Pride in progress: Overcoming shame to find my gay pride somewhere under the rainbow

Gay Pride. When you think of it the usual modern imagery comes to mind. Rainbow flags waving, floats representing every letter in the extended LGBTQQIP2SAA acronym, skin, smiles and an unbridled display of freedom of self. For the majority of my life I have loathed it. My argument: the purpose of Pride had been lost. No longer were men, women and others marching in the street for equal rights, they were marching for self indulgence. Gone was the generation who paved the way to progress, giving way to hypersexualized exhibitionists and clueless millennials propped up by opportunistic corporations. These were the people representing me in the media, who would invariably seek out and broadcast the most gratuitous images. Topless women, gyrating men in speedos and assless chaps all on the evening news.  How was I to be taken seriously as a homosexual by association? This is the stereotype that would be assigned to me as part of this minority group and I resented them for it. This was a gathering, I assumed, that would make Pride's original riotous rights seekers sick to their stomach along with me. I was wrong. Coming to that conclusion was a long difficult journey that started with a jarring realization. I was a homophobe.

It's the early '90s. I'm in St. Petersburg, Florida at age 10, one of the many family vacations from a very fortunate and privileged childhood. Driving along the beach toward our condominium we pass a strange looking building. A rounded, elongated, hurricane-proof cement structure with circular windows painted pastel pink. There was something different about this place, an unusual energy my young mind had no recognition of or definition for but I was fascinated nonetheless. It was called Bedrox. I would soon come to learn it was a gay bar. Gay was a bad word in my family, in my community and as a result, in my mind. This was normalized at the time in a society that was still decidedly anti-gay. Driving and walking by this anomalous structure on the beach would be my first exposure to gay culture. It would also be the site of a pivotal moment that would define my psychology for years to come.

On this particular trip our rental car had an odd defect. Every time you would use the windshield washer, the fluid would spray wildly to the sides of the car sometimes by as much as 10 feet or more. As a ten year old I found this to be a joyful aberration and was eager to use it to cause mischief. If only it were socially acceptable to hose down passers by, unless...  suddenly my target became clear. Finally, I had real life flesh and blood faces to attach to the fabled 'f**gots' from my small town upbringing. The confused less-thans. The abominable others. These people, my culture had taught me, were sins against nature. The same people I hated myself for being fascinated with, buried deep in denial. I would make sure I wore mirrored sunglasses when we walked by them on the beach almost daily. Testing the limits of a sideways glance,  staring as their skimpy bathing suits as I walked by without turning my head so my focus would go unnoticed by my family.

One night, driving home late after a dinner out I instructed my parents to slow down. Then, I reached forward into the front seat and pulled on the lever to make the washer fluid fly, soaking a lineup of immaculately dressed gay men in the mood to celebrate. I called it 'Spray the Gays' and I laughed uproariously at their misfortune as they yelled out in defiance, anger and degradation. At the time I felt no moral uncertainty in my actions. A decade later, I would come to intimately know the pain I had inflicted on them because... I was one of them. There was a cost to those actions and I would pay an exacting price to find my own pride after attempting to steal theirs away.

A closet case meets gay culture

The summer of my 21st year I would finally meet a gay person in person. I was at a leadership retreat in my small town for an award granted to me after five years of compensatory over-achievement in high school. It would lead to my first gay relationship: short, informal, volatile and life changing. This was someone who had had a bit more time to get comfortable with his authentic self. My fleeting encounters with him would be the catalyst to my eventual coming out and he did his best to introduce a broken and resistant closet case to gay culture.

Two months after we met I would be living in Toronto as a first year in university and still in the closet. We would meet up again. This time he took me to the city's popular gay village. First we had a meal. We sat on the patio at a place called Zelda's. I barely ate, too busy being paranoid someone who knew me was going to walk by and see us. It felt as if my whole identity was at stake. Next, he took me to what is arguably the most iconic gay bar in the city, Woody's. I walked in to find a barely clothed bartender, an air of hypersexuality and soft core pornography playing on the TVs. I was devastated. It was an affront to my conservative understanding of sex and sexuality and it made me want to run away. This was supposed to be my salvation, a place where I would finally feel acceptance and a sense of community. I didn't identify with any of it and I rejected the gay community outright in that moment.

My coming out came shortly after. After struggling for some time to change my sexuality, the unrelenting cognitive dissonance made me crack. I was gay and there was nothing I could do to change it. To protect my fragile psychology at the time, the messaging my loved ones received was: "I'm gay. I don't want to be. There is nothing I can do about it and as a result I will live a celibate life." The core translation: "I'm a homosexual. But I am not one of 'them'." Surely my suffering would show the world I did not choose this abhorrent life. The antithesis of proud. This attitude would change as I slowly re-educated myself. Time and therapy (ongoing)  helped me learn that I was was not less than, that I was capable of and deserving of love. But the final piece would be the hardest to achieve — finding my personal pride.

Seeing the rainbow in black and white

It seems I'm not alone in the phenomenon. Alex St John is a psychotherapist and manager at Toronto's David Kelley program. The centre works to provide low cost therapy and support services to the queer community and he tells me shame can be at the centre of struggle for many LGBTQ people, especially when they are first exposed to the gay community. I asked him what could be behind my adverse reaction.

