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Ashton P. Woods Running for Houston City Council

Ashton P. Woods Houston City Council

Houston-based activist and co-founder of the Houston chapter of Black Lives Matter, Ashton P. Woods, announced on Wednesday, February 13th, that he is running for a seat on the Houston City Council At-Large 5.

(HOUSTON) — Ashton P. Woods is no stranger to the politisphere, and it doesn’t look as though he plans to become one any time soon. The co-founder of Black Lives Matter Houston and political advocate — who was most recently featured on the cover of Poz Magazine (shown below) — announced last Wednesday that he was running for a seat on the Houston City Council At-Large 5 in a Facebook Live video, which can be seen below this article. In the same video, Woods went on to better explain his platform, which includes focusing on infrastructure in various Houston neighborhoods that are poorly lit, decriminalizing homelessness and working to help Houston’s homeless population, as well as emphasizing healthcare on a local level rather than waiting for change on a national level.

52097697_549825782203072_7647660608828997632_n Ashton P. Woods Running for Houston City CouncilWoods is a well-known voice in and out of both Houston’s Black and Queer communities, especially where those two intersect. His other work also includes such successes as the appointment of the City of Houston’s first LGBT advisory board. His advocacy against police brutality has in the past made him a target of violence, but in continuing to speak out, he has inspired others to take action, as well. Woods’ focuses in his advocacy also include support for the community of people living with HIV/AIDS, intersectionality, ending violence against people of color, and speaking out to end rape and sexual assault. Ashton has been speaking and fighting for the rights of people like him for years, and expresses his views publicly and unabashedly. Those views do not come without their share of criticisms from others, but Woods maintains his views and continues to fight for what is right.

Donate to Ashton P. Woods’ campaign here, follow the campaign here, and watch his video announcement here:

Dile a Trump, ‘Gracias’

Latin Trump Mexico Queer Nunca Pueden Quitar Esto

Nunca Pueden Quitar Esto, No. 1

What more could possibly be said of the now-infamous 45th President of the United States? What could we possibly have from him to be thankful for? When I think about the current state of the nation, I remember the feeling we all had right after the results of the election were announced. I remember wandering the city  searching for an answer or reassurance that all this was happening for a reason. Then, as time passed, I and numerous others witnessed the nation’s slow relapse into bigotry and paranoia; and we began to ponder, ¿Qué es pasando aquí?

Leading up to the election, we fought hard — I fought hard — to not only influence others, but to educate them on the values of each candidate and the importance of voting. In one corner: a sure winner, a dedicated, passionate, and inspirational woman, who had been painted by the opposition as a ‘criminal’, as a ‘cheater’, and a ‘murderer’. It appeared to some that she was doomed from the beginning — presumably  ‘tainted’ by more than a decade of public spotlight. But to us, she was cooperation; she was opportunity; and she understood. We eventually all sat and watched as she admitted defeat and gave her final concessions, We watched again as her voice shook the air and ricocheted angrily towards that glass ceiling — como pegandole a una piñata con un palo débil. And as much as we all wanted progress,  she did not break that glass; that piñata still hangs from a rope tied to the roof. And that piñata is still manipulated by the hands of un Tio Sam. But now we see its cracks; we see that it is slashed to pieces; and we can see the candy spewing from its crevices. That piñata will eventually succumb to the crowd — a crowd con bolsas listas — ready to reach and grab from the air, or to pick modestly from the ground, but always to pass and to share amongst each other the dulces that we were promised when our family came to this land.

patrick-photo-1 Dile a Trump, 'Gracias'
This photograph depicts Emiliano Zapata and his brother Eufemio with their wives in 1911. Both women look more challenging and dignified than the Zapata brothers, their body language more powerful, and their faces less somber. In: John Mraz, Photographing the Mexican Revolution (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2012): 120.

“When our family came to this land …” — those words never really sat comfortably with me. In fact  I often catch myself wincing at phrases such as, “When they came over the border …” or, “When they came here …” The reason behind my reactions lies in the emotional response felt behind each of those words and the implications of them. These phrases imply that the speaker and the subject had existed in two locations, but also reek of isolationism. Words like “us” and “them” also create this familiar sentiment of non-connection. How can we allow for people to continue to alienate us on our own land? Culturally, Latinos rarely owned land; but as the New and Old World met, our hardships helped grow strong opposition to the state-owned agricultural system employed by the Spanish. Many Mexican revolutionary figures fought and died in insurgencies against issues such as these; and it saddens me that, still to this day, many indigenous people are still exploited, still displaced, and, most horribly, turned away.

