As long as there has been beer, there have been queers.

Hell, we’ve been around longer: early evidence suggests beer—in one shape or another—has been around for a few thousand years (depending upon who you ask), but I’d hang my hat on us gays predating that ancient Sumerian beer recipe by a long, long way.

Inevitably, queer folk have been involved in the production of beer since time immemorial. Perhaps not so overtly in the way that I or other out and vocal queers are, but like women, people of colour, and others broadly excluded from beer’s more recent history, we are an integral part of the genetic makeup of what beer is today. As long as there has been beer, I should say, there have been queers involved.

But of course; beer is a far-reaching and egalitarian drink. Despite issues prevalent within the craft beer sector and the beer industry at large—those of a lack of diversity, equity, and inclusion, a lack of LGBTQ+ representation and visibility, and of a lack of safeguarding against homophobia, queerphobia, and transphobia—beer is, as one might imagine, as popular within queer spaces as it is anywhere else.

Disclosure: Lily Waite is the owner and operator of Queer Brewing: an LGBTQ+ brewery working to provide visibility and representation for queer and trans people in and around beer.

It’s unsurprising, then, that there is history—if not the most civil one—between beer and LGBTQ+ movements. Modern-day Pride parades are most often simply big gay parties, rife with drinking and raucous merry-making. Whilst this frivolity may appear good-natured, harmless, and part of the celebration, it also has the effect of making Pride unsafe for certain participants or would-be attendees. When cishet folk—be they allies, supporters, or tourists—turn up and treat the space like a party, this can be at the detriment of the safety and community of LGBTQ+ people; Pride spaces are notoriously poorly catered towards the large proportion of our community who are sober.

Pride is not without its problems. I’ve never felt comfortable with the idea of Pride, let alone parades or marches. The condensation of LGBTQ+ issues, rights, awareness, and movements into one month is infinitely frustrating; the respectability politics inherent within that denote what is and what is not acceptable in public, or in the eyes of a cisgender, heterosexual society, is exclusionary and can reek of shame. The police and corporations present, despite the violence and harm they do to our communities—in the case of the former—the very significant brutality and violence they inflict upon LGBTQ+ people of colour.

I understand the importance of and need for Pride. I understand it’s history, and the significance of continuing to march today, and that to those who marched in 1969 the sight of Pride parades the world over would be both unimaginable and revolutionary. I recognise, perhaps paradoxically, that it is a vital space, too: it helps innumerable people who aren’t or can’t be “out” for whatever reason feel less alone, and is a show of perseverance, longevity, and solidarity.

I make no bones with that. But when Pride has become a vehicle for companies to sell products, for corporations to pinkwash, and a party before a protest, I can’t make sense of it. It is framed by mainstream society “as a celebration for a battle already won, in which they were always blameless and not an ongoing struggle in which they are still very much the oppressors.”

My life, as a visible and vocal queer trans person, is a Pride march. Not just June.

***

Before we look at Pride, it’s important to look to queer history, and the role our drinking spaces played. Queer people, in particular queer men, in the UK have been persecuted for our sexualities for hundreds of years. The Buggery Act of 1533 completely outlawed sodomy. Though queer persecution was by no means introduced with this act, and queerness has in varying ways remained criminalised into the 21st Century: Section 28 (the infamous law that prohibited the “promotion of homosexuality” by local authorities, most notably in schools) was only repealed in England and Wales in 2003 and in Scotland in 2000. Gay marriage was only legalised in 2013.

Due to this historical and sustained persecution beyond the confines of the home, there were few safe spaces to express oneself fully, and to find community, love, or sex. Theatres, brothels (perhaps unsurprisingly), and pubs and restaurants became common meeting places. The term “Molly House,” commonly used in the 18th and 19th Centuries, referred to a place where queer men would meet. Bars and pubs were generally the most common of these. Not only were these spaces predecessors of modern-day queer bars and pubs, they were somewhere to be yourself, and meet others like you. These were ports in a storm—given the persecution and prosecution of homosexuality prevalent for hundreds of years, safe spaces such as these were essential.

Beer and queer identities are, (by virtue of drinking spaces’ roles in providing safety for those identities to exist and flourish,) inextricably linked. Perhaps none more famously as the somewhat apocryphal origin story of Pride: The Stonewall Inn in New York’s Greenwich Village. Owned by the Mafia and subsequently protected (for the most part) from anti-gay persecution, the bar was one of the city’s few queer spaces. Despite this, the tavern was regularly targeted by the police. Raids specifically targeting queer relationships were frequent—all under the guise of gay bars operating without New York State Liquor Authority liquor licenses; this in turn because the State Liquor Authority wouldn’t grant gay bars licenses.

““While, as the saying goes, ‘Pride is a protest, not a party,’ rainbow capitalism is almost as old as Pride itself.””

