Pride didn’t start with a stage. It didn’t begin with DJs, floats, or wristbands. It began with resistance.
In 1969, trans women of color stood up against police brutality at the Stonewall Inn in New York. That act of defiance sparked a global movement—one rooted not in sponsorships or production value, but in survival, dignity, and the urgent demand to be seen. What followed wasn’t just parades or parties; it was a collective call for justice, visibility, and a place to belong. Pride has always been about people, protest, and power.
And here in Long Beach, we’ve long known how to hold that power with style. Since 1984, Long Beach Pride has stood as one of the largest and most dynamic Pride events in the nation. What began as a grassroots effort led by neighbors and queer elders quickly grew into a vibrant tradition—celebrating not just the LGBTQ+ community but the city’s deep diversity and cultural spirit. For decades, it provided space for those who didn’t always feel seen: for families of every kind, for the beautifully queer, Black, brown, trans, femme, disabled, undocumented, working-class—and working-it—members of our community.
But over time, the heart of it has started to slip away.
In recent years, Long Beach Pride has faced serious challenges. Attendance dropped significantly in both 2023 and 2024. Vendor and booth fees continued to rise, pushing out the very small queer-owned businesses and local nonprofits that once formed the soul of the event. Year-round community engagement has become scarce. And behind the scenes, financial issues has led to not one, but two city bailouts—first in 2024 and again in 2025—totaling more than $150,000 in public funds just to keep the parade alive.
This year, the City of Long Beach officially took over hosting and funding the parade. It’s a move that preserves the tradition but also signals something deeper: a breakdown in the trust of the organization and a reflection of our community’s priority.
Let’s be honest—Pride in Long Beach has, in many ways, fallen behind. Organizationally. Structurally. Spiritually. For too long, its leadership prioritized stage names over neighborhood names, focused more on sponsorships than on legacy, and failed to evolve with the broader, more inclusive community it claims to represent. Let’s be clear, it’s not just Long Beach Pride that has its issues, many Prides all over the world have become a space for corporations and politicians to “claim support” of our community.
But let’s also be honest with ourselves: this isn’t just on the Pride organizations. It’s on all of us. We needed to demand more. We needed to speak up, to show up, to volunteer, and to help steer this ship together. We let things slip by without enough accountability, without enough collective voice, and without enough presence. The truth is, the absence of community leadership and visibility is a shared one. Our collective power—the kind that built Pride in the first place—has been missing. And now, it’s time to bring it back.
This year, there are no big-name headliners. No massive stages. No national hype. But maybe that’s exactly what we need. Because Pride is not a concert. It’s not a corporation. It’s not a seasonal political photo op. Pride is us.
It’s the coffee shop that hangs a rainbow flag and hosts queer open mics. The dive bar that keeps a seat open for the loner who just came out. The drag queens, the DJs, the local artists. The youth programs that feed and house queer kids when no one else will. The nonprofit volunteers who show up even when no one’s watching. That’s Pride.
This year, rather than worrying about who’s on stage, let’s focus on who’s always been here. Let’s support our small businesses, our queer creators, our grassroots leaders. Tip your local drag performers. Shop at queer-owned businesses. Support LGBTQ+ artists, musicians, healers, barbers, and hustlers. Donate to the organizations doing the real work—fighting for trans youth, queer immigrants, and houseless folks. Go to the art show. Show up at the town hall. Volunteer. Be visible. Be present. Be you.
Pride should not appear once a year and vanish when the stage comes down. It should live in us, in our neighborhoods, our storefronts, our stories. It is built daily through action, support, and mutual care. That’s what protest looks like. That’s what celebration looks like. That’s what community looks like.
There’s still time to rebuild. And we don’t have to wait for a new committee or new budget to start. We can take it back right now—by choosing people over production, purpose over performance, and community over spectacle. It’s not about going backwards. It’s about returning to the roots and using them to grow something better, stronger, and more inclusive.
Let’s remind ourselves and this city that we’re still here. Still proud. Still powerful. With or without a headliner. With or without a stage. Because Pride has never belonged to one organization, one event, or one month—it belongs to all of us.
Be Part of the Movement. Be Proud.
