San Diego’s annual Pride Parade began in 1974, when a small group of gays and lesbians paraded without a permit—marching on the sidewalks and stopping for red lights to avoid confrontation with the SDPD. Activists Jess Jessop and Tom Homann had gone to SDPD headquarters to request a permit, but the sergeant-in-charge told them, “There will never be a homosexual pride march in this city. You guys are deviants and queers and if you don’t get out of here, we will arrest you.”

Not a great start.

But, in 1975 – the year I graduated from college – San Diego gays again applied to the SDPD for a parade permit. This time they got one, and on June 28, 1975, four hundred queer folk marched from Hobo Park to Balboa Park, for the first official Pride Parade and Rally. It was the start of annual celebrations of queerness. The parades have grown exponentially: in the 1980 parade there were seven hundred participants. There were 100,000 in 1997 and 300,000 in 2018. (Thanks to Lillian Faderman for this bit of queer history).

Representatives of the San Diego Police Department—which had long evoked fear and loathing among gay people—marched, in uniform and with friendly smiles – in the 1991 Pride Parade. In 1992, Police Chief Bob Burgreen placed himself at the head of the SDPD contingent in the Parade.

As Pride 2025 San Diego approaches, it’s a challenging time in the world to be queer. Some of the justices on the Supreme Court have mumbled about reversing same-sex marriage like they did a woman’s right to choose. Trump wants to de-fund anything LGBTQ-oriented, and has a special desire to disempower trans people. It’s a rough time, in some ways, and yet….we celebrate. Why? Because we can! And why should we let the homophobes of the world drag us down to their level of fear and hate?

My first Pride parade was in 1980 in NYC: I was 27 and going to Studio 54 on a regular basis. I wasn’t really “out”, but everyone who knew me certainly suspected. I was in a rock band – the only queer member – who rehearsed from midnight-to-3AM in a dumpy rehearsal space off Times Square. I was doing temp work at law firms to pay the bills.

My first Pride parade terrified me. I didn’t know what to make of it. It was sure different from Wellington, Ohio, where I grew up. So many happy people. They were like people from another planet. Still closeted, I watched the parade with some straight friends. They enjoyed it more than I did: there was nothing at stake for them.

I wanted to come out, but was raised in such a homophobic environment that I had no idea who I’d be and how the world would treat me. As a kid, my family made fun of Truman Capote and Liberace when they appeared on TV. At school, I was called “homo”, “fag” or – the worst – “Michelle” by the handsome, popular boys. I hated myself for being attracted to them.

At NYC Pride 1980, as thousands of queer folks surrounded me, I felt hope: “Maybe, just maybe, I could come out too?” (note the question mark). Maybe some of these people used to be like me: terrified and full of self-loathing.

It was a start. A spark.

It took me three more years, but, eventually, I came out to myself and the men’s support group I went to. Most of the other guys were straight, but they were so happy when I came out to them.

“You weren’t surprised?” I asked them.

“No Michael. We knew.”

“Then why didn’t you say something?”

“It’s your life; you decide when you’re ready to tell us. We can wait.”

And they did.

And I did.

And at the age of thirty, I came out. Trembling, timid and hesitant…but “out” nonetheless. That was forty-two years’ ago.

So, if you go to Pride events this year, please remember that there may be some terrified person at the back of the crowd who’s trying to pluck up their courage to come out. Give them a smile. Send them some good energy. Who knows? Maybe they’re right on the cusp and your kindness will make all the difference.

Happy Pride!