On the 28th of June 1969 when the police raided The Stonewall, the patrons inside decided to fight back. The raid, which saw beer and liquor confiscated, and anyone dressed in female clothing taken to the bathroom by a female officer to have their sex checked (an apparently standard, though ghoulish, procedure) before anyone assigned male at birth was arrested. This culminated in a large crowd outside, the police using excessive force, and tensions rising. While some not arrested performed, in typical camp fashion, to the rest of the crowd, others resisted the police.

The “first brick” being thrown—the semi-mythological act that started the uprising—is often attributed to gay liberation activist and self-identified drag queen Marsha P. Johnson. Other, perhaps more accurate, accounts from eyewitnesses attribute it to butch lesbian drag king Stormé DeLarverie, throwing a punch, rather than a brick.

The six-day Stonewall Uprising ensued. Somewhere between 100 and 1000 queers, allies, and those who fought in solidarity and against police brutality, battled the police—incredibly, at one point utilising the common battle formation of a kick line, replete with the lyrics: “We are the Stonewall girls/ We wear our hair in curls/ We don’t wear underwear/ We show our pubic hairs.”

Also known as the Stonewall Riots, the Uprising was one of the first widespread movements of queer solidarity in the face of the criminalisation of anything beyond cis-heteronormativity. As a result it birthed the Pride movement.

***

As June swings around each year, marketing and PR departments across the world spin into action, preparing Pride products and campaigns with reckless abandon. Rainbows adorn products as far as the eye can see, from LGBT (that’s Lettuce, Guacamole, Bacon, and Tomato) sandwiches to gay mouthwash. Though popular confectionary brand Skittles removes theirs, as apparently: “only one rainbow matters during Pride.”

Pinkwashing and Pride-based marketing is not a new phenomenon. As long as there have been Pride parades, brands and corporations have tagged along, desperate for a share of the “pink pound.” The same goes for breweries: American brewing giant Miller has a long history of gay marketing, starting in the 1970s with the sponsorship of the leather and BDSM oriented Folsom Street Fair. Budweiser and Coors have both marketed towards US queer communities since the ‘90s—though there’s little evidence of any UK equivalents.

Interestingly, there was a concerted effort in the ‘90s by large, multinational breweries to pull away from the longstanding sexist marketing and branding tropes that had plagued beer for decades. According to entries in GLAAD’s (formerly called the Gay and Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation) advertising archive, “Looking for new material to mine, brewers began extensively playing with gay and transgender themes in their advertising. However, because beer drinkers are stereotypically macho, the tone of many of the ads were more negative.”

While, as the saying goes, “Pride is a protest, not a party,” rainbow capitalism is almost as old as Pride itself. Brands, including breweries such as Miller, Budweiser, and Coors, have been sponsoring pride for decades. Though this has increased in recent years, prompting criticism from much of the queer community.

Corporatised and capitalist-driven Pride, and Pride-adjacent marketing and month-long activism, is by nature antithetical to Pride’s purpose. What look to be acts of allyship and inclusion—such as rainbow branding or a Pride campaign—seem to be driven by compassion and a willingness to push for greater diversity and equity, they’re often cynical, performative, and opportunistic PR and marketing stunts. As we’ve been saying for years: we exist for the other 11 months of the year, so where are your rainbows then?

In 2019 this very corporate approach to pride was exemplified by the exclusion of a number of Denver’s craft breweries from Denver Pride by main parade sponsor Coors. When bartender at Call To Arms Brewing Marjorie Scott enquired about a float for itself and eight other local craft breweries, she was told that due to an exclusivity clause in Coors’ sponsorship contract, they wouldn’t be allowed to participate.

On the one hand, this type of exclusivity is to be expected with sponsorship of large events. Though on the other, Pride is and always has been a community event, and the exclusion of those wanting to participate flies in the face of the spirit of Pride, and on some levels is also a form of gatekeeping. In response Call to Arms and the other breweries set up the Brewer’s Light Pride Parade and Rumpus, a grassroots, community-led alternative Pride, which paraded its way past participating breweries, and raised money for The Trevor Project.

Despite the historical sponsorship and ostensible support by large breweries and brewing corporations, this incident was far from the first instance of Coors waving a rainbow flag with their fingers crossed behind their backs. In fact, their history of anti-LGBTQ+ practices begs the question: why were they allowed to sponsor Denver Pride in the first place?

Though not specifically related to Pride months, parades, or movements, Coors has been boycotted by parts of the LGBTQ+ community since 1977. Historically, there are strong links between queer rights and workers’ rights movements, such as the support of the National Union of Mineworkers in England and Wales in the 1980s by the activist group Lesbians and Gays Support the Miners. The Coors Beer Boycott is perhaps the most famous instance of labour union and queer rights solidarity.

