How Seattle Pride started 50 years ago, and what it means today

Holding hands, 40 people ran joyfully around the Seattle Center fountain on a bright, sunny day in June 1974. 

There was an air of revelry as they celebrated Seattle’s first Pride week. To show that the city had a loud and proud gay and lesbian community, the attendees had hoped to form a circle around the fountain. 

But there weren’t enough of them.

So, instead, they ran around the fountain to complete their intended circle. Caught up in the moment, they let loose and climbed on top of the fountain. 

Nearby, tied between a small tree and a utility pole, a banner creatively crafted from a strip of a bedsheet and a volleyball net announced in spray-painted letters: “Proud to be LESBIAN Proud to be GAY ’74.”  

Yet it wasn’t all sunshine and fountain parties. 

Although lesbian and gay activism in Seattle found an infusion of fresh energy in the ’70s, it was still very risky to be publicly out. Despite the inclusive banner that flew over that first Pride celebration, the lesbian and gay communities did not usually work together, and with de facto segregation still very much alive, queer people of color in Seattle were fighting a very different battle, one with many fronts.

Half a century later, as Seattle celebrates the 50th anniversary of that first Pride, the world is a very different place. Pride itself has changed too. Pride week is now Pride month. Hundreds of colorful pride decorations and signs festoon the parade route through downtown Seattle, and rainbow flags representing the spectrum of queer identities decorate every corner of the city.

And if every person participating in Sunday’s Seattle Pride parade were to hold hands, they would easily circle the Seattle Center fountain dozens of times over.

Seattle’s Pride parade today is supported by a plethora of businesses and neighbors and boasts a budget of hundreds of thousands of dollars and an expected turnout of over 300,000 people. But with a slew of anti-LGBTQ+ legislation lurking in many state courts, it still isn’t all sunshine and fountain parties. And despite the LGBTQ+ acronym that aims to be as inclusive as possible, divisions still exist and certain groups are still marginalized, even within the queer community. 

That’s why Pride is still so important, said Pam Weeks, who attended her first Seattle Pride in 1977 — the first Pride recognized by the city of Seattle — and co-founded Seattle’s Lesbian Resource Center.

“I still think there’s a tremendous need,” Weeks said. “Hopefully, a lot of the parade is also talking about how people are being discriminated against, still.” 

The privilege of Pride

The first Pride week was a small, humble affair. But for David Neth, the primary organizer, it accomplished its mission: “The original concept for gay pride was to be out in the sunlight, in the middle of the daytime, and be seen and not be like cockroaches scurrying around in the dark. That was the whole gist of it,” said Neth, 76. “Let’s let people know that we’re a happy, healthy, out group.”

The cover of night was often where closeted queer Seattleites felt the safest — in bars and clubs, behind closed doors. LGBTQ+ people celebrating outside in the light of day was revolutionary. 

That afternoon in June 1974, if you had looked beyond the main spectacle of celebrants splashing around in the fountain, you would have seen more people hovering on the fountain’s perimeter, avoiding cameras and direct association with the festivities. Still farther out, Neth said, some wary observers lurked near the surrounding trees, finding the shadows even in the light of day.

Those frolicking in the sunshine were young, independently employed and had the freedom and privilege to take the risk. 

For others, however, sharing their sexuality meant risking their jobs, being arrested or harassed or even physically hurt.

That was the case for Rita Smith, who did not attend Seattle’s first Pride week but marched in subsequent Prides in the ’70s.

In the ’70s, Smith lived a double life. She came out in 1976, and in Seattle, she was a member of the Lesbian Resource Center and active in the lesbian activist community. But in Bellevue, where she worked as an English teacher, Smith remained closeted — a feat far more possible in the days before the internet and social media.

That’s why Smith was “very afraid” as she marched in her first Pride in 1977. Instead of marching with her partner or the LRC contingent, she chose to march with a straight male friend. 

“We agreed that we were just there as allies if we got into the newsreels, or if anybody stopped us,” said Smith.

