Pride is a Protest

Pride Is a Protest… and a Party Hat
by Max E. Pad

Pride Month. The time of year when rainbow capitalism reaches critical mass, big corporations change their profile pictures for 30 days, and Target hides the queer merch in the back like it’s contraband. And yet, despite all the glittery noise and rainbow-washed branding, Pride Month still means something real to so many of us who live and breathe queer existence the other eleven months of the year.

For me, Pride Month is layered. It’s celebration and defiance. It’s legacy and performance. It’s protest in a sequin blazer and fishnets. It’s drag numbers that make you laugh, cry, or scream “YAAAAS” from your barstool because for that one moment, someone on stage said or did the thing you’ve always felt but never put words to.

As a drag king, Pride Month can feel like a bit of a mixed bag. The spotlight often tilts toward queens — which, don’t get me wrong, many are absolute icons who deserve every ounce of attention — but it means that kings sometimes feel like background characters in the queer narrative. We’re usually not the first booked… we’re not the majority of the faces on the posters... Sometimes we are even told that we don’t bring in a crowd… But Kings Play in Peoria…. Our show hosts have been intentional about making sure that their platform is shared with us. They keep their mind open when we explain how we are being silenced. I am lucky to live somewhere that the queens and hosts listen to, respect, and book the kings (or at least the queens and kings that aren’t a****oles). I even got a spot in the all king drag show at the pride festival in town… that’s right, we have a show dedicated to kings! My drag mentor is a queen and has been teaching me to host shows and helping me to grow my drag… I love my queens… and I see the frustration experienced by us kings.

But even if we are overlooked, We show up anyway.

Because being a drag king during Pride is powerful in ways that go beyond the main stage. It’s powerful because we challenge the assumptions people have about gender, about drag, about who gets to be seen. It’s powerful because we show that masculinity can be performed with compassion, creativity, and camp. It’s powerful because we’re still here, even if we’re not always front and center — and sometimes the most radical thing you can do is simply exist where people don’t expect you to.

This Pride Month, I’ve been thinking a lot about how drag is activism — even when it’s ridiculous. Even when I’m doing a number dressed like a shimmery snake or lip-syncing to a political parody about the state of the Supreme Court. Even when I’m dancing in a bar in a small town that’s never seen a drag king before, or awkwardly hosting an open stage and trying not to forget my own name into the mic. That’s still activism. Because joy is resistance. Queerness is resistance. Art is resistance.

Pride Month started as a riot, and while that may be the tagline plastered on every second Instagram post right now, it’s worth saying again — and meaning it. Pride began because people were fed up. Fed up with being harassed, criminalized, shamed, and ignored. Fed up with playing nice when their humanity was being trampled.

Marsha P. Johnson, Sylvia Rivera, Stormé DeLarverie — they weren’t throwing bricks to be included in a parade. They were demanding survival, dignity, and liberation.

So yeah, I’ll take your parade. But don’t forget why we’re marching.

And honestly? We still have plenty to fight for. Queer and trans rights are being stripped across the country. Anti-drag laws are popping up like bad sequels.

Our president started Pride month by removing Harvey Milk’s name from a navy destroyer.

Politicians are twisting the narrative, trying to convince the public that drag is dangerous, that queerness is something to protect children from rather than something they should be safe with.

That’s the part that always stings the most for me. That somehow, being in drag — being fully expressive, fully visible — is treated as threatening. I’ve had people tell me that drag is inherently sexual, even when I’m just wearing a blazer and lip-syncing to Micheal Buble. I’ve had folks say they don’t want their kids around drag, but let those same kids watch violent, hyper-masculine action movies or beauty pageants with no question.

It’s not about protecting kids. It’s about protecting heteronormativity. And I’m not interested in that.

What I am interested in is creating space. Space for queer joy. Space for weird, fabulous self-expression. Space for all kinds of drag — from pageant royalty to punk chaos to sweaty open-stage weirdos (hi, it’s me). I want kids to see drag and realize gender doesn’t have to be a box you suffer inside. I want people to know they don’t have to earn their queerness or explain it or shrink it down to be acceptable.

Pride is about that. And it’s also about community.

Because no matter how fabulous or fierce we look on stage, drag is hard work. It’s expensive, it’s time-consuming, it’s emotionally taxing, and it can be incredibly vulnerable. We’re artists, yes, but we’re also people — dealing with depression, self-doubt, rejection, burnout, and sometimes family that still doesn’t get it. Pride Month gives us a chance to link arms with one another and say, “You’re not alone in this.”

My first drag Pride gig felt like a dream. The crowd was electric, the performers were on fire, and I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be. But behind the scenes? I was a sweaty mess trying to duct tape my binder in place while the binding tape rips my skin off and wondering if anyone would even cheer for a king when I’m told that they were only here for the queens. (Spoiler alert: they did cheer. Loudly. And it meant the world.)

That’s the magic of Pride. It reminds us of our worth. It reminds us that we do belong — even if we’ve been made to feel otherwise the rest of the year.

So this June, I’m embracing all of it. The good, the hard, the sparkly, the sweaty. I’m performing numbers that make me laugh and others that punch you in the gut. I’m handing out hugs and encouraging voters. I’m being unapologetically Max E. Pad, mustache and all.

Because Pride is more than rainbows and parades. It’s honoring those who came before us and paving the way for those who come next. It’s fighting for our rights and celebrating our joy. It’s not just a party — though the party is pretty damn great. It’s a declaration: We’re here. We’re queer. And we’re not going anywhere.

And if I can help someone feel a little more seen, a little more hopeful, or a little more fabulous just by being me? Then that’s something worth celebrating all year long.

Happy Pride, y’all. Keep marching. Keep dancing. Keep fighting.