In 1977 Coors Beer—a famously and aggressively anti-union company—moved to crush a 1,500 worker-strong strike, which was in part a reaction to the brewery’s ability to fire workers at its Colorado facility suspected of being queer or trans. Alongside this, writes John McDevitt in Liberation News, the Coors family was funding anti-immigration legislation in Colorado and other states, despite a large proportion of brewery staff—and union members—being immigrants from Mexico. Women and people of colour suffered racism and sexism.

“For years there [were] no women’s bathroom [sic] at the Coors Brewery as management refused to hire women,” writes McDevitt. “Workers who applied for positions at Coors underwent lie detector tests in which they were asked their opinions about collective bargaining and if they were homosexual.”

Labour unions, such as the International Brotherhood of Teamsters, worked with Coors distributors and their colleagues, and in turn queer activists such as the late Harvey Milk. As a result, gay bars not only refused to buy or serve Coors beer, but walked into the streets and symbolically poured bottles of Coors down the drains. To this day, you can’t find Coors in queer bars across the San Francisco Bay Area and beyond.

The impact of this boycott reached far beyond its initial pushback. It awoke labour unions to the power of the LGBTQ+ community, and its organising potential. Scott Smith—an activist involved in the boycott who at one point was in a relationship with Milk—brought the campaign to his attention, who in turn used it to campaign for a greater alliance between unions and LGBTQ+ and immigrant organisations.

LGBTQ+ rights movements across the US, and by extension throughout the world, would likely not be the same, nor would they be where they are, were it not for the Coors Beer Boycott.

***

As today's LGBTQ+ movements grow stronger and—broadly speaking—acceptance and rights incrementally increase, the beer world looks to be more involved than ever before. In reality, little feels like it’s changed, at least not in terms of brewery action. Big brands still sponsor the big events to varying degrees of approval and efficacy; in 2019 Budweiser supplemented their sponsorship of Pride in London with plastic cups printed with various pride flags on them, prompting criticism that these important and meaningful symbols were being reduced to disposable waste to be trampled underfoot.

““Do those breweries upon whose labels and pump clips rainbows appear every June get a pass because they make an effort?””

Budweiser isn’t alone in pro-LGBTQ+ marketing and branding: smaller craft breweries around the world throw their sequined caps into the ring, with rainbow and unicorn themed beers making an appearance every June. Though societal attitudes are progressing, that’s not to say that work wasn’t being done in the past. I recently came across The Queer Brewing Company (by coincidence, no relation to my own Queer Brewing Project), a queer-led beer brand raising money for LGBTQ+ causes, some 23 years ago in San Francisco. Time really is a flat circle.

However, there are breweries, brands, and organisations for whom every month is Pride month. A growing number of LGBTQ+-owned businesses, including mine, are putting queer and trans issues, rights, and people at the forefront of what they do. As The Queer Brewing Company shows, this work isn’t new: Mexican brewery Minerva’s two queer beers Salamandra and Purple Hand Beer—whose names reference a queer rights process in San Francisco in 1969—were launched in 2011 (apparently “the world’s first gay beers”—what is with our community’s obsession with being the first?) Though these queer-owned businesses, such as Gay Beer, Dyke Beer, Red Bear Brewing, Queers Makin’ Beers, ourselves and many others may not be breaking new ground, we are growing in number, and in visibility.

If corporate Pride and pinkwashing is a problem due to its apparent opportunism and “slacktivism” (throwing money at a charitable cause in lieu of doing actual work) where do Pride beers fall? Do those breweries upon whose labels and pump clips rainbows appear every June get a pass because they make an effort? What of those whose effort is merely superficial, and don’t live up to the values their Pride beers eschew? Or is once a year simply not enough? Is such a view too cynical: at least there are those that do something?

In reality, both corporate cynicism and meaningful contributions, such as Pride-themed beers, by small breweries both fall short without accompanying action. Without a commitment to improving the lives of LGBTQ+ people (whether employed by the company in question or not), a rainbow-adorned beer and a share of the profits from the sale of that beer, done once a year, feels like a sticking plaster on a gunshot wound. Our communities and our issues are extant all year-round, and an annual-at best cursory acknowledgement with little commitment or thought beyond one product.

While I appreciate the effort of Pride beers and recognise that more may be being done behind the scenes in terms of LGBTQ+ action and solidarity, such one-dimensional support is often frustrating. With innumerable resources on effective allyship, best diversity, equity, and inclusion practices, and an increasing number of coalitions and initiatives to which businesses can sign up, it feels that Pride beers without any other supplementary work are—at this point in time—merely opportunistic and misguided.

Doing and being better to LGBTQ+ people, and people of colour, disabled people, and other marginalised folk—has never been easier. And there’s never been less of an excuse to not do so.