Still, the experience was a powerful one.

“Realizing that I wasn’t alone and I wasn’t the only one,” she said. “I had this sense of embracing myself and getting over a lot of fear and shame.”

The following year, Smith marched with the lesbian teachers contingent. Many wore paper bags over their heads to protect their identities (and their jobs). Smith proudly marched without one.

“I just decided ‘I’m willing to take the risk. I can’t hide anymore,’” she said. 

The risk was even greater for other groups, such as queer parents. 

Geraldine Cole, one of the few women who helped organize the first Seattle Pride week, and the mother of a then-newborn baby girl, co-founded the Lesbian Mothers National Defense Fund in the fall of 1974. 

The Fund provided legal, social and financial support to lesbian mothers involved in custody battles. Cole was relatively safe from those battles, given that her daughter’s father was unknown and she was independently employed, financially secure and owned a house.

“We could take on the work because we were safe,” she said. “All the women, the people we helped weren’t like us. They weren’t young radicals. They were married women who, you know, fell in love with the neighbor.”

In 1978, Seattle couple Madeleine Isaacson and Sandra Schuster became the first lesbian mothers in the U.S. to win custody of their children through a case they brought to the Washington Supreme Court.

To be an out and proud “young radical” who could take on the work of LGBTQ+ rights at such a risky time, said Cole, you had to have some level of safety and privilege but also maybe be a little eccentric: “You had to be ‘out there’ to be out there,” she quipped, laughing. 

That’s why there was a relatively small showing at that first Pride week, which was three days of very public, visible events. 

Pride week launched on Friday, June 28, with the grand opening of the Seattle Gay Community Center in the relative queer-friendly safety of Capitol Hill. Saturday brought a picnic at Occidental Park followed by an evening dance party. The fountain party at Seattle Center was on Sunday afternoon and planned for Sunday evening was some sort of collective action that the group did not decide on until the day of. 

Most events had a steady attendance of about 40 people, though the Saturday dance party drew about 150 attendees. 

Queer events took place mostly at night and out of the public eye in 1970s Seattle, but even in the dark, gay and lesbian Seattleites faced discrimination. Until the early ’70s, gay bars in Seattle were forced to pay off police to avoid being raided or having their patrons harassed and arrested. 

The final Pride week event held on Sunday night was a nod to the fraught dynamic between the queer community and the police. The “kiss-in” at the Wallingford police station was the riskiest event of the week. Roughly 20 people walked into the station, began kissing and demanded they be arrested as “perverts.” 

Because Washington state’s sodomy laws were not repealed until 1976, the protesters really did risk being arrested that day. Instead, they were just kicked out of the precinct. 

“[The cops were] peering out through the blinds like little kids,” Neth said, laughing. “That was just icing on the cake.”

From Pride march to Pride parade

In the 1970s, even being visibly, publicly queer was a dangerous political act. Pride participants held signs protesting anti-LGBTQ+ legislation, and the only businesses supporting the marchers were gay bars and activist organizations. 

Today, especially in the Seattle area, LGBTQ+ representation is much more ubiquitous — on hit TV shows, in advertisements, New York Times bestsellers, even in government — and during Pride month, rainbow flags are plastered on everything from beer cans to Oreos.

Yet, anti-LGBTQ+ hate crimes still abound throughout the U.S., and a 2024 survey by The Trevor Project revealed that 39% of LGBTQ+ young people seriously considered attempting suicide in the past year. 

That’s why visibility is still important, said Neth. When he first moved to Seattle in the 1960s, that’s what helped Neth see a more promising future for himself — or any future at all.

“My expectation was that I would commit suicide by the time I was 25 because that’s what gay people did in the ’60s, or that’s what you were expected to do,” Neth said. “When I came here and saw the already existing community of out people that were happy and healthy and interacting and just a wonderful community, all of a sudden, I realized that my life expectancy had suddenly changed to be an old man.” 

Looking back, Pam Weeks recalled the emotional intensity of just seeing people stand up for their rights at Prides over the years. 

