Pride Issue 2025 

The Long View
The history of LGBTQ+ people fighting for their rights has always included triumphs and setbacks.
Ben Williams

Our 2025 Pride Issue guest editor, historian Ben Williams, has documented the history of LGBTQ+ people in Utah for decades.

LGBTQ people have always lived through turbulent times. In the 1950s, homosexuals were seen as subversives and national security risks. If discovered, people could be arrested and lives ruined. However, a small group of individuals formed homophile organizations like the Mattachine Society and the Daughters of Bilitis. The early gay civil rights movement focused on decriminalizing homosexuality, recentering it as being a mental issue instead. In 1962, Illinois became the first state to decriminalize homosexual behavior.

The 1960s saw the rise of a youth movement to challenge society's positions on racial inequality and the inequality of women's roles in society. The Vietnam anti-war movement fueled the call for equality before the law for other minorities and marginalized people.

In June 1969, a spark of resistance at a New York gay bar called Stonewall ignited what became the Gay Liberation Front. The movement was different from earlier homophile organizations, as Gay Liberation revolted against the need for heterosexual approval and declared that LGBTQ people were defined as a "folk," and not by a behavior.

This idea resonated among the youth culture, and immediately Gay Liberation groups began to spring up on college campuses—even here at the University of Utah in October 1969. A paradigm shift had taken place. In 1973, the American Psychiatric Association removed homosexuality as a pathology due to pressure by gay people and allies. Prior to 1969, there had not been a single gay organization in Utah; by 1975, there were several gay and lesbian churches, multiple gay bars, a community center and a newspaper as well as several social groups, such as the Royal Court of the Golden Spike Empire.

The end of the 1970s saw a national backlash against gay rights, starting with Anita Bryant's Save the Children Campaign [see page 34]. Ronald Reagan conservatives swept out many of the reforms from the 1970s, such as the Equal Rights Amendment and the repeal of gay anti-discrimination laws. The 1980s saw gays being vilified as the spreaders of a disease called AIDS; however, Salt Lake's gay and lesbian community, heroically, not only took care of the sick and dying, but we thrived by unifying as never before. As no help was coming forth from the state, gays and lesbians formed two AIDS organizations in 1985: the Salt Lake AIDS Foundation and AIDS Project Utah.

In 1986, the Gay and Lesbian Community Council of Utah was formed to serve as a forum for all the various organizations and factions to come together. The council took over Pride Days and the Anti-Violence Project, and created the Utah Stonewall Center, which over time has morphed into the current Pride Center.

Not until 30 years after homosexuality was no longer seen as a mental illness, in 2003, did the Supreme Court declare sodomy laws invalid, which decriminalized consensual homosexual behavior.

As hard as times seem now—especially the attacks on the transgender community—it's important to know that even for every two steps forward, we are pushed back one. Nevertheless, we are still making progress, for we are a resilient people—and a movement based on love, not hate.

• Courtesy photo
• Craig Sorensen (far right) and fellow Crowdsourced Comedy performers

(LOL)GBTQ+
SLC's queer comedy scene finds humor in community and "punching up."
By Scott Renshaw

This strange year of 2025 might feel like it would present a particularly hard challenge for a queer comedian to find things to laugh about. But another way to think about it is that it's a particularly important time to find things to laugh about.

"Comedy is such an interesting art form," says local comedian Kit Cactus. "It's supposed to not be taken seriously, but some of the most influential people on the [political] right are comedians. Comedy normalizes ideas; if you can laugh about something, you can normalize it a little bit. So I think it is important, pushing back in a different way, and not just fighting everything with logic all the time."

Cactus is part of a lively community of queer comedians performing in Utah, many of them regulars in the All Queer Comedy showcases organized by Crowdsourced Comedy impresario (and multi-time City Weekly Best of Utah "Best Comedian" winner) Craig Sorensen. Together, they have created a uniquely safe—and uniquely funny—space for LGBTQ+ comedians to share sharp perspectives on their own lives and the circumstances of this time and place.

• Courtesy photo
• Kit Cactus

"That fight's been the same for a while; it's just more prominent," Sorensen says. "So it's important we keep doing this now. Doing this kind of show is a kind of protest."

For Sorensen, finding humor in his personal circumstances has always been part of his creative identity—not just from growing up gay and Mormon, but from having a physical disability. "I don't resent the things that made me stand out," he says. "My little hand spurred me into comedy. If you have a disability that's so ripe for jokes ... I owned that really early in life, and that became part of my voice."

