I Love My Gay Found Photos
They Should Never Be Afraid To Be Who They Really Are
Surprise! Despite all my years as a seasoned homo-trans-sexual, I don’t have a single printed photo from a Pride event I attended. Not one. So, as always, I’m relying on my stash of found photos to capture the feeling of Pride. A feeling that, lately, hits different when the world feels especially dark and truly disgusting.
(Fuck ICE. Love from Los Angeles, we are hanging in there.)
It is Pride Month, I think! Los Angeles kicked things off the first weekend of June with a big celebration in West Hollywood—and for the third year in a row, I missed it. Totally forgot it was even happening until it was over that Sunday evening, and was reminded of Pride as JoJo Siwa memes flooded my Instagram feed and corporations started dyeing everything different shades of Red48 and Rainbow in the name of inclusivity for exactly 30 days! (And as of this publication date, we have 18 days remaining.)
When I first moved to San Francisco in 2001, arriving via Greyhound with seven bags and a few pillows, I was excited about the idea of Pride—or at least a party that existed in the ether of an entire city at all times, taking up space in alleyways, bathroom stalls, and hole-in-the-wall bars. I landed a job as a laundromat attendant in a café that was also an evening spot for open mic nights and stand-up comedy showcases, all thanks to a Faux Queen I met on Diaryland where I was a voracious diarist under an anonymous name, making friends across the country in a time before social media. She introduced me via email to her Butch Friend, the manager of a laundro-café located in SoMa.
On my first day in The City, I walked into the laundromat and got the job. I don’t even remember asking for a job, but it all came together like a dream, if landing a job washing other people’s dirties is a dream. (But in general, does this still exist? The walking into a job and getting it type of moment? Or was that just the magic of being 20, not caring about outcomes, and fully believing the universe had your back? Or maybe it was me not realizing the universe had my back and receiving all the good things until the universe exhausted itself on me and moved on?)
Because I was the new guy, I always got scheduled for the daytime shifts on major gay holidays—so I missed the Pride parade, including the Dykes on Bikes kick-off, my first year… and sadly, for years after. But that left my nights wide open for bar crawls, drunken skill shares, backroom art shows, drag performances, and finding friends sobbing in the gutter after going too hard in Dolores Park. I remember getting off work and heading straight to an impromptu party spilling out of a tiny art gallery, where a cute trans boy in a sailor suit danced confidently with freshly grown sideburns. (Tell me more about the magic of testosterone, I remember thinking! Does it just exist in the air in San Francisco, or is this something I need to get a prescription for?) I was binding with masking tape that year (a health hazard I do not recommend–seriously, please, do not do it, message me if you are truly at a loss here), and hitting The Stud weekly, usually twice a week. Memories from early 2000s San Francisco come to me in sharp flashes—visceral and crystal clear featuring wild minutia, but then major life plot points will often be completely gone, falling straight through my brain holes, but when friends from that time period share stories I often nod my head and pretend to remember!
By the summer of 2001, San Francisco Pride was already a corporate giant—sponsored by Bud Light and requiring wristbands just to enter a tent zone filled with gay-friendly realtors and other liquor brands that were cool with Gay™. I could never afford a wristband anyway. Besides, who needs the branded party when you’ve got your queer baby finger on the pulse of all things rage-y and fun?
I remember queer zines and flyers discourse around this time – to be a radical queer, you called out corporate Pride or you were very much part of the problem! I had some of these flyers taped to the wall in my shared Mission District bedroom, where my best friend and I slept on separate mattresses on the floor. I guess I’ve always been a bit of a jaded old homo—LOLing at mainstream acceptance, especially when the acceptance spotlight is powered by brands that don’t care about me the other 364 days a year. That’s not a hot take. In fact, it’s probably quite boring to read! Sorry! But now that I’m older, the idea of something like a small-town Pride—no matter how few tables are set up and how many freedom ring necklaces are being worn in earnest—sounds both urgent and fun and like, a total joy. If I lived in a small town, I’d be there. I’d offer to take photos, stamp hands, maybe even sell your homemade jewelry while you ran off to do too many shots and rub your bosses bald head and make a wish –something you will regret, instantly. But I’ll be there for you.
This week’s post features vintage found photos from between 1977-1999, and they are loosely gathered here today to speak on the theme of PRIDE. And no, they’re not all photos of PRIDE as in parades or parties. The only requirement is that they look kinda proud to me. That’s what Pride means right now: friends, L-I-V-I-N, feeling cute might delete later, but too late because it’s a photo so I guess they could’ve ripped up the proof if they felt that way.
Thanks for being here, queer and queer adjacent readers!
If you know anyone in these photos (besides Ellen, because we all know Ellen), tell me more in the comments! I’m especially curious about the queen named Jane Doe from 1977 San Francisco. Maybe one of my readers remembers the name. I have about ten photos of her that someone sold to me online, and I’d like to know more.
Anne HECHE?