At one Pride, Margarethe Cammermeyer, who was discharged from the National Guard in 1992 because she was lesbian, asked all military veterans to stand. Then she asked everyone who had been kicked out of the military because they were gay or lesbian to remain standing. Most did. 

“It was so powerful,” said Weeks.

“Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” took effect in 1993, permitting LGBTQ+ people to serve in the U.S. military as long as they hid their queer identities. The act was repealed in 2011.  

At another Pride in the ’70s, Weeks saw the PFLAG (Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays) contingent march for the first time. 

“As somebody who was afraid to come out to my family — and when I did, I did not have a positive experience — when I saw that group of Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays, I just cried,” said Smith. 

“We all did,” Weeks added. “We all did.”

That’s why Seattle Pride gatherings in the 1970s were called “Pride marches,” Smith said.

Today, the main event of Pride month is the Pride parade — basically a big party in the streets. 

There tend to be fewer tears and protest chants. Activist groups still march, but instead of rallying cries, they dance and throw candy to the crowd, and there are drag brunches and viewing parties.

But the Seattle LGBTQ+ activists who cut their teeth in the ’70s say it’s still important that pride retains a nod to its political origins. 

Weeks, Cole, Smith and Neth all agree that much progress has been made in the past 50 years.

“I just feel really proud of our community, that we’ve come as far as we have,” said Weeks, adding that one of the most positive changes is how diverse and collaborative Pride has become.

The meaning of Pride

At the first Pride in 1974, Neth intentionally included lesbians in the planning, a partnership that was uncommon at the time, despite the strong women’s rights movement. Hearing them out, he made sure to include child care as part of the week’s events, with the men providing the care.

That, too, he said, is why he’d spray-painted “Proud to be LESBIAN” before “Proud to be GAY” on the Pride ’74 banner.

The AIDS crisis in the ’80s forged closer bonds between the lesbian and gay communities as lesbian women helped care for gay men, who were disproportionately affected by the virus.  

Today, people represented by every letter in the LGBTQ+ acronym march together in the Pride parade, even as their experiences and priorities differ. But trans people and queer people of color report higher rates of depression, suicide, discrimination and physical attacks due to their identities, and some continue to feel marginalized within the LGBTQ+ community.  

That’s why the visibility Pride creates is still so important, said Seattle Pride Executive Director Patti Hearn. 

“I’m very aware of how necessary it is for the queer community to be visible and be loud because there are threats in legislation and rhetoric and activities of people around the country,” Hearn said. “So part of what we’re doing at Pride is, first of all, making it feel safer for people to come out. 

“And then we’re also making sure that people know that we are here, and it’s fine. We’re here, and it’ll be OK. There’s actually nothing to be afraid of.”

Pride continues to reach new audiences and increase awareness of the diversity of the LGBTQ+ community.

Smith, who volunteers with GenPride, an organization that supports LGBTQ+ seniors, said she has been thrilled this year to also see more young people taking an interest in elder queer folk. 

Smith is one of several seniors who will be honored as part of GenPride’s “Pillars of Pride” awards this year. Seattle Pride organizers are also partnering with the Museum of History & Industry and organizing several events to honor the history of Seattle Pride this month. 

“That ability to learn from and look at elders is sort of new for the queer community, right?” said Hearn. “So it’s a gift, particularly to young people, but even the people not so young like me, to have people who can tell us stories about a generation ago.” 

After 50 years of pride in Seattle, amid many ups and downs, victories and setbacks, challenges and changes, one important thing Pride now and Pride then have in common is the sunshine. 

Whether it’s celebrated with frolicking in fountains, shouting protest chants, or dancing down the streets in drag, Seattle Pride has always been a chance for queer folk to simply be out in the light, and maybe have a bit of fun. 

“We had so much fun. Oh, God, it was fun,” said Geraldine Cole. “There’s nothing like [making change] with your buddies. I feel extremely lucky to have lived it, lived my life.”