"I think being not stuck in this heteronormative society where there are such boundaries and rules on what is appropriate and what is not appropriate can be disorienting. At the core of it there is this message that because we are people who like people of the same sex we are different. That's shame in itself…"

"Shame plays a very large role. It's a very broad topic. If we look at shame broadly, maybe it can be looked at as a barrier, personal or external, to connecting with people. Through my work what I see is shame feeds loneliness or lack of connection. 'Sometimes I don't feel that I will fit, so I don't give people the chance to bond with me.' "

Over the next decade I would sporadically step foot into the gay community but each time I felt like they could smell my shame a mile away and village veterans weren't having any of it. One particularly impactful interaction occured at a small drag bar on Toronto's Church Street. I was watching a queen named Fahrenheit perform and I was doing my usual disappearing act, tucking in against a pillar amongst the crowd  in an attempt to go unnoticed. I must have had a particularly unenthused look on my face because in the middle of the show she stopped everything, pointed her manicured index finger my way and yelled "SMILE C**T!". The entire room turned to stare me down. I smiled for her despite my absolute panic. I had never had so many people recognize my gayness at once. It was an important moment for me. Yes, it was the first time I had been called the 'c word' but more importantly she sent me a clear and impactful message: 'don't bring your judgement to my celebration, leave your baggage at the door because shame and hiding have no place here.'

She wouldn't be the first member of the gay community to challenge my beliefs, attitudes and interactions within the gay community. I got shamed hard on multiple occasions for bringing my judgment into a space of acceptance and freedom. But unlike the crippling shame that birthed my internalized homophobia, this shame was, in retrospect, an antidote born of love. Bitter and difficult to swallow but curative nonetheless. This was an overdue, necessary push back to reprogram rigid and stubborn thinking patterns from a lifetime of miseducation. But as Alex explains, using shame to re-educate can be a double edged sword.

"I think shame forces us, and I'll use internalized homophobia as sort of the example.  If you want to push through it and you are ashamed of it, the shame helps you look at it quickly to do something about it. The healthy part is if you can use shame as a transformative experience, then you can do something with it. I think on the other end of that it disconnects anyone from the community. Because if the community is using shame to educate you are never really going to feel like a member. Again it's sort of this shame pendulum where yes, there are uses to it and inherently it is a mechanism that disconnects us from one another."  

For me, his assessment is spot on. I needed to re-learn the true definition of gayness and the gay community. After 10 years of pushing and pulling I am finally ready to connect with my community.

'Happy Pride'

Last year, I went to an official Pride event for the first time. After years of invitations I finally decided to take a group of co-workers up on the offer to celebrate together. It was an outdoor concert in the park called Starry Night with a DJ, drag and drinks benefiting the local community centre.  My previous exposure to Pride celebrations had been limited to a dismissive walk by of the parade or a disconnected assessment on a TV screen. I was only seeking out the information that confirmed my bias. At Starry Night I expected to experience the same discomfort as the first time I stepped foot in that bar in the village but as I navigated through a veritable sea of people I felt something entirely different. The air of assumed hypersexuality that traumatized me in my youth was no longer a trigger for snap judgements. Instead, I found the atmosphere to be permeated with something entirely different. The people hadn't changed, the place hadn't changed but I felt myself changing by the second. In every person I made eye contact with I found an unspoken sense of understanding, of shared experience and of the importance of gathering in this space at this time. This was more than just a reason to party. The shame that had disconnected me was beginning to wash away.

Amongst the vast number of attendees I ran into someone from my high school.  In the course of our shared existence we had maybe spoken a few times in passing and had limited knowledge of each other other than our status as high profile hometown gossip after coming out.  He walked up to me and gave me a hug saying simply: "Happy Pride." At once I understood. I was wrong, so absolutely wrong about the meaning and importance of pride. I felt part of a community after a rejection from my own. That fundamental human need… to find your tribe, flashed before me.

Yes, personal pride and Pride the event are two separate things but when they come together it is something special.

My pride, is a pride in progress.These days I don't judge the man in the assless chaps or the woman on a motorcycle with her top off. I envy them. They are free and comfortable in their space.  Many men and women marched in the streets before I was born to allow this explosion of expression to occur. I am grateful to them. Slowly, the black veil of shame and assumption that was placed upon me is being torn apart and I can finally see in colour.

My pride is no longer hiding.

My pride is confronting hate, even my own.

My pride is letting go of judgement and shame.

A tiny pride flag waves at the top of my pen as I write these words.

It's been almost 15 years since I came out of the closet and finally, I am taking my first steps onto the rainbow brick road. The memory of my cruel act as a 10 year old sends a bolt of regret through my chest when I think of it… but I will make amends to those men.  I will live out loud and honour their visibility and defiance with my own. As St John articulates, pride is personal but it is for everyone.

"I think the definition that I go with or that I empower people to use is: be proud of who you are, as an individual. That's your pride. Also be proud of being part of a community that is open to having discussions like this one. That is open to expressing themselves in different ways because it's through this expression that we actually learn. If you actually connect with the community and get to know people there is a lot to be proud of. "  

If I'm lucky, I'll get the chance to redefine that painful memory of mine and  'spray the gays' once again. This time with a mutual understanding of celebration and respect in a time honoured tradition on a hot summer day free of hate.

Ryan E. Thompson is a Toronto-based television producer and writer specializing in LGBTQ issues and entertainment.