Emiliano Zapata is one such leader. Zapata was a revolutionary leader who rose from an agrarian background in Northern Mexico and inspired the indigenous campesinos of Morelos to fight along the Northern border. Zapata experienced first hand the sting of inequity and exploitation. This eventually led to his fight against the agricultural system known as haciendas. In the New World, the Spanish crown first granted haciendas to the Spanish. Paving the way for the exploitation of thousands of indigenous people into forced labor and out of the possibility of any land ownership. His fight eventually led to Article 27 of the Mexican Constitution, which states that all land, water, and mineral rights in Mexico at first belong to the Nation, and are therefore transferable to private citizens of Mexico. This, in turn, establishes private property as a means of keeping Mexican property in the hands of Mexico’s people so that it is subject to public interest. If Zapata spoke any truth by saying, “La tierra es para quien la trabaja,” then it should be known that it was our ancestors who worked the seasonality and bounty of the Americas.

Yet, here we stand in complete awe as tables turn and focus shifts to us. Now we are the accused — the “rapists”, the “criminals”, and the “terrorists”. They ignore our people’s plight, our hard work, our potential, and our dedication to nature and family. They turn their backs, deny entry, and create complications for residency within imaginary lines; and they do so in contempt of scientific knowledge gained through the study of  ideal genetics and immunology: the more a population is isolated, the more vulnerable it is to new threats — the more susceptible it is to disease. This plays out no differently in humans.

Yet, it was our parents and grandparents that moved our families from farm to farm — and with children working alongside — earning just a fraction of minimum wage so that they may afford our people’s frutos year-long.

Yet, it was our ancestors who eventually harvested corn and beans from the grasses, bore cocoa and coffee from small beans, and sustained hardship with potatoes and cassava roots pulled from the earth. It was our minds and our perseverance that unlocked tomatoes, chiles, peppers, squash, legumes, and quinoa to feed our children.

Yet, it was we who came here with knowledge of our land but still learned “their” land, it was we who learned “their” language and kept ours in the hopes of preserving our people’s story; and it was we who learned “their history and culture — all while maintaining our own customs and beliefs.

Unsurprisingly, this issue is further complicated for those who identify as queer Latinx struggling to fit the mold of an Anglo, heteronormative society. Of what do they have to be so afraid? Who truly is at the disadvantage: us or them? Don’t they know that Cesar Chavez said, “La preservación de la propia cultura no requiere desprecio o falta de respeto hacia otras culturas,” or, “The preservation of one’s own culture does not require hate or disrespect for the other culture.” Our queer culture recognizes the perspectives of not just one people — neither just one sexuality nor gender — but all people. How do you teach both heteronormative Anglo and Latino societies that there is importance in variability and diversity?

Growing up queer — growing up queer in a foreign place — we adapt by learning the behaviors and languages unique to each place. In doing so, we not only lose ourselves, but we also evolve to become entirely new beings. Because we are both Latinx and Americans. We are both Spanish- and English-speaking. We navigate and blend within the Queer and the “normative”. We know the codes for understanding the cis and trans world. We may know how to order Starbucks pero nosotros tambien sabemos cómo hacer un Nescafé. We become both, but still, we are also neither.

This sentiment is best described in Gabriel Ojeda-Sague’s “Jazzercise is a Language”, when he describes the pervasive biracial sentiment felt by not only queer communities, but also by first and second generation Latin Americans:  

“[…] the pivot of an argument: I am much less latino when I am with latinos and I am much less white when I am with white people: I am much less a man when I am around men and I am much less a woman when I am around women […]”

This sentiment is a contradictory dichotomy of both isolation and belonging within our home society, as well as that of another. Whether it be a separate country, gender, or sexuality, feelings of isolation are often magnified by a painful realization that we’ve ended up here yet again: being not only both, but also neither.

At first, our stark differences from society seem debilitating, especially when immersed in monocultured environments. History has shown us countless times before that survival is often granted by accepting and following diversity; and though demonizing and ostracizing can appear to hinder us temporarily, it will make us stronger in the long run. To live through hardship is to conquer it. We may be diverted from our full-potential for a period of time, like storm clouds diffuse and hide our gaze of the moon. Yet we always recover and with us: a beautiful sunrise breaking through clouds  with unmeasurable beauty and differentiation. We too benefit from every hardship endured and nosotros siempre emergemos mas marviosos y fuertes. A newly hatched butterfly, una mariposa maravillosa, must nonetheless struggle with its prison, its cocoon, and practice to gain the strength by using the prison as a tool and assuring flexibility and circulation in its wings.