Though Sorensen started his own performing career with improvisational comedy, and continues it through his performances with Crowdsourced Comedy, he eventually added standup to his résumé. He also saw an opportunity in the community to allow venues for those who didn't typically get center-stage in the standup comedy world—specifically, straight cisgender white men—to shine.

"Personally, I started to identify my own traits as a comedian—progressive, I hate punching down, I like to be on the right side of history with that stuff," Sorensen recalls. "In the early days of Crowdsourced, we did an all-woman show, and it was such a powerful experience, that right after COVID, we knew we had to bring that back. It was obvious how much that was wanted. ... Earnestly, I wanted to do a show, and I didn't know if it was possible, but it would be so cool if we did an all-queer show. Once we started getting more queer performers, it became one of our staples. If you're disadvantaged, you belong on my stage."

Among those who became part of the All Queer Comedy showcases was Ash Anderson, an Idaho native who started their performing career as a child on community theater stages, and joined a sketch comedy group at BYU-Idaho in 2013. "Even in school," Anderson recalls, "if there was a creative assignment where you could do anything you wanted, my first thought was always, 'Let's do a skit, or a funny video.'"

The transition to standup, however, initially seemed daunting, thanks to the kinds of environments they encountered. "I went to a lot of Wiseguys open mics, and saw there's a lot of audacious men," Anderson says. "As someone who's pretty femme-presenting, even the way female comedians are received, there's a barrier to entry. I thought, 'There's never going to be a way to validate myself this way.'"

Kit Cactus recalls a similar experience with early forays into standup. She too has early memories of falling in love with being funny on stage, although in a seemingly unlikely venue. "I started performing cello when I was young, and also did a lot of theater as a kid," Cactus says. "I'd play cello at a recital, and got permission from my teacher to stop and tell a joke, then I'd play a little more. At about 8 years old, you can tell I was more excited about the jokes than about the cello."

Yet for Cactus, there was a similar experience to the one Anderson encountered in terms of the predominant demographic among standup comedians. "First, nobody would go with me to any of the open mics, because it was like, 'I can't stand to hear one more racist, misogynistic, violent joke,'" she says. "And I had to stop, because I wasn't willing to sit through an hour of hate to get my three minutes.

• Courtesy photo
• An All Queer Showcase performance from 2024

"[The Crowdsourced Queer Comedy showcase] was my only way into comedy, because it was my only safe way into comedy, to have a group of people that are like-minded and safe."

Sorensen says that providing that kind of safety and community is the centerpiece for the whole concept, overtaking any possible sense of professional competitiveness. "Honestly if you're in the room with the right kind of people—there's no time for that shit," Sorensen says. "But there's so few really professional queer performers in Salt Lake, that we all really know each other, and when we're together, it's a really supportive environment."

"I love Crowdsourced, and I think what we have in Utah is so special," Anderson says. "Everyone's so supportive; even every criticism feels so constructive. If we can help each other, we do. That environment is why it felt safe to start doing standup: We're all on your side, but we recognize you're still a growing artist, and we're going to help you."

These comedians also find a place where, like Sorensen, they can bring everything about themselves to their performances. "When I got back into standup, part of it is that I was sick of cis white men telling jokes about my life, about what it's like to be trans," Cactus notes. "That was so annoying, that they were telling my story for me. So when I got back on stage, it was like, 'What if I can talk about transness, or mental illness, that lets people into it? ... I can show you there is funny stuff about being trans, and let people think about my experience in a different way.'"

"I'm always at a point of processing everything that's happened in my life," Anderson adds. "The personal is universal. This experience might feel really niche, but the way people can relate to a very specific story or experience, because of the humor behind it, that's why I don't really deviate from that."

That need to find humor in the personal experiences of their lives extends to how the queer community is being impacted by events on a local and national level. For all of the comedians involved in these shows, there's a recognition that—as Sorensen noted above—there's a form of rebellion in deciding to keep laughing in such times.

"At first no one wanted to talk about it; we were all just suffering together," Sorensen recalls. "But the more we started talking about it and making jokes about it, it became easier. Unapologetic queer joy is the answer. That's not just my message, that's what I learned from iconic drag queens. At first it was collective fear, collective angst. But 'screw Donald Trump' jokes do really well."

"It's interesting, because you'll be on your phone or out in the world, and everything feels like a pressure cooker," Anderson says. "But every time I'm at Why Kiki or with Crowdsourced, it feels so safe and needed. With comedy, it's not escapism. Because while it's really scary, it's also really absurd. If we shy away from those things in our comedy ... it's like the elephant in the room, and there's a way to address it in a way that's not scary. I think people need that release, both for the comedian and the audience.

