06/04/2026
Why my allyship didn't start at a parade.
(A couple of days late for Tuesday, but kicking off a series I'll be running every Tuesday for the rest of June).
June is Pride Month, and my feed is already full of corporate logos turned into rainbows.
I appreciate the visibility, but for me, allyship didn't start with a marketing campaign. It started in the middle of a plague.
I grew up in the 1970s and 80s in a strict evangelical environment. In my world, being gay was considered the absolute worst thing you could be. It was the beginning of the strongest gay rights movement yet, but you wouldn't know it in my house. I wasn't even allowed to watch Three's Company because John Ritter's character pretended to be gay just to live with two women. It was scandalous. The only representation I saw were the tropes—the "sassy gay neighbor" like Jim J. Bullock on Too Close for Comfort.
Then, the mid-80s hit. I was in high school, becoming more aware of the world, and the AIDS crisis exploded onto our TV screens.
People were dying of this terrifying new "gay cancer." I vividly remember the news reports—young men, emaciated, covered in Kaposi's sarcoma lesions, going blind, and practically begging the world to care that they were dying.
The response from my religious community? "This is your own fault."
There was a distinct, chilling lack of compassion. Looking back, I can confidently say that my "deconstruction" began at that exact moment. When you watch a community fight for its literal life while the people meant to protect them turn their backs with judgment, it changes you.
I am an ally because I remember.