Rainbow flags swirled all over West Hollywood as festival goers poured into the already crowded sidewalks. Gay people shouted “Happy Pride,” high-fiving and hugging and validating one another. The final day of Los Angeles Pride 2010 festival crescendoed with Kelly Rowland performing her final song and smash single, “When Love Takes Over.” The air was crisp, the night was young, and people were fueled and ready for the next place to celebrate.
My best friend and I were spent from the day’s activities – not to mention I had been in attendance the day before with a couple of other friends. Our teased hair deflated. Our make-up melted away into the sunset. Our only saving grace from looking a total hot mess was our young, cute baby faces and our outfits. A little marriage of exhaustion and dehydration permeated our bodies as we began to shiver. It was time to go home, and my best friend and I kept a vigilant eye on the parking space in front of Club Rage on Santa Monica Blvd. – where my access paratransit ride was scheduled at 12:45 am to pick us up.
With 45 minutes to kill, my friend and I decided to find somewhere warm to wait.
Navigating through the jam-packed sidewalks of West Hollywood on Pride weekend is like trying to shop at a mall on Black Friday: Everyone is trying to get to the same place at the same time. People are screaming. People are crying. Fights break out while others hug in solidarity. The only difference is that folks at Pride are typically drunk. Add a 400 lb power wheelchair into the chaos… yikes!
We spotted an area to rest on the corner of Robinson Blvd and Santa Monica Blvd. Our only obstacle was the sea of people. We entered the crowd carefully trying to make our way. Some folks stopped us to high five. Some asked for a hug. Compliments and love were abound. My friend and I were using the last of the energy we wielded to reciprocate. Suddenly, someone literally stopped me in my tracks. A blue-eyed, blond, drunk guy stuck out his hand signaling me to stop, bent over so he was at eye-level with me, and slurred out “You are in a wheelchair, you should not be here.”
The 48th annual West Hollywood’s Los Angeles Pride ushered in an unprecedented surprise by having over-sold tickets to festival goers. For the first time in its history, Pride organizers had the unfortunate task of turning people away from entering the actual event. Thousands, even pre-sale ticket holders, were not permitted onto the grounds of the LA Pride festival – arguably the largest Pride festival in the nation.
A blend of bittersweet emotions pulsed through the atmosphere as folks were in search of the next hot spot while hundreds of others held their positions in line, hoping to gain entrance at some point.
Conversations of being “scammed” by Pride were being held among folks shuffling between bars in West Hollywood. A win for the LBGTQ+ community was the counter argument for others. Still, a small sector in the community saw how future disasters would be imminent.
Folks who are disabled and part of the LBGTQ+ community struggle, first, with existing as both. Let me explain on a personal level as to not generalize and/or confuse. In my experience, I have found that many people have trouble accepting my disability and homosexuality. It’s an either or mental dichotomy in a lot of cases. Therefore, we seek this kind of space by making our presence known, and proving to our able-bodied counterparts that we exist.
But more often than not, we face more than the issue of representation at Pride events.
40-year-old Josè Carrillo says he has been attending LA Pride “on and off for 15 years.” Carrillo’s disability is Post Polio, which means he utilizes a power wheelchair wherever he travels. He says his “biggest obstacle [is] accessibility to the dance floors, or to the view of the concerts.”
LGBTQ+ folx who use wheelchairs are left at the mercy of crowds inside Pride events. A miracle is needed to split the Red Sea of people to obtain a good view of the performances.
As for why he continues to attend, “I go to have fun, [to] enjoy friends’ company” says Carrillo, “and to check out the men!”
Emphasis on checking out the men. Still, however, men are a small part of the entire attraction. Inclusion is more than blue handicap plaques slapped on every corner. The feeling of “belonging” relies on how Pride festivals are structured and operated for disabled LBGTQ+ folx.
“You are in a wheelchair. You should not be here…” His words stunned my friend and me like a taser. He sashayed away as we, my friend and I, tried to gather our composure. We simultaneously looked at each other and she asked me if that really happened. I said yes. Immediately, my friend turned around as I instinctively followed. We blazed after his trail but were cut off by four of his friends.
“We are so, so sorry,” one of them said, “he’s super drunk.”
I knew I belonged to be there just as much as he did. However, at the time, I was not really aware of the image of a “picture perfect gay man.” I did not understand how mainstream media does not tell stories of LGBTQ+ folx like me. I am now painfully aware of the lack of representation.
We let it go. My friend and I were tired, and our ride was soon to come. We parted way with his friends and made a bee-line toward our waiting spot.
Disabled LBGTQ+ folx exists. Josè Carrillo exists. I exist.
Read it out loud. Internalize it. We have been here for as long as humankind, and we are not going anywhere. As Pride events grow, so must the accessibility for disabled folx. This is the call I heed to organizers planning future Pride festivals. And to you, I ask for open minds and hearts.