LoteriaValienta Dile a Trump, 'Gracias'
Por que le corres cobarde trayendo tan buen punal … or, “Why are you running like a coward when you are carrying such a good dagger?”

This is what I see, what the “woke” see, what I hope we all see: that beneath your feet … the ground is moving … it’s shaking — calling you to rise, calling us all to create and to inspire. A Chinese-American feminist, Grace Lee Boggs, once stated, “A revolution that is based on the people exercising their creativity in the midst of devastation is one of the great historical contributions of humankind.” Like Lee Boggs’ time, Queer Latinx people facing adversity from the Trump Regime are living amidst devastation; yet here we boldly resist and create beauty and art that sometimes only we understand. We, as Queer Latinx-Americans, have our own codes, culture, and customs, and so I offer this column to illuminate our beauty, our art, our voices and our fight for equality, representation and, above all else, our dignity.

Por que le corres cobarde trayendo tan buen punal.
My people, my sisters,
mi gente, mi raza —
we are not cowards.
We emulate both beauty and art.

This column is for us and it is for all to see.

As Per the Usual, Pt. I

Less Than Butterflies Anthony Ramirez Gay Sex Love

Less Than Butterflies, No. 29

And now we’ve arrived at the third act — the part of the story that’s supposed to carry us home by noble steed into the sunset.

Inevitably … it will not.

“So you wrote about me?” Ricky asked me as he struggled with great futility to get the tire lock off of his car.

My lies immediately kicked in and took over not only my words, but my facial expressions and my body language. I was good at that. When confronted with some truth I was not ready to acknowledge — at least not to another — I was fully capable of playing the fool and lying. After all, I’d grown accustomed to denying all my real feelings. And that’s just where this story had landed me. As per the usual, in my feelings.

“What are you talking about?” I asked him, eyes narrowed and nose a bit wrinkled.

He didn’t break his gaze — in his subtle yet undeniable determination, Ricky was going to get the truth out of me.

… or so he thought.

“I’m ‘Ricky’ in Less Than Butterflies. Right?”

Ha. Aha, ha, ha, ha, ha.

It wasn’t going to be that easy.

Act III, ladies and gentlemen.

🦋🦋🦋

As per the usual, gay culture was ruining my fucking life. Gay culture, at least in the macro, is supposed to be about tolerance and acceptance and the ability to feel like you belong somewhere when the world has turned you away over-and-over again because of who you are. But gay culture is also a pastiche of incongruities — lines that do not run parallel to one another and that intersect and continue on rather than running a course together. After all, if you aren’t fit, traditionally beautiful, and ready to pop a fan and dance after brunch at the Rosemont, you aren’t in the club. You have to look a certain way, you have to behave a certain way, and you have to think a certain way. The time when queer people were known for their taste and flair has gone. We’ve bitten so deep into the apple of our ability to make uncool things cool that we’ve accidentally eaten the core, chewed, and spit back out exclusivity in its place.

Gay culture is a lot of good things; it’s knowing how to make a family out of friends; it’s understanding that there is beauty in things that others might not at first notice; it’s doing things to spite social norms and cues. But it’s also a lot of bad things; it’s not getting noticed so long as there’s some cuter, younger, vapid twink standing beside you at the bar; it’s not being sure whether someone likes you, or whether you’re just a friend; it’s thinking that you’ve evolved past gay culture, only to more subtly perpetuate its bad behaviors.

Enter literally every single man I’ve written about in this column.

“This is my friend, Anthony,” drag queen extraordinaire Ondi introduced me to a stranger. “We both love white men who emotionally abuse us.”

I nodded to the white stranger and extended a hand to shake. “Especially circumcised ones, or Jews.” As most men do when I’m talking, the stranger only nodded his head and walked away. Ondi followed after him.

“You need to stop falling in love with your friends,” my friend Cooper told me.

“Who?!” I asked, honestly shocked. “Ondi?”

