I am an out and very proud member of the queer community. And I hate rainbows. Not the rainbows you see in the sky, they’re fine, nice enough, whatever. But the rainbows you see at Mardi Gras; absolutely abhor them.
Every Midsumma, Pride, gay disco, queer film festival, homo park run etc I am filled with repulsion over why we picked such a daggy set of colours.
No queer I know owns anything rainbow. Trying to match rainbow in an outfit is hard. Covered in rainbow: not hot. Rainbow sparkle: ugly. Painted-on rainbow stickers: gross. I cannot even think about rainbow socks. They border on homophobic.
It’s bright and clashy and I am an inner north Melbourne butch lesbian. We don’t do colour. We do not do red next to orange next to yellow, wrapped across our whole body, flying proudly behind us. We do monotone cargo pants. We do browns. We do tartan.
It was gay man Gilbert Baker who started this unrelenting aesthetic abomination. In 1979 Baker decided the symbol would be a flag, covered in rainbow, to celebrate all things wonderful: red for life, orange for healing, yellow for sunlight, green for nature, blue for harmony and purple for spirit.
It’s a fine sentiment and these colours may tell the world we are all in it together, we are inclusive. But to me, they mainly say we’re all colourblind.
How gay men launched the rainbow flag and then vaulted into a position of taste gatekeepers for most of the western world is a total mystery to me. Incredible work, my guys.
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My queers – we have come so far. I actually am so proud of us. How we turned our history of isolation, secrecy and pain into one of street parties and low-cut panties fills me with unbridled joy. But the flag: we have to sort it out. Please don’t cancel me.
