Pinkwashing is no cause for Pride

Pride has become just another chance for corporations to parade their "values"

In the early morning hours of June 28, 1969, something perfectly ordinary happened: a gay bar, the Stonewall Inn, in Greenwich Village, New York, was raided by the cops. At the time, gay bars were illegal, Mafia-run, and frequently the subject of police violence.

What made this particular night extraordinary was that the patrons fought back. First bottles and beer cans were thrown at the police, then bricks and cobblestones. Burning rubbish was thrown into the Inn and police responded by turning a firehose on the crowd. 13 people were arrested, four police officers were injured, and at least two patrons were severely beaten by the police.

Several days of sporadic and spontaneous protest erupted, including two more nights of rioting, with police struggling to regain control.

The first Pride marches, in New York, Los Angeles and Chicago, took place on June 28, 1970, in commemoration of the riots.

Today, as queer Londoners take to the streets for the parade which forms the centrepiece of London’s WorldPride festival, Pride is an unrecognisably different affair: a three-week consumer-fest replete with corporate sponsors (including, incongruously, the Trades Union Congress side-by-side with viciously anti-union companies like Coca Cola).

It’s a spectacle indicative of an LGBT (lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender) movement that is increasingly being assimilated into the mainstream, but at the cost of our radicalism and transformative potential.

We are becoming just another interest group, another demographic, another corporate social responsibility box-ticking excercise allowing big business to claim progressive credentials, obscuring the exploitation at the heart of their operation behind a veil of positive pink-PR. But hey, at least we can be "Out @ Tesco" while earning a pittance on workfare.

On Thursday, Pride London hosted a £250-a-plate gala dinner, at which US Secretary of State Hillary Clinton was presented with an award in recognition of her saying some nice platitudinous things about us on a global stage, while her administration continues to hide behind mealy-mouthed "State’s rights" excuses for their lack of concrete progress in improving the status of LGBT Americans. This is more or less the same State’s rights discourse that was historically used to stall the progress of Civil Rights for black Americans time and again.

Meanwhile US troops continue to destroy lives in Afghanistan (including those of LGBT Afghans) and Private Manning (who is commonly described as gay, but is actually a trans woman who identifies as Breanna) rots in her government’s prison for revealing details of US atrocities in Iraq.

This phenomenon, whereby LGBT concerns are co-opted by reactionary groups and institutions - big business, establishment politicians, the far-right, militarists, the police - in order to cast their agendas in a progressive light, is known as "pinkwashing". (The term is borrowed from Breast Cancer Action, who used it to criticise companies who use their pink ribbon purely for PR purposes.) It’s a phenomenon that’s becoming increasingly prevalent and through our silence we are complicit: unless we speak out, we allow the Right to speak for us, to hijack our struggles and our history for their own purposes.

Often, the target of this process is Muslims, who are vilified as homophobic fanatics – a pre-modern barbarian threat to the status of LBGT people in the enlightened West. This framing of Muslims is then used to justify oppression. Far-right groups like the English Defence League have successfully employed this tactic in order to gain support for their racist politics beyond the traditional football hooligan base of far-right street movements, while the apartheid regime in Israel frequently refers to its relatively progressive position on LGBT rights to justify its continued suppression of Palestinians both within the state of Israel and in the Occupied Territories.

While the Gay Liberation Front – who were forged from the white-heat of the Stonewall Rebellion as the movement of organised queer militancy - actively sought to build links with groups such as the Black Panthers, on the understanding that our emancipation is inextricably bound up with the freedom of other oppressed groups, the contemporary LGBT movement increasingly sees itself as just another special interest group fighting its own corner. We have lost our understanding of solidarity.

To paraphrase Desmond Tutu, if we remain neutral towards injustice, in the hopes that it will lead to incremental progress on our concerns, we have chosen the side of the oppressor.

We should fight for a society that’s inclusive of LGBT people, but we must also fight for a society that’s worth being included in.

The Rainbow flag flies above the cabinet office. But do queer people really want Nick Clegg's support? Photograph: Getty Images

Aidan Rowe is a queer anarchist blogger and activist.

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How Donald Trump is slouching towards the Republican nomination

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb.

In America, you can judge a crowd by its merchandise. Outside the Connecticut Convention Centre in Hartford, frail old men and brawny moms are selling “your Trump 45 football jerseys”, “your hats”, “your campaign buttons”. But the hottest item is a T-shirt bearing the slogan “Hillary sucks . . . but not like Monica!” and, on the back: “Trump that bitch!” Inside, beyond the checkpoint manned by the Transportation Security Administration and the secret service (“Good!” the man next to me says, when he sees the agents), is a family whose three kids, two of them girls, are wearing the Monica shirt.