“No, not Ondi, you imbecile,” he snapped. “Ricky.” I looked around the patio to make sure Ricky wasn’t around. We were perched atop a picnic table outside of some dive bar where we’d gone to see Ondi in one of Beck’s performance art drag shows. Beck’s shows were always a breath of fresh air from normal drag shows in Houston, because they incorporated drag queens who strayed from the type of drag most of us got used to seeing on stage at Rich’s or Hamburger Mary’s. Ondi was known for being a bit aberrant in her drag because she was a bit more artistic than a lot of other drag queens, but nevertheless a hell of a queen to watch. Currently, she was standing in line for tacos between shows and taking a selfie like the true garbage fire that she was.

I’M NOT FALLING IN LOVE WITH ANYONE!” I unnecessarily shouted over my shoulder as I snapped a photo of Ondi taking a picture of herself. “Oh, she’s gonna hate this picture,” I said as I uploaded the photo of Ondi to Snapchat. “It’s perfect.” Ondi and I had been in a longstanding feud ever since I stole her phone at a party and updated her Facebook status to say, “I’m in a feud with Anthony Ramirez,” because I was bored.

Ricky, whom Cooper was referring to, was another friend of ours that he’d once slept with and whom I’d been spending a great deal of my time with over the last several weeks. Therein laid the trickiness of it: Ricky and I had been hanging out … and we’d been hanging out a lot. To the point where other men were sending me text messages asking who this Ricky person was. Suffice it to say, they weren’t entirely sure I was being honest when I’d reply to them something dismissive and flippant like, “Lol. A friend of mine.”

And he was! That’s all he was! He was just a friend. But that was another issue with gay culture: two men couldn’t be friends and not be sleeping together. And as much as I’d have liked to have proven that stigma to be wrong … I had to be honest enough with myself to say that, in fact, I did have a bad habit of developing feelings for my friends. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t happening just a little bit with Ricky, too. It’s a stupid thing to let happen, you know. After all, time-and-time again I’ve fallen into this downward circle of getting close to someone and not being able to segregate friendly feelings from romantic ones. I could psychoanalyze this all right now, but what would be the point, really? After all, I’ve been doing that over the course of this entire series and clearly to no avail. But the fact of the matter was that I was not falling in love with Ricky. Having feelings was one thing — it was too early to even really tell what those feelings were. Falling in love with someone I couldn’t have … I’d been there, all to recently, even. I wasn’t ready to do that again. Besides, I was having fun, and Ricky was a nice enough guy to be friends with. I needed to let that be enough for right now.

I had to.

Let us harken back to Ezra, my wonderful, asexual friend whom I also fell in love with. That was awkward. Months and months had gone by with me pining over someone I realistically knew that I couldn’t ever have. And then there was Peter — the man-turned-emotional affair that I let turn my life upside down and inside out who had also started out as just my friend. To be honest, most of my relationships and my not-relationships started off that way. And I’m sorry, but that isn’t exactly my fault. It’s gay culture, dummies. Gay culture sets us up to not have any sort of social cues about dating and lays carpet over the line that separates it from friendships. It doesn’t help that most gay people sleep with their other gay people friends. It’s gross and highly unhealthy, I know. But that doesn’t make it any less true. So what do we do? We meet new people and we spend time with them; then we flirtatiously hold hands or steal cheek kisses or snuggle up next to one another watching movies and drinking cheap Trader Joe’s wine and inevitably we find ourselves sad and lonely over some other guy who’s broken our hearts until we fall into the arms (and assholes) of our friends.

I could see Ricky quite clearly — who he was he presented to people without hesitation, but also without apology. He was cute, and he was smart, and he came with a lot of passion, the likes of which I hadn’t met in a person in a very long time. He was insightful and observant, someone who watched others and picked out clumps of coal before dusting them off into diamonds. It was something remarkable, really. Few people had that kind of foresight. He was definitely someone I was eager to get to know upon meeting him, someone I could tell needed people who wanted to get to know him. He was friendly, he was kind, and he would break my heart if I wasn’t careful.

He would break my heart if I wasn’t careful.

I turned back to Cooper. “You’re so stupid. You don’t know anything.”

“Anthony,” Cooper said as he pulled a joint out of his backpack, lit it, took a hit, and then passed it to me. Apparently everyone was just smoking weed everywhere since the City of Houston had made it less illegal to be caught with small amounts. Burn away the evidence, why don’t we? So, I took a hit, too. After all, if you can’t beat ‘em, smoke their weed. “I love you, but you are way better than Peter,” he said. Peter, Peter, Peter. How the fuck was I supposed to really get closure and move on from that guy if my friends kept bringing him up? Cooper was right, though — I was so much better than that guy. “Just like when Justin and I broke up and you said that I was better than him.”

I exhaled and hacked up a lung due to the enormous hit I’d just taken off the joint. “Yeah, but …” I choked. “I didn’t mean it when I said it to you.” More coughing. “That’s just what you say to someone after a breakup.”

“Wow,” he said as he snatched his joint back away from me. “Why are you such a fucking pendeja?”

Yo no se, bitch,” I told him as I downed the remainder of my mezcal margarita. “But I appreciate you saying that, and it’s very sweet. I just know that this thing with Ricky is not the same as the thing with Peter. First of all, I’m not in love with Ricky. I barely know him.”

“You’ve been together almost every single day since you met,” he added.

Secondly,” I snapped, “I’m doing exactly the thing with Ricky that I said I was doing when we discussed this last week and that I didn’t do with Peter.”

“That was a really confusing sentence. What thing are you doing? … Or … not doing?”

I looked up and found Ondi prancing back from the taco line with a boat full of Mexican food in her beach ball-inspired, Katy Perry-esque outfit and blonde wig. She honestly gave all of us Latinas a bad name.

I turned back to Cooper as Ondi as the smell of Ondi or her food nauseated me. “I’m just riding it out to see where it goes.”

Ondi shoved a giant taco in her mouth and then said through a mouthful of food, “You’re always riding something.”

🦋🦋🦋

As per the usual — or at least as of late — I was stuck in my own head trying not to have a feeling, all while pretending not to be hungry because I didn’t want anyone to notice I’d gained like 6 pounds in the last two weeks. The latter really is a separate issue for later.

I looked over at Ricky as he talked and my own thoughts drowned out his words.

Do I have a crush on him?

I was trying my very hardest to listen to whatever story it was that Ricky was telling me about his day at work. He’d been a financial consultant — whatever the fuck that meant — since college and he literally never stopped talking about it.

In addition to the dulling of his voice thanks to my own inner-monologue, I also couldn’t get Cooper’s voice out of my head telling me not to be such a dumb bitch and to stop falling in love with every man that pranced in and out of my life. It felt mildly racist coming from a white man, to be honest; but I was willing to overlook that part. It wouldn’t be so bothersome if it were not for the fact that I actually wasn’t falling in love with anyone. But now the idea was stuck in my stupid fucking brain, and I was beginning to doubt all my certainties that I’d pre-established before Cooper had gone and opened his stupid fucking mouth.

God, I hate him.

He is very attractive. That actually may be the part that spoils all of this. I hated to think that way, but it was true. Even if it turned out that I was crushing on Ricky, he was waaaaay out of my league. Grown-up and outside of the gay scene more now, Ricky had seemed to evolved of twinkdom, but I couldn’t help but wonder how much of that superficiality or vapidness might still remain that hadn’t evaporated with the bulk of it. Even a little bit would be too much.

But do I like him? These were two separate questions. He was, after all, very smart as well. And driven. And passionate. These were things I wasn’t used to seeing in the men around me — specifically not the ones for which I developed feelings.

“What do you wanna do?” he asked as we drove around the city aimlessly. Maybe he’d finally caught onto the fact that I hadn’t been listening to him. I wish I’d been paying at least some attention so that I’d have some springboard from which to jump. But nooooo. I had to go harping on internally and psychotically about whether or not I might like him. Factor into that Cooper’s dumb voice ringing in the background telling me not to fall in love with Ricky, who I’d otherwise had no plans of falling in love with, and you’d find that I was beginning to suffer a migraine.

WHY ARE MY FRIENDS CONSTANTLY RUINING MY LIFE?!

“I don’t know,” I told him. “It’s 80-degrees outside in the middle of January,” I told him. “Think there are any water parks open?”

I think a part of why I was stressing about all of this had less to do with whether or not I was going to end up falling for Ricky and more to do with the fact that I wanted to know what he thought was going on between us. Truth be told, and if my track record had anything to show worth proving, he probably didn’t think anything of it other than the fact that we were two people hanging out and having a good time together. After all, that’s all I really ever was to anyone, wasn’t it? Friendship after friendship, relationship after relationship, I was constantly being pigeonholed to “friend” before things ever got to serious. It happened with Ezra — granted, he was an asexual, aromantic — and it happened with Peter. It even happened with my last truly serious boyfriend, Parker, when he told me he didn’t think I was marriage material — only for me to find out he was engaged to someone else a short six months later. These were just the more recent examples! It had happened with everyone else in between, before, and probably still would after.

