My first Pride was a privileged one. It was 2019 and I was a teenager growing up in the Washington DC suburbs. I went to one of the local festivals with an outfit inspired by the non-binary pride flag, a denim jacket ready to be filled with pins, and a large group of friends ready to celebrate. There wasn’t an ounce of fear in me, just joy and anticipation, combined with the freedom of finally being able to drive myself to Pride. Only six years have passed since that joyful moment, yet this year my stomach churned at the idea of going to DC for WorldPride.

Every trip to DC has felt different since Donald Trump’s second inauguration. This typically vibrant city filled with the energy of young political hopefuls, tight-knit communities, and internationally renowned culture and museums has seemed dulled in the last few months. You can compare the atmosphere to your dystopian novel of choice, but the point remains the same: we have lost something here. When I found out our city was hosting WorldPride, I was dispirited. It felt like something we couldn’t live up to, and something that may even put LGBTQ+ people in danger, given this administration’s increasing hostility.

Around the same time I attended my first Pride, I read a book by William Danforth called I Dare You. In this book, Danforth uses the excitement one gets when challenged by a dare to motivate others to think, speak, and act in ways that create a better world, both for themselves and the people whose lives they touch. In a chapter titled “I Dare You to Adventure,” Danforth says:

Some of my young friends who are freedom-loving pleasure seekers, maintain that drifting along with life is happiness, that resistance is vulgar, that self-indulgence is self-expression. Rot! I take issue with them. The line of least resistance makes crooked rivers and crooked men. Each fish that battles upstream is worth ten that loaf in lazy bays.

This willingness to dare is what drove me and tens of thousands of others to DC on the weekend of June 8th and 9th. During these tumultuous times, it is so easy to give in to fear. While there are many instances where extra precautions can be useful or even necessary, we can’t let this fear be the reason that we stop any form of resistance. 

When I travelled to DC, I did so holding in my heart those who couldn’t come because of the associated risks. I was thinking about activists from other countries, who had to cancel their flights because of increased hostility towards foreigners. About progressive families with young children in the DC area, who usually love to come to the festivals to show how to be part of a loving and inclusive society, but who chose to stay home for fear that counterprotesters and police activity might make the festival dangerous or scary for their kids. About LGBTQ+ people with disabilities, who may struggle to attend Pride in a typical year due to accessibility challenges, and for whom this year’s added uncertainty rendered the event completely inaccessible. In thinking about all of these activists, LGBTQ+ people, and our allies who could not be there for WorldPride, the least I could do was dare to show up.

As soon as I got to the Metro, I noticed a shift. Life had returned to our city. People were talking to each other, even striking up conversations with strangers as they read each other’s t-shirts, pins, bags, and any other means people used to outwardly express themselves. People were putting themselves out there, and being received wholeheartedly in a sense of community I hadn’t seen since the pandemic. In just the short ride into the city, we spoke with a man who shared stories from decades of playing the bagpipes, a team from ALDI marching in the parade, and many folks who shared our confusion over which metro stops were open and closed for the event. When we arrived at Gallery Place, this liveliness was even more apparent. Simply figuring out how to get to the festival area meant that people were striking up conversations with each other and sharing stories. 

This sense of gentle community, forged by soft ties and shared identities, was even more profound when we entered the festival area. So many community organizations were present with a general theme of “Let’s Keep Showing Up.” Different organizations presented this ask in different ways. Some shared information about their upcoming events in hopes of keeping this spark going. Others asked people to sign up for mailing lists and help spread the word to people who needed their services most. And some created actionable items people could do right there, like getting trained on NARCAN or other first aid procedures to keep others safe throughout the day and beyond.

I walked around with a stack of DignityUSA stickers in my pocket so I had an easy way to connect with anyone I struck up a conversation with, which was especially useful when connected with other LGBTQIA+ religious organizations and allies. When I stopped at the Queer Christian Fellowship table, the woman staffing the table was deep in conversation with a lesbian couple, and (not knowing who I was or my affiliation) uttered the phrase “Have you heard of DignityUSA? It sounds like they might be what you’re looking for.”

The couple said no, and I quickly interjected to introduce myself. As soon as I said, “I’m on the Board of Directors for DignityUSA,” the woman at the table laughed and said, “God always provides.” Like many of our members, their relationship was built on their Catholic faith, and as they began to prepare for marriage, they were left scrambling for how to have a Catholic wedding, given the lack of institutional support. As I told them about our organization, I saw the biggest smiles spread across both of their faces, made even brighter by the glitter on their cheekbones. I pointed them towards our booth, and as they walked away, I felt a deep sense of gratitude that I had chosen to show up.

Daring to show up takes a lot more than the phrase may let on. It means having the courage to be fully present, even when you’d rather be hiding under the covers and doomscrolling. It means being willing to share your authentic self and letting people receive you as you are. It means staying engaged, even if it’s in little ways. If we can all do this, starting with our own circles and our own communities, we can make powerful change. So I leave you with this: I, Cait Gardiner, double dog dare you to show up.