Other people are content with the shirts they arrived in (“Waterboarding – baptising terrorists with freedom” and “If you don’t BLEED red, white and blue, take your bitch ass home!”). There are 80 chairs penned off for the elderly but everyone else is standing: guys in motorcycle and military gear, their arms folded; aspiring deal-makers, suited, on cellphones; giggling high-school fatsos, dressed fresh from the couch, grabbing M&M’s and Doritos from the movie-theatre-style concession stands. So many baseball hats; deep, bellicose chants of “Build the wall!” and “USA!”. (And, to the same rhythm, “Don-ald J!”)

A grizzled man in camouflage pants and combat boots, whose T-shirt – “Connecticut Militia III%” – confirms him as a member of the “patriot” movement, is talking to a zealous young girl in a short skirt, who came in dancing to “Uptown Girl”.

“Yeah, we were there for Operation American Spring,” he says. “Louis Farrakhan’s rally of hate . . .”

“And you’re a veteran?” she asks. “Thank you so much!”

Three hours will pass. A retired US marine will take the rostrum to growl, “God bless America – hoo-rah!”; “Uptown Girl” will play many more times (much like his speeches, Donald J’s playlist consists of a few items, repeated endlessly), before Trump finally looms in and asks the crowd: “Is this the greatest place on Earth?”

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb. Only a minority within a minority of Americans, it was assumed, could possibly be stupid enough to think a Trump presidency was a good idea. He won New Hampshire and South Carolina with over 30 per cent of the Republican vote, then took almost 46 per cent in Nevada. When he cleaned up on Super Tuesday in March, he was just shy of 50 per cent in Massachusetts; a week later, he took 47 per cent of the votes in Mississippi.

His rivals, who are useless individually, were meant to co-operate with each other and the national party to deny him the nomination. But Trump won four out of the five key states being contested on “Super-Duper Tuesday” on 15 March. Then, as talk turned to persuading and co-opting his delegates behind the scenes, Trump won New York with 60 per cent.

Now, the campaign is trying to present Trump as more “presidential”. According to his new manager, Paul Manafort, this requires him to appear in “more formal settings” – without, of course, diluting “the unique magic of Trump”. But whether or not he can resist denouncing the GOP and the “corrupt” primary system, and alluding to violence if he is baulked at at the convention, the new Trump will be much the same as the old.

Back in Hartford: “The Republicans wanna play cute with us, right? If I don’t make it, you’re gonna have millions of people that don’t vote for a Republican. They’re not gonna vote at all,” says Trump. “Hopefully that’s all, OK? Hopefully that’s all, but they’re very, very angry.”

This anger, which can supposedly be turned on anyone who gets in the way, has mainly been vented, so far, on the protesters who disrupt Trump’s rallies. “We’re not gonna be the dummies that lose all of our jobs now. We’re gonna be the smart ones. Oh, do you have one over there? There’s one of the dummies . . .”

There is a frenzied fluttering of Trump placards, off to his right. “Get ’em out! . . . Don’t hurt ’em – see how nice I am? . . . They really impede freedom of speech and it’s a disgrace. But the good news is, folks, it won’t be long. We’re just not taking it and it won’t be long.”

It is their removal by police, at Trump’s ostentatious behest, that causes the disruption, rather than the scarcely audible protesters. He seems to realise this, suddenly: “We should just let ’em . . . I’ll talk right over them, there’s no problem!” But it’s impossible to leave the protesters where they are, because it would not be safe. His crowd is too vicious.

Exit Trump, after exactly half an hour, inclusive of the many interruptions. His people seem uplifted but, out on the street, they are ambushed by a large counter-demonstration, with a booming drum and warlike banners and standards (“Black Lives Matter”; an image of the Virgin of Guadalupe, holding aloft Trump’s severed head). Here is the rest of the world, the real American world: young people, beautiful people, more female than male, every shade of skin colour. “F*** Donald Trump!” they chant.

After a horrified split-second, the Trump crowd, massively more numerous, rallies with “USA!” and – perplexingly, since one of the main themes of the speech it has just heard was the lack of jobs in Connecticut – “Get a job!” The two sides then mingle, unobstructed by police. Slanging matches break out that seem in every instance to humiliate the Trump supporter. “Go to college!” one demands. “Man, I am in college, I’m doin’ lovely!”

There is no violence, only this: some black boys are dancing, with liquid moves, to the sound of the drum. Four young Trump guys counter by stripping to their waists and jouncing around madly, their skin greenish-yellow under the street lights, screaming about the building of the wall. There was no alcohol inside; they’re drunk on whatever it is – the elixir of fascism, the unique magic of Trump. It’s a hyper but not at all happy drunk.

As with every other moment of the Trump campaign so far, it would have been merely some grade of the cringeworthy – the embarrassing, the revolting, the pitiful – were Trump not slouching closer and closer, with each of these moments, to his nomination. 

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism