translated from Spanish: Let’s go to the pride party or to Quillota primas

The Pride march shows us, from their trucks branded by pro-queer companies, that things are getting better and better or, who want to integrate us into the model, that we are great customers of their products and faithful collaborators in their companies.
I certainly get excited to see the crowds filling the streets, because in my first marches in the late 90s, being a lesbian girl, we were like 300 all over the mall and many were wearing masks or walking along the sidewalk with face masks.

So, of course, it excites to see the LGBTIQ+ movement filled with letters and letters to include a huge multiplicity of different gender identities and sexual orientations that meet today and are hundreds, thousands of ladybugs taking downtown for an afternoon or two a year.
Apparently everything has changed, everything improves, we are more and more equal, but equal to who, to Ricky Martin? Because I had fought my whole life for my right to be different and today I feel out of place at this carnival where it seems that we no longer fear AIDS and porn offers an infinite range of categories for every consumer; lesbians, amateur, post porn, queer, just one click away.
There at the Pride I’m out of the loop because for me being a lesbian is a political issue and not just a sexual practice that fights its place in the local or virtual postmodern hot spot market.
Suddenly being queer became so market that the march is supported by more than 20 private companies and I think: Pucha that we are profitable premiums! Especially when the local press has to go crazy trying to capture the transformers, drag and gym gays who fill the monotony gray of the heteronorm viewers who watch this party fleta for a minute and a half, or two.
Pucha that we are profitable, that is the same, because a… Lol One doesn’t show up there, and I wonder, and the poor lesbians, skewer hair, truckers, what allegorical car they go into?
In any case I would not get on that car, who I have not a will to celebrate as long as we do not have justice for Nicole Saavedra, who was also found dead just three years ago and just one of these days, a June 25 that at this point transforms my pride into a burn or, an open wound that comes to remind us that for some, for yacht faces, things can get better.
But it’s warmer for us to go to a square in Quillota and scream that we’re not all, that Nicole is missing.

The content poured into this opinion column is the sole responsibility of its author, and does not necessarily reflect the editorial line or position of El Mostrador.

Original source in Spanish