"Comedy is disarming for a lot of people," Anderson continues, "because there's a kind of 'jester's privilege' to go to those places. As a writer, you can't even start to write comedy well until you master the art of drama. The funniest people can see the depth of all the hardship, the nuances, the points of fear."

And Cactus has found the same sense of power in pushing back comedically.

"I think we're all much more direct about everything now," she says. "Our jokes can be a little bit more bold about our political stances and our needs and our rights. ... I think one thing is that we're also just still doing it. And that is maybe more important: That we're not scared of doing it, that we're not pulling back."

ALL QUEER COMEDY SHOW
Friday, June 6, 7:30 p.m.
Why Kiki
69 W. 100 South
Tickets start at $15
crowdsourcedlive.com

• Gizmoe Alonzo
• A FERVOR collective performance

Pride with a Fervor
SLC's LGBTQ+ and BIPOC music collective focuses on community-driven liberation
By Arica Roberts

This year, Utah became the first state to prohibit flying LGBTQ+ Pride flags at schools and all government buildings. But in Salt Lake City, we know our city is still very queer. The Utah Pride Festival and SLC Pride show just how mainstream Pride events around here have become; however, it's the niche, underground scenes that have always carried the culture forward.

FERVOR, a grassroots rave collective, was founded by Gizmoe Alonzo (he/them) a few years ago to provide the kind of inclusive dance spaces for LGBTQ+ and BIPOC communities that were lacking in Salt Lake City's nightlife scene. Alonzo moved to Salt Lake in 2016, and as a queer person of color who is both a DJ and long-time raver, he quickly noticed the lack of diversity and inclusivity in many of the city's LGBTQ+ spaces. The first FERVOR event sold out in seven minutes, so he also quickly realized there was very high demand for these types of spaces.

FERVOR is "a passionate and intense feeling," Alonzo explains. He aims to evoke that feeling with the ever-growing demand for spaces that center marginalized groups and stay true to the original reasons for Pride events in the first place. "Pride was a protest and Pride was about liberation. But in order to feel liberated in a certain space, that can be really difficult as a queer person or as a POC when you're in a sea of something that doesn't reflect that," he states.

The first Pride march took place in New York City on June 28, 1970 to commemorate the 1969 Stonewall riots, a catalyst highlighting the injustices faced by LGBTQ+ (and primarily BIPOC) individuals and demonstrating resistance to police harassment and discrimination. FERVOR continues this legacy by prioritizing representation, equity and community-based decision-making in all aspects of their events, from artist curation to safety and harm reduction.

For example, FERVOR takes an anti-capitalist approach, operating without corporate sponsorships and offering sliding-scale ticket pricing to improve accessibility. They also work with Salt Lake Harm Reduction Project, a non-profit that offers things like free water, earbuds, small snacks, Narcan, fentanyl test strips and sexual wellness items, such as condoms and at-home STD tests. While the security team focuses on protecting the event from the outside, the safety team wears Narcan on their tags and are not there to police, but to help if something happens on the inside. Alonzo has even taken extra measures such as putting the teams through specific nightlife security training related to queer nightlife, which focuses on de-escalation and consent in all forms.

The impact this approach has had on underground spaces in Salt Lake City cannot be overstated. "Nobody was doing harm reduction and nobody was doing community guidelines. And that was just like three or four years ago," Alonzo says. "That's in our underground scene. Now, it's been standard."

The community guidelines are equally important because they emphasize that FERVOR deliberately avoids labeling their events as "safe spaces" or "inclusive spaces," instead focusing on clear communication of their values and guidelines.

"We understand that it's not for everyone. And so we don't say it's 'all-inclusive,' because it's not made for everyone. We don't have the resources to make it available for everyone," Alonzo clarifies. "If you are an ally or even beyond that, I'm going to speak honestly; if you're a cis man or a cis white man, gay or not, we ask and request that you're cognizant of the people around you that are not, and navigating that kind of power dynamic."

The upcoming FERVOR Pride event takes place June 6-8. Along with new interactive art installations led by Dani Elvis Mendez, it will feature national and local artists across multiple venues, with a focus on queer and BIPOC talent.

Chicago is the birthplace of house music, and its underground roots are part of queer and BIPOC history. So it's only fitting that alongside the plethora of local talent, Friday and Saturday's private events will also feature Chicago-based artists. Friday's headliner is disco and house artist Hercules and Love Affair, and Saturday's headliner is scheduled to be Ariel Zina, a trans woman known for her high energy techno and Chicago house inspiration.

"I think she really embodies a lot of what we like from an artist," Alonzo shares, "they're from Belize, and their music is a mix of country ballroom, high energy techno, but also Latin-based and infused drums and rhythms. That's who I'm most excited about."

Sunday is a day-party collaboration with local collectives ¡Dyked! and ETA45MINS at Drift Lounge called Tea Dance. Originating in New York in the 1950s and 1960s, tea dances are queer events organized on Sunday afternoons. Police would conduct raids on establishments selling alcohol to gay people until the mid-1960s, so gay men began to hold tea dances outside the city as an alternative venue for meeting. Drift Lounge's Tea Dance is limited in capacity, but it will be open to the public with RSVP. Local artists curated from ¡Dyked! will play on the outdoor stage, while the rooftop stage will include a lounge vibe featuring ambient DJs from ETA45. There will also be a full bar, along with vendors and food trucks. To end the weekend, stay for the special back-to-back with Alonzo (Gizmoe) and Miel Franco Pérez, founder of ¡Dyked! (VI:BRA).

RSVP for FERVOR's Pride events, stay informed on future events, and familiarize yourself with the community guidelines by visiting their Instagram: @fervor.slc. As always, stay respectful and accountable.

Now Queer This
An introduction to LGBTQ+ musical artists giving Utah a rainbow flair.
By Emilee Atkinson

click to enlarge

Shecock With a Vengeance: SLC has tons of great pop acts, but if you're looking for something with a little more bite, Shecock is your group. This punk band is composed of trans folks who know how to bring the noise. As described on their YouTube bio, the band is all about "fuckery of the status quo," and what's more punk than that? Their 2023 EP Trannosaurus boasts three loud-and-fast tracks that are perfect for any headbanging playlist. Shecock is always out playing around town and can, of course, be found at different Pride events for the month, so don't miss the chance to rock with Shecock With a Vengeance live. You won't regret it.

Bly Wallentine: Bly Wallentine is all over the music scene. She of course makes her own brand of amusing and curious music, but Wallentine is also an incredible producer. You'll find her name on the credits of many indie artists, both locally and beyond. Wallentine also plays with the group Little Moon, which won the NPR Tiny Desk Concert competition in 2023. On her BandCamp, Wallentine describes her music as "songs of spirits puk[ing] from my frothing esophagus into the leafy conundrum from which I cannot seem to relieve myself." Her music draws elements from pop, folk, shoegaze and many others. In fact, it might be shorter to list the genres Wallentine doesn't dabble in, but she definitely has something for everyone.

Marqueza: Multi-disciplinary artist Marqueza hangs out in SLC "doing Pisces shit," they told Canvas Rebel in 2023. In addition to writing and recording music, they also produce, dance and do a lot with visual arts and crafts. Marqueza is Japanese and Venezuelan, and you can find influences of their heritage in their music library. Their 2023 single "INAKA" ("countryside" in Japanese) is an instrumental track that feels like floating, very on-brand with Marqueza's water/sea creature-inspired vibe. Marqueza's sound is contemplative, dynamic and not something you'll tire of easily.

Mended Hearts Club: This indie-folk duo is based way down south in St. George, but still deserve a shout-out for their unique blend of folk, rock and beat poetry. Aiden Barrick (he/him) and Judith Rognli (she/they) have a connection and chemistry that's palpable, allowing them to deliver such strong tracks. They draw influence from artists like Brandi Carlile and Bonny Light Horseman, while offering a sound that's wholly their own. There's something so cozy about folk in general, and Mended Hearts Club definitely fits into that category.

Christian Scheller: Hailing from Ogden, singer/songwriter Christian Scheller is a one-of-a-kind artist blending soul, blues and folk to create a soundscape that's hard to resist. Scheller has been on the scene for a long time, but in 2023 he released his first official single, "Nate's Song," written for his husband. It's a beautifully-crafted song that is unmistakable in its feelings. Sometimes love songs don't fully capture that unique sensibility, but "Nate's Song" radiates affection and emotion.

Pho3nix Child: Entrenched in SLC's underground hip-hop culture, Pho3nix Child is on a mission to de-sexualize the feminine perspective of women in the hip-hop/rap world, and make the scene more inclusive for femme and LGBTQ+ artists. Pho3nix Child's sound is crisp and incisive; they don't stutter, and their rhymes flow easily. The title of their atmospheric track "Energy" might suggest intensity, but it actually has a laid-back vibe that's great to have playing in the background, or to really dive into with some great headphones. Pho3nix Child posted on Instagram weeks ago that they had lots planned for the summer, so keep an eye out.

Icky Rogers: "Saint of Saturday night" Icky Rogers is a queer hip-hop artist who blends new school with retro sounds to create his unique style of cosmic hip-hop. Rogers has a love for the genre that's obvious in his music—his tight and concise rhymes flow without difficulty, and you can hear the joy and happiness in his voice with each track he's on. There's a sense of pride in his music that's distinct as well, his love for the genre shining through. "I think that hip-hop has always given a voice to the voiceless, and it's a genre that speaks truth to power in its purest form," Rogers told City Weekly in 2023. His newest single, "Femme Fatale" featuring the one and only Sequoia is out now, so be sure to add that to your Pride playlists.

• Trinity Machan
• The annual Utah Pride Parade will wind through Salt Lake City on Sunday, June 7.

Not Duel Festivals
Utah Pride Festival and SLC Pride exist side by side to celebrate the queer community.
By Scott Renshaw

It would have been easy to view Salt Lake City's Pride events of 2024 as a sign of schism—a division in the local queer community during a time that should indicate unity. Instead, it might be more accurate to think of it as a time of birth and rebirth.

As the Utah Pride Center—the organization behind the traditional Pride Parade and Festival—underwent organizational changes last year in response to concerns about its finances and operations, the new SLC Pride was launched. Instead of emerging as competing events, however, both managed to find success in the ways that mattered to the organizers.

For Bonnie O'Brien, the Festival Director for SLC Pride, the sense for whether the inaugural event hit its mark came down to a feeling rather than anything more concrete. "I think that the committee ... the ones who put in a ton of hours, were incredibly and happily surprised with the vibe," O'Brien says. "I'm not talking about how many of this or that we sold, or how many attended—just the straight-up experience when you walked through the gates. We were willing to go into debt to make sure that what it felt like was what people asked for. ... It wasn't about a booth; nobody gives a crap what you're selling. That's not the festival. It's a feeling of acceptance and authenticity."

As an example, O'Brien cites the soliciting of feedback from potentially marginalized groups within the marginalized group of the queer community, like the sobriety community and the neurodivergent community. "There were conversations that were happening because of intentionally-curated spaces, not about whatever kind of rainbow merchandise is for sale," O'Brien notes. "We had a lot of really intense conversations with therapists of queer kids and neurodivergent kids, and had a lot of conversations with parents and other groups, saying, 'What does a teen youth and neurodivergent space feel like.' And we had kids coming in to see if their words were coming true, dragging their parents in and saying, 'See, this is what we're talking about.'"

O'Brien acknowledges that there were still lessons to be learned from the first event, and improvements to be made; "We planted some seeds, and of all of them, two or three really took off," she says. Ultimately, though, she thinks it does come down to that "vibe," of thinking about things like how to make the drudgery of manning a table at a big event feel more engaging, while also growing the organization to one that puts on events year-round. "We want to focus on organizations and bands that are local to give them a platform, to show Utah as a place for queer people that is safe and enriching," O'Brien says.

The more established Utah Pride, meanwhile, was focused on building back trust in the organization's infrastructure. When speaking with City Weekly before 2024's Pride, then-new Utah Pride Center Director Chad Call said that in terms of the challenges facing the organization, "there's still a long road ahead." When assessing the state of that road a year later, Call says, "It's honestly been really kind to us. We're fully back into all of our programming, and settled into our new location. And we have a pretty stable forecast for the future. A lot of that stability is because of the financial success of the 2024 Pride Festival."

• Courtesy photo
• Dancers perform at the inaugural SLC Pride in 2024.

That meant thinking much more in terms of measurables, Call says—like how many people marched in the parade, and how long people stayed at the festival—rather than anecdotal evidence about people's sense of the festival. They did, however, look at two very specific changes for 2025: once again allowing parade entrants to distribute items to people in the crowd, and reducing the cost for potential festival vendors by allowing folks to set up their own tents.

"We had to stop the distribution [by parade entries] in 2023 and 2024 because of safety concerns," Call says. "We were able to condense the parade route down a little bit, allowing us to bring in crowd control measures. The change with the vendors, were able to seek approval through the city to do that. ... We realized it was one of the more expensive festivals in Utah, and while we felt the value was worth it, we realized it could cause accessibility issues. It was a way to significantly reduce the overhead that we were experiencing."

Now on a firmer financial footing, including more transparency with Utah Pride Center financials with the community, the festival is building out again, including being able to bring in David Archuleta as a national headliner. While the desire is still there for a celebratory event, that doesn't mean a lack of attention and awareness to the challenges the queer community faces both locally and nationally at a governmental level.

Call believes that Utah Pride Festival's 2025 theme of "Radical Love" taps into the reality of current events. "A good theme should be relevant to the times," he says. "We had a few themes on the table we were looking at back in December and January, and decided to pivot to this theme in light of legislative actions locally. We thought it embodied hope, and the idea that we do need something a little more than ordinary right now. But this is also a celebration, a time to love. There are a lot of complex emotions."

For O'Brien, SLC Pride's 2025 theme of "Outlaws" similarly meets the moment. "If you're going to make us and our flags illegal, then we're outlaws, hell yeah, and we'll own that and encompass that," O'Brien says. "If there's an unjust law, it doesn't apply. And we have folks that are willing to protest until it hurts in the queer community. ... The fun part about being an outlaw is there's community in that. Yeah, there are groups of people in our community that are scared and tired and worried. Let your voice shake, but let it be heard."

Utah Pride Parade & Festival
June 7-8
Washington Square & Library Square
210 E. 400 South
Parade: June 8, 10 a.m.
utahpride.org

SLC Pride
June 28-29
The Gateway, 400 W. 200 South
slc-pride.org

• Courtesy photo
• Burning Sissy

Alternative Prides
Whether it's parades and festivals or bookstores and yard signs, there's a way for you to celebrate.
By Cat Palmer

June is here, and so is the glitter-soaked, rainbow-drenched magic of Pride. But before we dive into the confetti, let me say this loud and clear: I love the direction the Utah Pride Center is heading in.

Yes, I said it. I'm genuinely thrilled about the work Chad Call is doing as the new Executive Director. We don't have to sugarcoat the past—there were real issues. We hold space for that. But we also hold space for growth, for healing, and for hope. And this year, I'm feeling all three (utahpridecenter.org).

For my chosen family, marching down State Street with flags flying is our annual ritual. This year, I'll be waving my genderqueer flag for the first time—and let me tell you, it's giving freedom. It's giving truth.

I'm also here for other ways to celebrate, because queer joy is not one-size-fits-all. Not everyone thrives in packed streets and pounding music. Some folks find their pride in quieter, more intimate moments.

I have a dear friend who transforms his backyard in Heber into a gay wonderland each June, with water features, outdoor movies and snacks galore. It's tender, silly, sacred and exactly what Pride should be: chosen, cherished and deeply ours.

Other gatherings like Burning Sissy Valley are year-round, while Sissy Talk is held monthly on the third week of each month for QTPOC. Some need spaces where their black, brown, or trans bodies feel safe and sovereign (instagram.com/burningsissyvalley). Others hit Punk Rock Pride for bands like Shecock and call it good (June 7 @ Aces High Saloon).

For those looking for sober-centered celebrations, Queer and Sober needs to be on your radar. On June 14 from 6–9 p.m., don't miss Midsummer Night's Slay at Fit To Recover, which will be a gorgeous night of queer celebration—minus the booze, plus all the sparkle (sliding scale). Because community should be affirming and accessible, especially for our sober siblings (queerandsoberslc.com).

Also, consider volunteering. Pride doesn't run on rainbows alone; it takes labor, and many hands make that labor lighter.

Every event—from SLC Pride to Project Rainbow to Queer Spectra to the Queer Film Festival (utahqueerfilmfestival.org)—needs you. Speaking of SLC Pride (slc-pride.org, see p. 24), can we give Bonnie, Roberto and the whole team their flowers? Accessible and pure joy! And can we talk about HK Brewing's Sip & Slay drag show? It's a full-bodied, high-heeled masterpiece (hkbrewing.com).

If you want an easy and meaningful way to show your pride—whether you're an ally or a member of the community—Project Rainbow has you covered. Sign up to have a Pride flag staked in your yard during June (or year-round). It's a quiet but powerful act of visibility and solidarity, especially in those neighborhoods where queer folks may not always feel seen (projectrainbowutah.org).

• Courtesy photo
• Blooming with Pride at Red Butte Garden

Or if you'd rather celebrate artfully, check out Red Butte Garden's Blooming with Pride exhibit on June 13 (redbuttegarden.org/events/blooming-with-pride). Utah County folx, don't sleep on Queer Haven in Provo. Every second and last Thursday of the month, it offers a welcoming space for LGBTQIA+ community to connect, vent, laugh, cry, and breathe.

• Courtesy photo
• Love the Journeyby Andrea G. Hardeman

And if you, like my sweetheart, are overwhelmed just reading this list, you can curl up with some queer poetry. Discover local poet Andrea G. Hardeman's Love the Journey—a soft, powerful reminder that queer love belongs on the page, in the home, and everywhere in between. It was poetry, after all, that first stitched my spouse and me together. That's queer sacred space (papillonskies.com/books).

• Courtesy photo
• Utah Queer Film Festival

Pride doesn't end on July 1, either—not for me, not for you. I spend nine months of the year programming the Utah Queer Film Festival, watching story after story of queer resilience, hilarity, heartbreak and joy. That's Pride, too. 

So whether you're lit by stage lights, moonlight or the soft glow of your porch, plan to celebrate this June in whatever way feels right for you: loud or low-key, in a crowd or on your own.

We all deserve a Pride that meets us where we are. All of it counts. All of it is holy.

• Larry Quinn
• Larry Quinn (left) and partner Carl Blake

No More Closets
Seniors Out and Proud supports the older LGBTQ community.
By Carolyn Campbell

Larry Quinn says he could win an Oscar for his performance as a heterosexual; he kept his identity a secret for eight decades. Realizing he was gay in his early teens, Quinn says, "I prayed to God to make me like other guys. Nothing happened." When he graduated from ninth grade in 1949, social pressure was high to stay in the closet. At that time, the "Lavender Scare" was a parallel to the Red Scare. Even as Joseph McCarthy and his allies accused individuals of being Communist sympathizers, they also accused homosexuals of being security risks.  

As a BYU student, Loreen Major flew under the radar regarding having a girlfriend. Then she reported herself to her Latter-day Saint bishop. "I was forced to go through conversion therapy," Major says. "They gave me ipecac, so that I would throw up when I saw pictures of naked women."

Afterwards, she says, she packed her identity away, moved on, and married a man who had a daughter from a previous marriage.

For Quinn and Major, the support of SOAP—Seniors Out and Proud—has been a lifeline. Quinn fondly recalls how the group helped him "learn how to be gay." He emphasizes the importance of having a community where he can belong, especially for those who, like him, were lonely and lacked gay friends. Major echoes this sentiment, highlighting how SOAP's activities helped her combat loneliness.

click to enlarge

• Trinity Machan
• Loreen Major

SOAP was born from Deb Hall's work with LGBT seniors. As a Pride Center volunteer and employee, Hall grew to understand how significant aging is in the LGBT community. "Historically, there has been discrimination, loneliness, social isolation and increased suicidality," she explains, adding that LGBTQ seniors are twice as likely to live alone and four times as likely not to have a family. They also have an increased risk of cognitive decline. "There is a high rate of smoking, substance abuse disorder and obesity," Hall says. "We have to do things to combat that loneliness, to decrease the rate of cognitive decline and those other issues." 

Using a multi-pronged approach, Hall and co-founder Angie Salot oversee SOAP's mission to re-imagine aging so that LGBTQ seniors will cherish the journey. For example, there are biking, kayaking, history groups and a book club. An established SOAP/Eccles partnership makes the arts accessible, bringing opportunities to attend events such as Salt Lake Acting Company plays and Utah Opera performances for income-qualified individuals. A group of SOAP seniors attends the dress rehearsal performances at Pioneer Memorial Theater. SOAP's goals are to reduce social isolation and loneliness, improve the health and well-being of older adults, and empower them to lead meaningful and connected lives in which they are engaged and participating in the community.

It may be hard for LGBTQ folks of later generations to understand why this kind of support is needed, and what life was like for gay people 40–50 years ago. Quinn only married for the first time because people kept asking him, "Who are you dating? When are you getting married?" Back then, he was 27. Quinn recalls that many people were already married with children by that age. His two marriages totaled 28 years, and he was single for eight. "I should have come out when I was single," he says. Adding that he has considered suicide throughout his life, he remarked, "I joked that I was in the closet and couldn't find the door."

Quinn says his first marriage was good as long as he stayed closeted. He and his wife joined groups and sailed on five cruises; they raised two children from her previous marriage. A friend told Quinn she wished her marriage were as good as his. "It was happy, until my wife realized I was gay," Quinn recalls. "I tried very hard to supply my wife's needs, but your life has a big hole if you marry someone you can't fully love," says Quinn. Their divorce was amicable; "We just split everything down the middle."

Quinn had no plans to come out to his second wife. He hoped he could be his authentic self and still be married. Before their wedding, his future bride found nude photos of men that he had collected over the years. Quinn admitted, "'That's me. What are you going to do about it?' She pondered, and then decided to go ahead with the marriage." That union, too, ended in an amicable divorce.

Major and her husband had a son, and her husband received visitation after the couple divorced. When her son was four years old, Major met Arlene. "She ended up being my wife, and we were together for 24 years before she died of cancer. After she passed away, I was looking for people to be with. I found SOAP and started attending the activities because I was lonely."

