The media has a (justifiable) tendency to compare the gay community to other minorities. Debate about same sex marriage inevitably leads to a comparison to interracial marriage. When the topic is gays in the military, the comparison is to women gaining the right to serve. For each item on the gay agenda, (Yes; there is a gay agenda. Full equality is at the top of the list...) other minorities have had to make a comparable struggle.
There is a fundamental difference, though. And this difference is what makes progress on gay rights issues seem so painfully, heartbreakingly slow.
Suppose I am an African American man. Most likely, I was raised by African American parents. I was taught from a young age about the history of my race and the challenges we have faced through the generations, from the days of slavery through the election of our first African American president. And if I wasn't taught those things by my parents, I learned about them at school. I am aware that there are still people around who hate me for the color of my skin, but I have also learned that there is nothing inherently wrong with me as a person because of it. It is something about which I should feel proud.
Now let's suppose I am a gay man. (That shouldn't be too hard.) I was raised by straight parents. I was told from a young age that I was also straight. There were very clear expectations about how I would grow up, who I would date, what would be appropriate for me to like and dislike, and how it would be appropriate for me to act. Only once my high school years were already waning would I even begin to fathom that I might not conform to this model, that I might actually not be straight. My own internalized homophobia ensured that even after this realization, I wouldn't come to accept myself for some time.
This isn't supposed to be a lamentation about how hard gay people have it. Hell no. Because today's gay community has it a LOT better than they used to. The point of my two parallel stories about growing up is that a person from any other minority naturally assimilates the details of their minority's history and struggles. Armed with that knowledge, they are ready from a young age to be able to advocate for themselves against intolerance and express the pride they rightly feel in their community.
Gay people are automatically born apart from their community. It takes them years to gain knowledge of the history of their community, if they ever gain it at all. And the leap to the next step, to actually feel pride in their community, and to be able to fight for its rights in a meaningful way, is even more unlikely and remarkable.
The history of my community survives only as long as gay people continue to come out, to connect with each other, and to pass on the stories about what others in our community have done.
And it is because of this fact that Pride is so important.
Without Pride--without the visible presence of our community actively engaged in the world, the closeted teenagers in all corners of the globe have no hope, because they have nothing to pin their hope on--no role models, no stories, no history, and no community.
Our community's struggle for full equality is agonizingly slow. Despite the seemingly insurmountable structural barriers that keep us from making meaningful progress, though, we still push forward. I grew up in a more tolerant, accepting community than those who came before me. And it's even less difficult for today's youth than it was for me.
Since the comparisons between the gay community and other minorities are probably not going to end any time soon, I'll close with the classic MLK quote: "The arc of history is long, but it bends toward justice..."
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