A split-scene illustration contrasts an early LGBTQ+ protest march filled with activists carrying liberation signs and demanding equal rights against a modern Pride parade featuring rainbow flags, corporate sponsorships, and celebratory crowds, highlighting the movement’s evolution from political resistance to mainstream cultural celebration while emphasizing the continuing struggle for transgender equality. (Image generated by ChatGPT using DALL·E, 2026.)
Every June, millions of people gather for Pride celebrations across the United States. Streets are filled with rainbow flags, corporate logos, political candidates, and festival-like atmospheres. For many participants, Pride is a joyful affirmation of LGBTQ+ identity and a celebration of the progress that has been achieved over the past half century.
Yet Pride was not created as a celebration.
Pride was born from protest.
The first Pride marches emerged in the aftermath of the Stonewall uprising of 1969, when LGBTQ+ people fought back against routine police harassment and discrimination. Early Pride events were acts of political resistance. Participants marched because they faced criminalization, employment discrimination, housing discrimination, family rejection, and social exclusion. Pride was a demand for change, not a celebration of acceptance (TIME, 2020).
Over time, however, Pride changed.
By the late 1990s and early 2000s, LGBTQ+ organizations were increasingly integrated into mainstream political and corporate institutions. Large corporations began sponsoring Pride events. Politicians who once avoided association with LGBTQ+ causes now sought visibility in Pride parades. Pride organizations became larger, more professionalized, and increasingly dependent upon corporate sponsorship and institutional partnerships.
This transformation brought benefits. Greater visibility helped normalize LGBTQ+ identities, and corporate sponsorships provided resources that allowed Pride events to grow dramatically. Yet there was also a cost.
As Pride became more institutionalized, its activist character began to fade. Events that once centered political demands increasingly emphasized entertainment, marketing, and celebration. What had begun as a protest movement gradually evolved into a cultural festival. Many activists have argued that the commercialization of Pride diluted its political message and encouraged the public to believe that the struggle for LGBTQ+ equality had largely been won (Cornell University, 2022).
That perception grew even stronger after marriage equality became law nationwide. For many Americans, the legalization of same-sex marriage represented the culmination of the modern LGBTQ+ civil rights movement. The dominant narrative became one of victory rather than continued struggle.
But for many transgender people, the struggle was far from over.
The tensions between mainstream LGBTQ+ organizations and transgender activists became particularly visible during the debate surrounding the Employment Non-Discrimination Act (ENDA). Throughout the 1990s and 2000s, transgender activists fought for legislation that would prohibit workplace discrimination based on both sexual orientation and gender identity. However, many political leaders and advocacy organizations believed that including gender identity protections would make the legislation more difficult to pass.
In 2007, a version of ENDA was advanced that prohibited discrimination based on sexual orientation but excluded gender identity protections. Supporters of the strategy argued that political realities required compromise. They believed Congress was not prepared to pass a fully inclusive bill and that securing protections for gay, lesbian, and bisexual workers was better than securing no protections at all (Washington Blade, 2017; HRC, 2007).
For many transgender activists, however, this was not a strategic compromise. It was a betrayal.
The message they received was that transgender equality could be postponed because it was politically inconvenient. As a result, transgender activists increasingly relied upon their own organizations and advocacy networks rather than established LGBTQ+ institutions. These groups spent years educating the public, documenting discrimination, challenging exclusionary policies, and building a movement focused specifically on transgender rights.
Over the following decade, public awareness of transgender people increased dramatically. Media coverage expanded. Public opinion shifted. Gender identity became a more visible topic in American political discourse. As transgender rights gained national attention, major LGBTQ+ organizations—including the Human Rights Campaign—became increasingly active advocates for transgender equality.
Many welcomed this support. Additional resources and national visibility strengthened the fight against discrimination. Yet for some transgender activists, the shift was difficult to forget.
From their perspective, transgender organizations had spent years fighting battles that larger LGBTQ+ organizations had either ignored or treated as secondary concerns. Only after transgender rights became more politically visible and socially recognized did many of those larger organizations fully embrace transgender advocacy. The criticism was not that these organizations eventually supported transgender rights. The criticism was that they had not shown the same commitment when doing so carried greater political risk.
This history reflects a broader problem within modern Pride and LGBTQ+ politics. As movements become institutionalized, they often shift from challenging power to managing relationships with power. Organizations become concerned with political access, public relations, donor relationships, and legislative strategy. The result can be a form of respectability politics that prioritizes achievable victories while leaving more controversial or vulnerable communities behind.
Today, transgender people remain the primary targets of legislative attacks on LGBTQ+ rights in the United States. Hundreds of bills have been introduced in recent years targeting transgender healthcare, participation in public life, and legal recognition (Human Rights Campaign, 2026). Yet many Pride events continue to project an image of completed victory rather than ongoing struggle.
Celebration has an important place. LGBTQ+ people deserve joy. They deserve visibility. They deserve to recognize how far the movement has come.
But Pride should never forget why it exists.
Pride was created because LGBTQ+ people were denied equal rights. It was created because marginalized communities demanded justice from institutions that refused to recognize their humanity. If Pride becomes only a celebration, it risks forgetting the very activism that made those celebrations possible.
