Pride had its moments, but I’m still not ready for ‘normal’

Is it safe to enjoy things again?

It’s a question people around the world have asked themselves at various points over the past year. As the COVID-19 pandemic trudges into the fall of 2021 with a new, highly contagious variant, new waves and new worries, it’s a question with no easy answers.

It’s also a question I asked myself earlier this month ahead of a Vancouver Pride week like no other: this year, the annual celebration of LGBTQ2S+ identities was billed as a return to gathering together. I asked it even as I enjoyed things like rainbow ice cream sandwiches and partying in packed Pride lounges, shoving five-dollar bills into drag queens’ tits for the first time in a year and a half.

And it’s a question I’m still asking myself a week later, as cases surge in parts of North America, health restrictions return and more than one in five people still stubbornly won’t (or tragically can’t) get vaccinated. 

Can we have fun yet? Or is the looming spectre of a once-in-a-generation pandemic still frightening enough to prompt some concerns? Psychiatrist Arthur Bregman has coined the phrase “cave syndrome” to describe the reluctance to go out and do things, even when restrictions are lifted.

“The longer people are in their cave, the harder it is to get out,” Bregman told CNN. 

When I was offered a spot on a press trip “staycation” sponsored by Vancouver Pride and Fairmont Hotels, I wanted to see if leaving my “cave” to be a tourist in my own city during the gayest time of the year could help me recapture that pre-pandemic Pride magic. Maybe I could let go of some of my pandemic inhibitions, do the whole “hotel and meals out and an event every hour” thing we’ve been longing for and feel that joy of previously Prides. I was double-vaxxed, masked and ready to have fun—within the rules, of course. 

The experience was a bit more complicated than I expected due to the presence of some real-life unexpected anti-vaxxers on the same press trip as me, and the same corporate bullshit we deal with at Pride every year. 

But overall Pride is Pride. There are still those little moments that stick out.

The sweet spot

Vancouver Pride itself, at least within Canada, had advantages many other cities didn’t or won’t have when it comes to hosting Pride in 2021. Toronto Pride happened in June. That annual bang of queer joy was more of a whimper, considering on-going restrictions. And as we’re now seeing, Prides that come later in the summer, like Calgary or Montreal, may get caught up in the threat of a very real fourth wave and the Delta variant.  

But in Vancouver, Pride hit the sweet spot. In late July, I was double-vaxxed, masked up and ready to go. Cases in my area were the lowest they’d been in over a year. Vancouver Pride was doing the in-person thing, albeit in a COVID-19-safe way. There were shows. There was drag. There was a Dyke March. There were rainbow pancakes at expensive drag brunches. There were dozens of people in the same room as me for the first time in months.

There was also the unique moment of awkward reunion hugs with pals and mentions of “we’re double vaxxed!”; of sitting maskless at a table of a dozen strangers for the first time in nearly two years; of listening to live music performed unmasked, but wearing a mask to go to the bathroom and being painfully conscious of how far apart the tables are, and hesitating when a performer asked the crowd to “get up and dance.” 

As much as we could let loose and cosplay normalness, it was still a pandemic. I still awkwardly fist-bumped the nice Fairmont PR guy who hosted us rather than shake his hand. My partner and I waited for the next elevator when there was an unmasked family in the one that opened for us. And we thoroughly sanitized our hands before each meal. 

Three days at a unique Pride

I kicked off my Pride with a COVID-19-safe non-binary and trans picnic, an outdoor event featuring local trans and non-binary performers. In the over 30 degree heat, I watched the show sitting under an umbrella on grass torched by 50 rainless days . Canada’s Drag Race star Ilona Verley made an appearance to the delight of a cluster of kids with a big Two-Spirit flag in the front row, who lingered afterwards for the chance to hug their idol. 

After the performance, I went for dinner alongside other queer media and social media influencers who were invited on the excursion. It felt like an actual event, complete with awkward smalltalk and getting to know the influencer couple at our table—a pair of lesbians in their mid-30s who travel the world with their dog Theo and post about it on their @lezseetheworld Instagram account. As we spoke, I realized how few new people I’ve met in person over the past year and a half. And beside bits of social awkwardness, it felt good. 

When my partner and I returned to our hotel after the first dinner, I did what all good reporters among influencers do: I started Googling to see who we’re dealing with—and that’s when things took a sharp turn away from the illusion of normalcy.

The search started off innocuous. One member of a gay male couple in their 40s was actually from the same small Alberta hometown as me. Another hot muscle gay moonlit as a barber. And then we got to the pair of incredibly hot Instagram queers seated at another table near us. 

