Cops, Out

To rain or not to rain on a parade

It’s June. That means our fair land is finally experiencing sunny days, liberated school children, and pride. Despite my thorough support of being proud, I have never attended a pride parade before. This is mostly because I think that the last thing any queer space needs is another straight white woman with a quirky spin on fashion, but also a little bit because my tolerance for crowded public events without dedicated bathrooms has receded with age.

But last Sunday, my friend Kirk invited me to a pride brunch at his house in West Hollywood and I gladly accepted. It was a delightful event thrown by gracious hosts. Once everyone was full of waffles and mimosas it was time to meander down to the parade route, just a block away.

West Hollywood Pride had spun off from Los Angeles Pride this year, due to some internal drama I am definitely not informed enough to rehash let alone editorialize about. The result of said drama was two parades on two different weekends, one of them (Los Angeles) with Xtina (Aguilera), one of them (West Hollywood) sans Xtina (Aguilera). We attended the Genie-in-a-Bottle-less event, perched on a stretch of Santa Monica Boulevard lined with two-story gay bars on one side and a fortress-like police station on the other.

As evidenced by the internal schism outlined above, pride has been subjected to a lot of criticism within the LGBTQ+ community, centering on its corporate sanitization. Its critics lament that what started as a revolutionary movement has been reduced to a lukewarm display of submission. Never having been to the event myself, I didn’t have a strong opinion on the matter. That was to change almost immediately.

Any delusions that pride criticisms are the whiny, grindy axe of weak SJW liberals shattered when the parade began and one of the first groups to amble past was…the Los Angeles Sherriff’s Department. Our current sheriff, Alex Villanueva, is a pretty bad sheriff which is saying a lot even for a sheriff. But here was his department, accompanied by a police car adorned with a snarling bear ripping through an American flag in breast cancer awareness colors with its enormous paw. This clearly meant…well, I’m not really sure.  

The last time I had lingered on this stretch of road was during the Black Lives Matter protests, where we had stopped to chant outside the impenetrable police station for at least half an hour, encouraging the individuals inside to find another line of work. Now I was faced with a dilemma: how to communicate my disapproval of state-sponsored violence as a Sunday morning parade-watcher?

This was all complicated by the fact the sherrif’s phalanx comprised of LGBTQ+ police officers. One held her tiny dog and waved its tiny paw at us as she passed. Two men, a couple, held hands, in uniform. Some had their kids with them. The thought passed my mind that to see out-and-proud police officers when I was growing up was unthinkable. I went from angry to emotional. How does one simultaneously condemn the police and condone pride?

I was still contemplating the question when the police gave way to the next outfit, and before I knew it the float for a famous, enormous gay bar was sidling past, lithe dancers writhing on scaffolding to Lady Gaga, just as our good gay Lord intended.

It all comes back to the important question: how do we stay human in a system that wants us to be anything but? Holding the hand of the person we love shouldn’t be a privilege, even for police officers. There are people who will never hold the hand of someone they love again because of police officers. My inability to take a hard line probably means I am too soft-hearted for the revolution.

See? This indulgent self-reflection is why straight white women should not be allowed at pride.

(There are a lot of nasty homophobic fish to fry at the moment, most urgently in Florida. Equality Florida advocates for the LGBTQ+ community and is working to repeal the “Don’t Say Gay” bill—consider a donation if you can!)