I went to Black Pride in 2017 on a whim. It was the morning after a very messy London Pride and I was trying to ignore flashbacks of the previous night’s behaviour. (Tequila shots had facilitated some very, very public displays of affection.) I’d only had a few hours sleep when my alarm shook me awake, but I had arranged to meet my friend Adam, and I was getting a nasty reputation for always bailing on him so I knew, impending hangover or not, I had to go. I dragged myself out of bed and hopped around my room trying to locate the essentials such as my phone and dignity.
I was 23 and, until this point, Pride to me was an event, not a feeling. It was about what I was going to wear (anything covered in rainbows) and how many women I was going to kiss (often in the double digits, unfortunately). Pride was about which kind of alcohol would get me the drunkest and which one of my exes I was avoiding. It meant hanging out in London’s Soho with people I loved in a space where we all felt comfortable enough to hold hands.
