have imagined that one day, I would become an openly autistic transgender activist, working with disability and LGBTQ rights organizations across the world — from Ukraine and Russia to the U.S., the U.K., and Australia.

But I still remember the clenching emptiness I felt when my favorite stand-up comedian joked that gay people were “sick folks with proven hormonal problems.”

“We don’t celebrate illnesses,” he said. “What’s there to be proud of?”

The audience applauded. But to me, it felt cruel. Even though I was afraid to think too deeply about LGBTQ rights at the time, I had seen disabled children bullied and excluded. And I remember wishing there was a way for disabled people to celebrate their survival and their resilience.

Years later, I learned what Pride really meant. That LGBTQ people aren’t simply proud of who they are — they’re proud to still be here, to still be themselves, despite the hatred and violence they’ve faced. And when I learned more about Disability Pride, I realized it was rooted in the exact same principle.

Disability Pride Month is July. 

It originated in the United States in 1990 when the Americans with Disabilities Act was passed. The movement borrows directly from LGBTQ Pride — from the very word pride to the idea of a disability pride flag, created in 2019 by Ann Magill, a writer with cerebral palsy. Today, the flag is used not just at Disability Pride events, but also within queer spaces — even on the self-care app Finch, where it’s displayed alongside LGBTQ flags.

Like many movements that began in the U.S., Disability Pride has since gone global. It’s been officially celebrated in the U.K. since 2015, and I first heard about it in Russia during a queer community event.

“Disabled people have their own Stonewall,” a colleague once told me during his presentation. He was referring to the Capitol Crawl, a protest in 1990 when over 1,000 disabled Americans marched from the White House to the Capitol. Upon arriving, about 60 activists, including 8-year-old Jennifer Keelan-Chaffins, left their wheelchairs and mobility aids behind and crawled up the Capitol steps, hand over hand. This powerful act of civil disobedience exposed the brutal inaccessibility disabled people faced daily. By the end of the day, 104 participants were arrested.

That protest helped push the ADA through Congress — and it’s remembered as a landmark moment, much like Stonewall. Disability rights activists around the world have long seen LGBTQ Pride as an inspiration — and the influence is undeniable.

Even within the broader disability rights movement, smaller communities have formed their own pride traditions. Autistic Pride Day is on June 18, and I was the first person to promote it in Russia — again, inspired by American activists. It was local LGBTQ organizations that helped me organize those early Autistic Pride events.

This seemed like a logical collaboration, but, sadly, this support happened less often than it should.

Even though younger LGBTQ activists — especially those from Gen Z — are often extremely supportive toward disabled and neurodivergent people, large LGBTQ organizations still struggle to follow through. As someone who’s worked with both LGBTQ and disability communities across Ukraine, Russia, Israel, Europe, Australia, the U.K., and the U.S., I can say this honestly: I’ve never seen a fully disability-inclusive LGBTQ event or Pride.

LGBTQ Pride culture is overwhelmingly neurotypical and built by non-disabled people for non-disabled people. This is despite the fact that at least 16 percent of LGBTQ people are disabled — the same percentage as the general population. In fact, the real number is likely even higher, due to the intersection between queerness and autism, and because LGBT people experience higher rates of mental health challenges because of the minority stress.

Making Pride more accessible isn’t difficult. It just requires intention:

• Choose routes and venues that are wheelchair accessible
  
• Allow support animals
  
• Create a quiet room for sensory regulation
  
• Avoid epilepsy triggers in lighting and visuals
  
• Provide clear, easy-read information about the event
  
• Use image descriptions and communication badges
  

But above all, listen. Adopt the disability rights movement’s principle of “nothing about us without us.” Include disabled LGBTQ activists in planning, outreach, and leadership for Pride preparation. Not as a checkbox, but as core contributors to the event and the community. We deserve more than just being a token. 

