I grew up wearing a thick disguise that almost took over me. The hatred and self-loathing for not being attracted to girls. I remembered staring at boys in PE classes with discrete, the sweat coming down from their foreheads to their necks, the smell of hormones, and the sound of basketballs bouncing on the ground that felt concrete. 

The bullies knew who I was before I could even tell: the flaming slur-callings, the threats, the exclusions from both boys and girls because I was neither boy enough nor girl enough for any of them. A confused and damaged soul in a rural area of China. I remembered wanting connections so badly that I had to dehumanize myself so people would accept me. I feared my femininity. I smoked cigarettes non-stop to make my voice sound “tough,” I projected my fear onto others, repeating the same harmful narratives. I lost the high-pitched voice that I was so proud of as a kid. I lost my virginity at a very young age to a guy 20 years older than me just because I craved that attention. But most importantly, I lost myself in this mist; I forgot who I am. 

Escapism was my natural response and coping mechanism. I planned carefully and worked hard to get accepted to study in Canada. Being in a foreign land excited me, a new world full of possibilities. However, my romanticization about the gay paradise vanished as soon as I realized homophobia does not magically fade away just because I’m in a different place. The frustration of using Grindr remains, and the slur-calling on the street remains; I’ve never been this lost. I came out to my mom near the end of the first year. The stress of not fitting in with the Queen’s crowds and the subtle racism disappointed me; I couldn’t take the stress and told my mom what I’ve always wanted to say.

Moms always know. But hearing that herself, she still couldn’t believe her suspicions were real. I started to dissociate at her yelling and denial. My distanced memories started to manifest as imageries in my dreams, the fragmented pieces of emotions that once torn me apart. I dreamed about trying on my mom’s heels, fearing dying of AIDS after kissing a boy, and sending the last text to my friend who committed suicide because she was sick and tired of the lack of affirmation for trans youth. I woke up with sweats, unable to breathe. Luckily, I have amazing friends who knocked on my door and paid me a surprise visit. I decided to go to therapies in hopes that I might be less depressed and anxious. Now that I’m looking back on it, I’m glad I did seek help. 

But… what does my story has to do with Pride? I honestly don’t have a concrete answer. My perception of Pride is not simply about being proud of who you are; rather, it entails a form of political contestation that deconstructs the idea that we need to be “accepted.” I spent my whole life trying to be accepted by people: my parents, peers, and teachers. If one cannot fully embrace oneself, acceptance doesn't mean anything. The politics of tolerance implies a structural hierarchy that protects those in power by making “wokeness” a shield. It is confusing to see the people and the institutions that rejected you are now opening their arms and telling you to be proud of who you are. But they really just want those almighty dollars from you. Queer history and activism have been so sanitized in entering the mainstream that people seem to forget that queer rights were not begged but fought with bricks and heels, with protests and riots, and with the hope of crushing oppression through collectivist contestation. People now see signs and slogans like “diversity and inclusion” everywhere, on university campuses, governmental buildings, and even police cars. But no one dares to say that these political frameworks are centred around white comfort to absolve privileges instead of liberation. 

Pride for me has never been just about sexuality or marriage equality. It has been, and always will be, a riot against the systemic brutality on queers through the police force, prisons, and state-sanctioned violence. It is crucial not to forget that discourses about queer politics are also discourses about socio-economic class and one’s material conditions. We need to bring out more discussions on the history of harm reduction in relation to queer history, the governmental and institutional neglect during the HIV/AIDS epidemic, the police raids and the incarceration of trans people, sex workers, and queers of colour (usually intersecting). Pride also means recognizing the issues within the queer community: the dehumanization and minimization of people of colour as either fetishes or not-desirable compared to their white counterparts. Queerness is not an immunity to white supremacy, but it is a blind spot for it. We own the slangs to Black women, we own the rights to street queens and sex workers, and we will learn from the legacies and continue to fight. 

Revisiting my past and writing this piece has been tough, but it felt unprecedentedly good. Moving beyond the pedagogy that taught me to be ashamed of myself felt so liberating. Even though my parents might never be proud of me. But I’m glad that I’m finally proud of myself. 

Cheers to growing up confused. To tears streaked down on my pillow. To waiting for a gay relationship on-screen only for the writer to let them both die in the end. To speaking in coded language. To putting a middle finger in response to slur-calling. To finally loving and embracing my femininity. To drunk dancing Reggaeton under neon lights at Crews & Tangos. To chatting with blank profiles on Grindr. To making peace with your family. To making peace with yourself. To finally becoming human again.

By: Hoosica Huang 

Image: From “Everyone gets a piece of pride”
Creative Director: Rida Chaudhry
Photographer: Taryn Resende
MUA: Rida Chaudhry
Models:
Iffy
Marcus Zain
Sophia Cecucci