Pride rolls around every year. Rolling around with it, in the manner of mud wrestlers, are gay pundits who argue various points of Pride.

Has Pride been highjacked by corporate America? Does it reinforce stereotypes? Is Pride even relevant now that so much progress has been made? Why would a vendor sell rainbow-striped tampons?

I understand much of the grousing. I grumble some, myself. But to me it all boils down to this: As long as people are afraid to come out, Pride has a place.

We took leaps toward civil equality in the past year. But there are still states that are more inclined to offer a marriage ceremony to a pair of snapping turtles than to us. And in the nation’s capital, the leader of this free country wants to put antigay discrimination into the Constitution. Why, a person could get the idea that the President isn’t very fond of us.

At work we continue to make progress, yet in bunches of states we can still be fired just for being our lovable selves. On the religious front, a number of Protestant denominations are currently turning into pretzels deciding what to do with us. But it will be a long time before all the major religions of this country have decided we’re kosher. Institutions and individuals continue to spew the message that GLBT people are lesser. That can make accepting yourself as appealing as a hernia.

Enter Pride. Over a couple of hours, it’s able to send years of misinformation skedaddling. Were you told gays couldn’t get a job? Here come the GLBT groups from Microsoft, AT&T, Bank of America. Did you hear over and over that God hates your guts? Take a gander at all these churches marching along. Look, a Jewish temple. Buddhists. Catholics. Muslims. Vegetarians. Oops. You heard all lesbians look like men? Check out the woman over there. She’s got more make-up on than the drag queen next to her.

At last year’s Seattle Pride, my friend Amy, newly out, didn’t know what to expect. She and another newbie gazed at the passing parade. Suddenly people around her began to clap “frantically” for what seemed, by Pride standards, a humdrum bunch. She read their signs proclaiming their love for their gay children; her friend quickly clued her in to what PFLAG was; a marcher

applied a sticker to her reading, “A PFLAG mom loves me.”

“I was down for the count,” says Amy. When she finished bawling, she noticed the young woman next to her crying as well. The woman said to Amy, “Ah, they get me every year, too.”

I could scoff cynically here. Ain’t gonna happen. Too many of us have holes where our families should be, and others of us have families that try to be accepting, but can’t manage enthusiasm. One PFLAG mother on a stickering rampage proves we can be gay and loved. And adhesive-friendly.

Early in my own coming-out years, I attended Boston Pride. I was blown away by the sheer numbers of gay people. By the way it felt to be utterly safe, and wonderfully comfortable. By the cost of a hot dog.

It was a moment while watching the parade that crystallized being gay and out for me. A Brazilian float went by, blasting music and displaying spectacularly costumed men. There was little old me on the sidelines, moved to groove, despite my northern New England roots.

I felt caught up in the theater, the music – and more. I was the farthest thing from a Carnival drag queen, but together we were one splashy, international community. I was home. And as any Friend of Dorothy will tell you, there’s no place like it.