There are now six SOAP chapters in Utah. While participating in Pride, they give out small hotel-sized soaps to help increase awareness. Major met a woman who is now her partner through the Utah County Chapter she started. "I dated many women, trying to find someone because I wanted to be coupled again," says Major. "I have found someone I think will be my last partner."

Quinn also feels that without Hall, he wouldn't have met his current partner, Carl D. Blake. Quinn is 90 years old and still active, while Blake is 66. "I have a very scientific background, a doctorate in chemistry, and a master's in public administration. He appreciated my analytical view of life. He has a bachelor's in interior architecture. He's much more artsy than I am."

He adds, "To have someone I can love fully and completely in a gay way—it's just wonderful."

• Larry Quinn
• Singer/activist Anita Bryant in 1971

Another Orange Bigot
Remembering the 1977 Utah protest against Anita Bryant.
By Babs De Lay

In an age of protests just like we're experiencing now, I think back to the 1970s, when I was young and full of ... well, you know. There were massive marches and demonstrations against the Vietnam War and the illegal invasion of Cambodia—especially after four innocent college students who had been bystanders to a campus protest were gunned down by the Ohio National Guard at Kent State University. This was followed by the largest-at-that-time civil disobedience gathering known as the "May Day Protests" in 1971, with more than 12,000 protesters arrested in Washington D.C.

Native Americans, Chicanos and disabled persons—along with draft protesters—respectively picketed from coast to coast throughout the decade for basic rights. But locally, I remember the 1977 silent protest against singer and anti-gay activist Anita Bryant, who was performing at the Utah State Fair that September.

The Stonewall Riots happened in NYC in 1969, which was a turning point for the gay rights movement in the U.S. And we gays started coming out and marching for our rights with the first Pride parade in the country happening a year after Stonewall in NYC. Utah had gay bars back then, but we didn't have a parade until 1990. We did, however, make our presence known when Bryant came to town.

Bryant had three top 20 hits in the U.S. after gaining fame as the 1958 Miss Oklahoma beauty pageant winner; her 1960 recording of "Paper Roses" was covered by Marie Osmond 13 years later.

She was known for traveling on holiday tours with Bob Hope during the Vietnam War. Bryant performed at multiple White House functions, was nominated for two Grammys for best Sacred and Spiritual Performance and, in 1969, became the spokeswoman for the Florida Citrus Commission.

In 1977, Florida sponsored an ordinance that prohibited discrimination based on sexual orientation, and Bryant immediately created a campaign to repeal the ordinance, as she was especially concerned that it would allow homosexuals to teach in Christian schools. In her speeches across the nation, she perpetuated the idea of gays "recruiting children through child abuse to become homosexuals," and her friend Jerry Falwell came to Florida to endorse her Protect America's Children campaign. The ordinance protecting gays was overturned that same year, and legislators there passed a law prohibiting gay adoption (overturned in 2008).

click to enlarge

• Button from 1977

Immediately, gay bars in Utah and around the country stopped serving orange juice and screwdrivers, some replacing it with the "Anita Bryant Cocktail" of vodka and apple juice. People wore buttons and T-shirts with the anti-Bryant message "Anita Bryant Sucks Oranges."

Nevertheless, Bryant was hired to perform at the Utah State Fair in 1977—at the peak of her bigoted activism.

We locals opted to protest one of her two performances, and the cops got wind of our plans. Rev. Bob Waldrop—the pastor of the "gay" Metropolitan Community Church here—led us to protest silently without violence. Basically, we paid to get into the fair, got into the bleachers and when she started to perform, we all stood up quietly and walked out while she sang.

What was crazy were the number of police and highway patrol officers and their vehicles, all of which surrounded the fairgrounds and the bleachers, probably convinced we were going to be violent and disruptive. We left quietly and without incident, and went to Memory Grove, where we gathered to commemorate the slaying of three gays the previous year.

This was by far the largest protest of its kind here at the time for us gays—we didn't have an alphabet back then—and we felt empowered to make a statement at the fair against Bryant's hatred toward us. We were happy to gather afterwards at Memory Grove, a notorious cruising spot we felt comfortable with.

We weren't terrified by the police presence at the fair. But they used tear gas to drive us away from the park and to our local bars, where we felt safe.

Bryant's political activism of hate caused irreparable damage to her career. She rapidly became the butt of jokes, as her image shifted from being a model Christian spokeswoman to that of a priggish, self-righteous bigot. The decline of her reputation was aided by Tonight Show host Johnny Carson and other comedians, who mocked her daily.

She was fired as a spokesperson for Florida oranges in 1980 and passed away in 2024. Bryant's granddaughter came out in 2021, after publicly announcing her marriage to a woman.