Celebrating love, community and pride as parents

When I was a lesbian in my early twenties, sweet with a young body and boundless energy, Pride Month was everything. I counted the minutes until June. Pride meant posing with my arms around rhinestone-encrusted drag queens with the sleek bodies I dreamed of. Pride meant fruity drinks on patios, stacks of rubber bracelets at colorful street stalls, and competing for entry to the biggest parties in town. When I had just come out in the early 2000s, Pride meant celebrating and making memories I couldn’t remember when I got too drunk.

Twenty years of Pride celebrations later, things are different. I am no less excited about the festivities. I still feel the butterflies of satisfaction in my stomach and tears well up in my eyes when I see flags fluttering to announce the parade of floats.

But at 41, in this ecstatic crowd, someone kicks me as I cheer. My sweaty legs are pressed to my hips and a small hand reaches up to get a better look. I still push forward and struggle with clothes, but now I’m packing for three children.

As soon as stains from popsicles appear, rainbow-colored costume changes are called for.

As a mom, Pride is less sexy and less self-serving. Instead of searching for swirl margaritas, I keep an eye out for ice cream cone vendors. Our cooler, once overflowing with beer and vodka, now contains the right brand of apple juice and crustless sandwiches.

This year, my wife, our eight-, six-, and two-year-olds, and I traveled east to celebrate Pride in Eureka Springs, Arkansas. The generous organizers of the 2024 event had invited us as special guests. We loaded up a portable booth, a table, food, and more rainbow paraphernalia than one family should own. Trying to push away thoughts of the days when all I needed was a backpack with a spare pair of flip-flops and a thermos, I stuffed my SUV with first aid kits, pillows, toys, boogie boards, and all the book stuff I needed to give away. After packing everything, our human circus of five people plus a (mostly) helpful grandma hit the road.

After a bathroom break, a tantrum from our toddler, and an ice cream stop, we arrived at our expensive lakefront rental in a town near Pride activities. Grammy chatted with the kids each morning and enticed them with a holiday breakfast, including marshmallow creme on toast, while my wife and I went into town to set up our booth.

We stocked the booth with free sunglasses, pride tattoos, store-bought friendship bracelets, and copies of my book. After everything was set up, my wife went to get the kids. They hung around for an hour, browsing other booths, complaining, and spending money on junk in stores. The youngest danced to blaring music from a nearby stage, causing more tantrums.

As I struggled to catch candy and, oddly enough, a stray granola bar from the floats, I looked at the bigger picture. Even though I yelled at my kids that Snickers weren’t worth dying for, I thought about how proud I really am.

How lucky I am to be able to share Pride with the people I love most.

The first parade I attended decades ago consisted of a handful of participants, a coalition of dreamers of what was possible who were more brave than proud. At the time, same-sex couples were not allowed to legally marry in America. I rarely saw queer people kissing or holding hands in public.

There was hope, but also so much fear.

Thankfully, I’m not the only one who’s changed – the world has changed too – not enough, but a little. And while we still have a long way to go, it’s a win to know that my children can celebrate Pride with unbridled joy rather than fear and terror.

That is everything.

And as a parent, do you want to know what the best thing about Pride is? When I have a child on my shoulders, their neck heavy with beads and their hands sticky with cotton candy, we stare together at the parading sea. Roller girls with black spots under their eyes, chanting boys in mesh tops and gorgeous queens in 7-inch heels on 100-degree asphalt. When my baby leans close to my ear, I shout over the noise: “They are here for us. These are our people and we are proud!”

That evening, after we put the kids to bed, my wife and I met our friends. We took pictures like we still had juvenile livers. I danced so wildly that I kicked a shoe across the dance floor. I lost my voice. One of my friends asked me the next day, “Do you think anyone saw my breast pop out of my top?”

Yes, girl. You saw it. It’s okay, and nobody cares.

Pride does not judge.

Even our Sunday brunch, which usually involved us hungover and mulling over the weekend’s dates and breakups, was different this year. Instead of soothing our headaches with Bloody Marys, we found a place in town that served nuggets and smiley pancakes.

Pride is a different kind of commodity these days.

Whether I’m longing for the Pride status of days gone by or melancholy about the parties I’m missing, nothing could be better than sharing that sense of belonging, that sense of a queer community and its allies, with my own children.

I agree that things looked different this June. A completely different experience, an old one, doesn’t make my pride any less important.

My statement necklaces and booty shorts may be in the attic, but I’m still here.

I’m still proud, but a little more tired for it. I still have my flags and rainbow t-shirts, but I have to go to bed now. And vitamins – lots of vitamins. And as for a white party? I’m out. I’m in spirit (at least until my 8pm bedtime), but I haven’t worn white in years – my Jell-O hands and Cheeto mouths forbid it.

But I am proud of us and happy to be able to cheer from the sidelines.

Keep celebrating, my friends. I can’t wait to hear stories about the memories you create.

Jess H. Gutierrez is a public speaker and former journalist whose work has appeared in the Northwest Arkansas Times, Arkansas Democrat Gazette, Siloam Springs Herald Leader and Fayetteville Free Weekly. She has received several awards from the Arkansas Press Association. She also won the fifth grade spelling bee, even though everyone thought Crissy Eaton would win the title. She lives in Northwest Arkansas with her wife, who is a firefighter and is way cooler than she is, three rambunctious kids and a grumpy bulldog named Hank.

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