The history of transgender activism during the ENDA era serves as a reminder that progress is rarely as complete as it appears. Rights can be delayed. Communities can be sidelined. Movements can become comfortable.
The challenge for Pride today is not whether it should celebrate victories.
The challenge is whether it still remembers how to fight.
References
Cornell University. (2022, June 15). Is Pride too commercialized? https://lgbt.cornell.edu/news/pride-too-commercialized-0
Human Rights Campaign. (2007, November 7). U.S. House takes historic step by passing the Employment Non-Discrimination Act. https://www.hrc.org/press-releases/u-s-house-takes-historic-step-by-passing-the-employment-non-discrimination
Human Rights Campaign. (2026). Fighting anti-trans politics. https://www.hrc.org/our-work/stories/fighting-anti-trans-politics
TIME. (2020, June 18). What’s changed—and what hasn’t—in 50 years of Pride parades. https://time.com/5858086/pride-parades-history/
Washington Blade. (2017, November 6). 10 years later, firestorm over gay-only ENDA vote still remembered. https://www.washingtonblade.com/2017/11/06/10-years-later-firestorm-over-gay-only-enda-vote-still-remembered/
Choosing Courage: A Reflection on Governor Pritzker’s Address
By Katherine Walter
On February 20, 2025
In JB Pritzker
In his recent State of the State address, Illinois Governor J.B. Pritzker delivered a powerful critique of the Trump administration, drawing sobering parallels to the rise of authoritarian regimes throughout history. His words, rooted in both his Jewish heritage and his work with the Illinois Holocaust Museum, serve as a stark reminder of how easily democracy can be dismantled when fear, hate, and blame are allowed to take root. As a transgender woman living in America today, Pritzker’s address resonated with me on a deeply personal level.
Governor Pritzker highlighted the ways authoritarian leaders scapegoat marginalized communities—immigrants, LGBTQ+ individuals, people of color, and women—to sow division and consolidate power. This rhetoric is not abstract to me; it is a reality that has shaped my life and identity. Growing up, I was acutely aware of the social stigma surrounding my identity. Even after transitioning, I’ve encountered moments where prejudice and misunderstanding threatened my sense of safety and belonging. Pritzker’s words brought back memories of navigating a world that often seeks to erase people like me, reinforcing the importance of standing firm in the face of fear and ignorance.
Pritzker’s reference to the Nazis’ attempt to march in Skokie in 1978 is a chilling reminder that hate does not disappear—it waits for an opportunity to resurface. His question—“After we’ve discriminated against, deported, or disparaged all the immigrants and the gay and lesbian and transgender people… what comes next?”—echoes my own concerns. I’ve witnessed how quickly negative rhetoric can escalate, especially when it targets vulnerable groups. This question resonates deeply because I know what it’s like to feel as though society is questioning your right to exist.
Yet, Governor Pritzker’s speech was not one of despair, but of defiance and hope. His words, “Tyranny requires your fear and your silence and your compliance. Democracy requires your courage,” speak to the resilience I’ve had to cultivate throughout my life. Coming out as transgender required courage, but advocating for my rights and the rights of others demands even more. Pritzker’s message reaffirmed my belief that silence is not an option—speaking up is essential to preserving both personal freedom and collective democracy.
The governor’s commitment to protecting Illinois residents from the harmful policies of the Trump administration is particularly meaningful to me. His support for affordable healthcare and inclusive education directly impacts my life. Access to gender-affirming healthcare has been crucial to my well-being, and knowing that Illinois prioritizes these services makes me feel more secure. Similarly, the proposed Prescription Drug Affordability Act and expanded mental health services will provide essential support for many in the transgender community who face barriers to care.
Pritzker’s reflection on reciting the oath of office on Abraham Lincoln’s Bible highlights the responsibility leaders have to defend democracy. His refusal to “bend the knee” to authoritarianism aligns with my own determination to live authentically despite societal pressure to conform. I’ve experienced both discrimination and acceptance, and I understand the power of allies who stand up for marginalized communities. Knowing that Illinois has a governor who openly supports LGBTQ+ rights gives me hope that progress is possible, even in challenging times.
History has shown us that silence in the face of injustice allows hatred to thrive. As Governor Pritzker reminded us, it took the Nazis less than two months to dismantle a constitutional republic. We cannot afford to wait until it is too late. His story of the 20 Nazis who marched in Chicago and the 2,000 Illinoisans who came to counter-protest illustrates the power of collective action. Their courage smothered the embers of hate before they could ignite into a wildfire. This serves as a powerful reminder that everyday people have the power to shape the course of history.
For me, this is not just about politics—it is about my right to live, love, and thrive without fear. Governor Pritzker’s call to “gather your justice and humanity, Illinois” resonates deeply because I know firsthand what it means to fight for visibility and acceptance. I am committed to using my voice to advocate for those who cannot speak out and to stand in solidarity with anyone whose rights are threatened. History has taught us the dangers of silence, and I refuse to let fear dictate my future. In this moment, as authoritarianism looms on the horizon, I choose courage.