“I think one of them’s an anti-vaxxer,” I practically shouted across the hotel room at my girlfriend. The journalistic instinct of a “scoop” ignited in my chest as my hope of a “normal” Pride dropped out the bottom of my soul. 

Sure enough: conspiracy theories, talk of sheep and the “lies” of U.S. top doc Anthony Fauci abounded on the feed of this incredibly hot Instagram influencer who sat unmasked eating dinner feet away from me earlier that night. 

I was shocked that (1) this person and her influencer partner (who, to be fair, didn’t post openly about being anti-vax) weren’t vetted by the marketing folks behind this trip, and (2) she was so blatantly, almost stereotypically, a conspiracy theorist. 

Of course this quest to recapture a “normal Pride in these trying times” would have a big ol’ queer anti-vaxxer wrench thrown into it. But it was also a sharp reminder to me that anti-vax sentiments and conspiracy theories aren’t reserved for rural conservatives in Alberta or Florida, or for your aunt’s holistic wellness Facebook group. They’re within our LGBTQ2S+ communities as well, and they’re very real.

The next night, when we met for dinner at the Fairmont’s restaurant, my partner and I were the first of the group to arrive. The anti-vaxxer and her partner—a hot trans guy who’s gone viral on TikTok—arrived maskless and immediately turned away from our quietly aggressive “we wear our masks when we’re not eating!” vibes. I breathed a sigh of relief as they settled onto the far end of the table from us. The travel lesbians (blessedly masked and vaxxed themselves) sat with us again. In all honesty, I wasn’t ready to have THAT conversation. 

The anti-vaxxer influencer was a sharp reminder that peoples’ refusal, for whatever reason, to get vaccinated is driving a fourth wave of COVID-19 in Canada, alongside unclear government policy and a bit of unfortunate luck. I know I speak for many when I say that I worked so hard to have a fun Pride. I got my vaccine the moment it was offered. I stayed home. I wore my mask. I did everything right. And yet, it wasn’t enough. Here we are, still worrying about things.

And we’re going to be for a while. 

Moments of joy

There will hopefully never be a Pride like this again, but experiencing Vancouver Pride in 2021 made me think a lot about what really matters, and reminded me that even amid the worry, there can be moments of joy.

When it comes down to it, the best parts of Pride this year were the moments of queer joy that existed beyond the bounds of what was inconsistently regulated. I’ll remember the Dyke March, masked up and marching alongside hundreds of queer and trans people shouting “trans rights are human rights” in the rain. While the organizers of the annual event held a COVID-19-safe sit-in in partnership with Vancouver Pride later in the day, the iconic march itself was classic word-of-mouth queer organizing and solidarity. 

And this year I even learned that there is some value to corporate Pride. I know, I know. Don’t come for me.

At the Fairmont Pride “recovery” drag brunch on our final day, where stacks of rainbow pancakes and mimosa flights flowed, there was a genuine moment of connection. The show was headlined by Vancouver drag staples Kendall Gender, Carlotta Gurl and Jalene Tyme. As we were filing to our table at the back, we noticed a kid, maybe 10 or 12 years old, in a Kendall Gender shirt with their family. It was cute to see a kid out supporting local drag talent. But the kicker came at the end of the show, when Kendall took the mic and said there was a young performer in the crowd who wanted to do a number for us all. 

And sure enough, that kid in the shirt stepped up—not in drag, but carrying all of the energy of a seasoned performer. There were death drops, there was voguing, there was utter confidence. The kid was pulling five, 10 and 20-dollar bills from beckoning audience members with all of the assuredness of a seasoned RuPaul contestant. Periodically, they’d circle back to the group of veteran queens as if they were done, then plunge into another series of dance moves. 

There’s something to be said about making space for kids to feel accepted and loved. There’s something to be said about a room full of people who paid $59 a head for bottomless brunch, cheering on a young non-binary person living their absolute best life.

Everyone at our table was crying. Kendall Gender was crying. The servers were crying. I’d forgotten about the anti-vaxxers, instead fixating on the joy of this kid. 

I’m glad that, for that moment, we could do hotel stays and the lounge events and the performances again. I’m glad I got to sit in a hard seltzer-sponsored Pride lounge and spend $9 on a can of beer, and dance alongside fellow queers in the hot July sun. As vaccination numbers continue to grow (get your shot!) I hope we’re going to get more chances to do all of that. 

But that moment, where a bunch of people got to see a young queer performer come into their own, was pure magic. That’s what Pride is all about.