I am a proud LGBTQ educator in a safe situation. As such, I make sure to fill my timeline with LGBTQ-inclusive posts from schools, K-12 adjacent systems, my local unions, and K-12 booksellers and publishers—especially during Pride.
Every year, as Pride comes round, the same tired, anti-LGBTQ arguments crawl out in connection with these posts, from commenters who seem to have nothing better to do than try to make LGBTQ people unhappy.
One of the classics goes: “Pride comes before destruction.”
It’s lifted from Proverbs 16:18—but the problem isn’t just the quote.
It’s the misunderstanding of what Pride even is.
As a teacher, I’d love to give a lesson in historical socio-linguistics—one I am proud to give.
The word pride as we use it comes from Latin prodesse:
to be of worth. To matter.
It became “sinful” in Middle English, when ordinary people weren’t supposed to see themselves as worthy. The same spirit as that old Southern warning: “Don’t get above your raisin’.”
But in the 1500s, with the printing press, the Reformation, the coming Enlightenment—pride as a virtue circled back: Humans began to reclaim their value.
And the irony of the verse itself?
It was originally in Greek. Not “pride.” Not at all. It was ὕβρις — hubris.
To the ancient Greeks, hubris was specific: violence born from arrogance; when someone believes they are above another and acts to humiliate them.
That’s not what Pride is. That’s what Pride is escaping.
LGBTQ Pride doesn’t come before destruction.
It comes after it.
It’s a refusal to be destroyed.
This is especially true for LGBTQ+ youth and educators,
among the most vulnerable to today’s shifting political winds.
Not every LGBTQ+ educator is in a safe situation.
But every LGBTQ+ educator can show
—and more importantly, feel—
their pride.
Here’s how we might carry that pride, even quietly.
For some, Pride is a party:
Marching bands playing Pink Pony Club.
Drag queens spinning.
Men in short shorts dancing in unison.
Delightful defiance.
But for others, the hubris is too close.
Too recent. Too painful.
Perhaps they are in precarious professional situations and they don’t even feel safe celebrating Pride, no matter how much they may want.
Perhaps their rainbow doesn’t always get to reach the sunlight.
Perhaps your beautiful rainbow doesn’t always get to reach the sunlight.
To those folks, I offer this:
You don’t have to dance to be proud.
You don’t have to post. Or parade.
You don’t have to do anything.
Pride means knowing your worth.
Here are a few small ways to say: “I matter.”
Steal five minutes ⏰
- Take the long way to work and listen to a favorite song.
- Belt out some Britney in the school parking lot before going in.
- Hit snooze. Lie in bed a few extra minutes before the day swallows you.
- Tell yourself: “I matter. My queerness matters. I’m worth this time.”
Write something ✍️
A poem. A single line. A mess.
A note on your fridge in marker.
Last night, I once wrote about dolphins with wings playing ball in the atmosphere.
Today I wrote about a friend who picked up a snake.
In both cases, I was feeling something—weariness, admiration—and I let those feelings matter. I let metaphor make meaning without worrying about what others might think.
I told myself, “My feelings have value.”
Talk to a friend ☎️
Those folks dancing it up in seven colors at the parade?
They want to feel close to other people. To feel seen and heard. To find their tribe.
Pride is about connection in a world whose hubris wants you kept apart in shame.
Go connect. You don’t need to dance. Just tell someone a hope. Or a fear.
If it’s a good fit, speak to your union’s LGBTQ group.
Do it anonymously online if that’s safer.
That counts. That’s queer joy too.
Notice beauty 🌸
At World Pride in D.C., with four million colorful people around me, I only wrote one poem.
A man from Kansas sat across from me at a restaurant:
ripped John Deere shirt, local ball cap—
and a flower tucked behind his ear.
It was a single nod to what queerness can do:
insist on beauty in a world built for function.
Find some beauty. Even a flower. Experience it.
You’re worth the time.
Love yourself, softly 🍦
Buy an ice cream cone. Watch a movie. Order the book.
If you hear the voice say, “That’s too much,” and you do it anyway—that’s Pride.
That voice was built from hubris.
It isn’t real.
You are.
Final Thoughts
This isn’t a checklist.
It’s a starter.
An idea kit. A crack of light.
You’ve lived under hubris. More than live—you’ve survived it!
And teachers are helping others survive it.
And the old proverb? It’s still true.
Destruction does come. But not to us.
LGBTQ rights are growing steadily worldwide.
There are more of us experiencing freedom than ever before.
The hatred will fall.
It’s inevitable with hubris, as I am often reminded.
And until then,
you are worth all the glitter, all the time you need to take, all the love.
Happy Pride.
Even if you’re standing still.
Especially if you’re standing still.
Because standing still is still standing,
and if you’re choosing to do so in a classroom,
then your standing is shaping a world in which our students might someday run … or dance.
Willie Edward Taylor Carver Jr. is a student support specialist, educator, public speaker, and author, but mainly just a guy who wants to help make the world better. He happens to be a Kentucky Colonel and Kentucky Teacher of the Year too.
He is the author of the collection Gay Poems for Red States, a collection of narrative poetry about growing up queer in eastern Kentucky. He serves as a board member of the Kentucky Youth Law Project (which helps LGBTQ youth in Kentucky with legal needs) and is a re-occurring cohost and contributing board member of Progress Kentucky.