It kind of sucked, y’all. I was smart and funny. I had lots of wisdom to impart and wit to interject. But I also had a taste for men who wanted to treat me like shit all of the time and who seemed incapable of reciprocating my feelings. Wasn’t that telling? Here I was at a huge crux in my life, a place where I had come out of something truly terrible; now was the time for me to decide how I was going to proceed with relationships for the rest of my life so that I didn’t have to put myself through what I’d gone through with Peter with anyone else ever again. And for fuck’s sake, I really was not up for an existential crisis that day while sitting next to someone I barely knew. So, yeah, I’d say it was pretty telling. The only thing that had ever been more telling about me than that was the time I’d accidentally spilled my messenger bag all over the floor of Starbucks and revealed to a Tinder date that I was actually 10lbs heavier than I was.

I don’t remember what we ended up doing that day. We probably got drunk or high or something. What I do remember were the little things that happened. I remember the stolen glances; the smiles and whats that followed. I remember how he’d kissed my cheek when he dropped me off at my car and I’d waited until he’d pulled out of the parking lot to go inside the bar where it’d been parked. I remember a few weekends before when we’d been sleeping on a pull-out on vacation and he’d farted in the middle of the night, woke up long enough to giggle, then rolled over to go back to sleep and how hard I’d laughed at that. I remember how stuck my mouth felt in a stupid, slight gape when he’d talked about other boys — how my face got splotchy and red and my mouth went dry because the pang of jealousy in my stomach had paralyzed me. I remember the feelings that I, in fact, was having. Moreover, I recognized them. I recognized them as the early stages of starting to really like someone. But what I remember most, is wishing I’d just said something; but letting my Hard Cocks School of Gay Culture tell me that I probably shouldn’t — that I should just ride it out.

I was growing so tired of riding things out.

Continue to Part II

BREAKING: Pride Houston Unveils ‘Summer of ’69’ Theme for 2019

Pride Houston Logo Theme Summer of ‘69 Grand Marshal

Tonight, Pride Houston unveiled the theme for its upcoming 2019 celebration: Summer of ’69. The theme marks many important historical landmarks, such as the moon landing and the 50th Anniversary of the Stonewall Riots

(HOUSTON) — Tonight at Guava Lamp on Waugh, Pride Houston hosted its annual logo and theme unveiling for the forthcoming celebration that will take place on June 22nd, 2019 at City Hall. Last year, the 501(c)(3) nonprofit blended a Wizard of Oz theme with their groundbreaking Dear Pride campaign for their 40th anniversary celebration, which featured a performance by headliner Todrick Hall. This year, the organization is taking things to the next level, and revealed that its theme will be Summer of ’69.

For the LGBTQIA+ community, the actual summer of 1969 was important, as on June 28th, 1969, the riots began outside the historic Stonewall Inn in Greenwich Village in Manhattan, NY. These riots against police began after a random and homophobic raid by police at the legendary NYC gay bar. Moreover, the Stonewall Riots are near-universally considered the beginning of LGBTQIA+ liberation and the roots of what would come to be a queer civil rights movement in the United States that continues on today. Other note-worthy events that took place that year include the Moon Landing and Woodstock.

At the event tonight, Pride Houston took the time to introduce its elongated ensemble of board directors and production team members (a full list will be updated here tomorrow). Hosted by comedian Thrifty Newman, the event was heavily attended by Houston’s LGBTQIA+ royalty, including photographer Dalton Dehart, historian JD Doyle, politician and activist Monica Roberts, singer Christina Edwards Wells, author Jolanda Jones, and many more. The bar was far more packed than any average Thursday at Guava. While president and CEO (who was recently dubbed one of About Magazine’s Best of 2018) introduced the new board and production team, marketing director Daniel Cato revealed the logo and theme to an overzealous crowd that was more than eager to see what Pride Houston had in store for the following year. The board and production team, as noted by many, has not only grown in the last year, but has also become much more diverse, with several more people of color now stewarding the ship going into the organization’s 41st year. Grand marshal nominees for 2019 are as follows:

Male-Identifying Grand Marshal:

  • Eric Edward Schell
  • Harrison Guy
  • Jason Black

Female-Identifying Grand Marshal:

  • Jamie Lopez
  • Shannon Baldwin
  • Iris Rodriguez

Non-Binary Grand Marshal:

  • Mike Webb
  • Becca Keo-Meier
  • Julian Gomez

Ally Grand Marshal:

  • Erika Richie
  • Marian Luntz
  • Constable Alan Rosen