Even during the Trump administration, the American LGBTQ movement has powerful influence across the globe. If U.S.-based Pride events commit to accessibility, they can help set a new worldwide standard. And that would be a powerful message — especially now when both LGBTQ and disability rights are under political attack in the U.S. and beyond. Accessible and inclusive Pride parades may be the first step to make. The LGBTQ and disability rights communities need to work together against bigotry and hate — especially because of the Pride history we share — and not let accessibility barriers divide us.

As someone who’s spent a career working to ensure LGBTQ+ people are represented in politics, welcomed in public life, and protected under law, I know how powerful visibility can be. I’ve also seen what happens when that visibility is denied — especially to those at the intersection of marginalized identities.

That’s why, as WorldPride arrives in Washington, D.C., I’m filled with both pride and a sense of deep responsibility.

WorldPride isn’t just a parade. It’s a global platform — a moment when the world’s eyes will be on our city. It’s an opportunity to model what queer liberation should look like: bold, inclusive, principled, and expansive.

But I’m also hearing, more and more, from LGBTQ Jews who aren’t sure they’ll be safe to show up.

Since Oct. 7, antisemitism has surged around the globe — including in progressive and queer spaces. We saw it last week when two Israeli embassy workers were killed in a shooting at the Capital Jewish Museum. Across the country, Jewish LGBTQ people are being asked to choose between parts of who they are. I’ve seen groups disinvited from Pride events for displaying a Jewish star. I’ve heard from friends who are now afraid to wear religious symbols in LGBTQ spaces. And I’ve witnessed silence from movement leaders when antisemitism appears — cloaked in politics, but no less dangerous.

As a gay Jewish man, I know how that erasure feels. And I know what it looks like to be told you’re welcome only if you agree to leave part of yourself at the door.

WorldPride in D.C. must not send that message.

This is our city. And this is our chance to lead. We can’t just be proud — we have to be accountable. We have to ensure that Pride is truly a space for all of us, including LGBTQ Jews who carry grief, identity, and history that may not always align neatly with dominant narratives.

That means taking action. It means working with groups like A Wider Bridge to make sure Jewish LGBTQ people are included at every level of planning. It means briefing security teams and marshals to protect—not police—those who show up with Jewish symbols. It means being clear that antisemitism, like all forms of hate, has no place at Pride.

It also means recognizing how deeply intertwined Jewish history is with queer liberation. From Harvey Milk, one of the first openly gay elected officials, to countless Jewish LGBTQ activists who’ve helped shape movements from Stonewall to marriage equality, Jewish LGBTQ individuals have long been integral to our progress. Erasing their Jewishness erases our history and undermines our future.

We must reject purity tests that ask queer Jews to disavow who they are in order to be accepted. Such demands not only isolate LGBTQ Jews but weaken the solidarity that has been foundational to our collective progress.

To the organizers of WorldPride: You have the power to set the tone for the world. Use it to uplift — not exclude. Bring in diverse Jewish voices, especially Mizrahi, Sephardi, trans, and queer Jews of color. Make space for their grief. Honor their joy. Ensure their safety. And publicly affirm their presence, making clear that visibility at Pride includes the visibility of Jewish symbols, experiences, and identities.

To my fellow LGBTQ leaders: We’ve long said our movement must be inclusive. That must include Jews. Period. Inclusivity isn’t conditional. It means standing unequivocally against antisemitism, even — and especially — when it’s difficult or uncomfortable.

And to LGBTQ Jews: Don’t sit this one out. I understand the hesitation, the exhaustion, and the fear. But this moment calls for courage, too. You belong in every rainbow-colored corner of this movement. Wear your stars. Carry your flags. Share your stories and reclaim your visibility. Show up as your whole self.

WorldPride is here. Let’s make it a beacon — not just of celebration, but of courage, complexity, and true community. Let’s show the world a Pride that doesn’t just speak of solidarity but embodies it fully, unequivocally, and joyfully for every LGBTQ person — including Jews.

Marty Rouse is a renowned D.C. LGBTQ activist. He served for decades at the Human Rights Campaign and the Victory Fund.